When I turned 19, my mom decided to take me to Pier 1 to buy a coffee table with matching end tables as a You're-Living-on-Your-Own gift. The coffee table was maybe 2'x2', coffee brown with tea colored wooden paneling on top. The three end tables carried the same design with the ability to be stacked underneath one another if need be. My mom spent too much money, though I suppose it was worth the price considering I still have the same furniture nearly five years later, despite having moved four times and living with a variety of different roommates.

And I've moved them a fifth time. Today. About an hour ago.

I've grown to really like Indianapolis. My last column was kind of about how much I miss coffeehouses in Cincinnati, but that may be the only socially cool thing that town had to offer in comparison. Indianapolis has a much better music scene (I think, anyway), better venues, cooler museums, more theatre, more and better independent restaurants. . . I could go on. I won't. I think of Indianapolis as my home now, especially Broad Ripple, having worked and resided here for the past few years.

But while the city feels very comfortable, I've never had a residence to really sink my teeth into. It sounds girly, but I want to decorate, damn it. I want to paint walls. I want to hang up posters and pictures. I want a color scheme. I want candles in every corner, my books in shelves floor to ceiling, rugs and knick knacks. The whole works. I want the comfort of getting comfortable somewhere - that's all. And maybe it's a little materialistic, finding so much comfort in things - in my things - but I don't think it's a "things" thing, or having things, or the whole consumer culture bit. I think it's about ownership - I like feeling like an area is mine.

Which is maybe why I've been lugging around those tables everywhere. I move so often that a place will only feel homey with the things I've grown attached to scattered in various corners. My end tables, my coffee table - these things make me feel comfortable, as long as they're with me.

I'm not totally out of the house your fearless ex-associate editor (who, by the way, has also been my roommate for as long as I've owned those tables) and I found on a whim nearly a year ago - but the end tables are gone. My books are all packed up. I've moved my clothes and my candles. The kitchenware comes next.

Because I'm moving in with a boy for the very first time ever. Yikes.