I think having a place in the country along with a loft in or near the city would be just about perfect. A nice big space to romp and raise kids and animals and shoot guns and build treehouses and run around completely starkers at 1AM howling at the moon; and then a sleek and clean personal retreat, with lighting by Ikea and eccentric art on the walls where I can host swanky martini parties.
This, however, is never going to happen on a programmer’s salary.
I would also like to be able to enjoy wine. This is probably the more tragic lack of the two. I’ve come to the conclusion that I have an allergy to wine, or something very similar. The variety is unimportant – red, white, sweet, dry, from port to champagne – more often than not, when I drink it, the effects are unpleasant. Not disastrously so; just an achy, fuzzy head; a flushed, hot face; and an uncomfortable heavy-headed sleepiness. Stacey suggests that it may be an effect of the sulfates.
The sad thing is I really do like the taste of good wine. Even when I was a kid I used to surprise my elders by passing over the sweet, syrupy wines in favor of the dry whites (yes, adults gave me wine as a child. Shock, horror.) And there are many meals for which a well-chosen wine is the only fitting accompaniment.
On the plus side, it means I can excuse myself from a vast swath of knowledge that I would otherwise feel compelled to instruct myself in. And I do still have the pleasure of savoring good beer and good whiskey. But that’s small comfort when I’m confronted with a fresh, luscious baked brie just crying out for the right accompaniment.