It took me forever and I’m sure I seemed manic to everyone around me, but eventually I finally declared Moroxico finished. Basically, because it could not physically hold one more beautiful thing. (Moroxico is what I call the 400 sq ft garage that I currently live in, as it features a confluence of Moroccan, Native American, and Mexican influences. You can read more about Moroxico HERE).

As a mother, my mom probably felt obligated to love my Moroxican creation regardless, but I could tell she was genuinely excited to show it off to her neighbor.

“My neighbor Patty travels the world almost as much as you do, and I just know that she’d love to see all the things you’ve brought back from your adventures. I’d like to invite her over, if that’s okay with you?”

“Of course, Mom!” I told her, but she already knew I’d say yes. My excitement about creating Moroxico had inexorably reached a fever pitch at some point, and I was having to constantly remind myself that strangers from Starbucks probably didn’t want to drop everything they were doing and drive over to my tiny house, to see a fictitious sovereign country the size of a large bedroom. I sometimes still showed them pictures of it, though. I’ve looked at enough banal baby photos in my lifetime (and pictures of sick plants, don’t forget all the sick plant photos) that I think I’ve earned it.

On the day in question, I had everything clean and immaculate, that’s a given; but my mom’s neighbor friend barely looked at a thing. She came right in the door, looked as if she might be ill, and then rushed past all my beautiful things and right over to one of my chairs. She immediately sat down and clutched the pigskin leather sides of that Mexican equipale like she was on a flying roller coaster. I knew that it was the middle of Ramadan for her, but shit, I’d never seen fasting hunger present itself quite like this before.

“Patty, are you okay?” we asked.”

“Yes,” she said, obviously lying. “I suffer from SPD, Sensory Processing Disorder, a condition that’s triggered by intense visual overstimulation, and your house has made me…”

She didn’t finish, but I’m sure she was about to say…sick. Your house has made me sick. Or maybe nauseous? Your house is so full of stuff and visually upsetting that it has made me physically sick and nauseous. Not the response I was hoping for.

In her defense, I do have about 2 dozen different lighting apparatuses, all doing different (gorgeous, so I thought) things. However, later in the week, all these lights didn’t stop the plumber from wearing a headlamp the entire time he was inside my house. Ugh, everyone’s a critic, but how passive aggressive. Really, Dude? A headlamp?

He wasn’t even under a cabinet or behind the washer, just standing at the kitchen sink, but wearing a flashlight strapped to his head like he was in a coal mine or about to go spelunking in a cave. Just to walk back and forth from the sink to the breaker box. I get it, the light in Moroxico is a bit dark and moody, but c’mon. It’s not that dark.

Anyways, I refuse to change a thing about Moroxico. I’ll tell you one thing I’ve brought back from all my travels, it’s Dramamine. And it is readily available, should anyone need it while visiting my lovely house. I even have headlights (from HIKING 14ers) somewhere in my camping gear, and I suppose I could make those available, too.

Next I’m sure someone’s going to tell me that all the curses and spirits living in all my haunted artifacts are disturbing their delicate physic sensibilities as well…

Ugh, but that one I can kind of understand, I do have a lot of PRETTY F*CKED UP SHIT.