My Dad grew up with two brothers; twins, in fact. He was older by three years, but between the three boys and my Grandfather, it’s safe to say that my Grandmother had her hands full. Especially when it comes to tools & gadgets.

Though I’m an only child, I can see how “one-upping” your sibling is basically second-nature – you want what they have and vice versa. As such, there were always FOUR Craftsman drills, FOUR weed-eaters, FOUR roto-tillers purchased at any time as a way to try and avoid this when possible. (My Grandfather was nothing if not generous.) And in the rare event that one brother got a new “toy”; well, let’s just say that Sears benefited quite nicely from a very innocent form of sibling rivalry.

I always found this to be amusing, this pseudo-competition to have the latest & greatest. People didn’t really keep up with the Joneses any longer; the neighbor getting a new TiVo didn’t send me straight to Best Buy.

Or so I thought.

Blame it on genetics, blame it on boredom, blame it on what you will, but lately I’ve had a strong case of Household Envy.

I know, I know…this “transition time” (as I’m calling it) IS filled with ups & downs. I’m getting used to new friends moving to Atlanta, friends getting engaged, friends having babies, not to mention a certain fabulously cute boy who now lives over 700 miles away. It’s only natural that I’m feeling a bit unsettled and wanting something new for myself. And after seeing brand new homes, brand new comforters, brand new furniture (not to mention the amazing house that the host of the baby shower lives in) it was all I could do to not call my realtor and tell her I wanted something brand new for myself – like a big fat brand spankin’ new HOUSE.

Then I took a deep breath, reminded myself that I was working to get OUT of debt, and settled for buying a rug.

Not very sexy, I know, but there’s something amazingly cathartic about “Fall Cleaning” your house. My Mom lives by some core tenets, one of which is that a clean house is an antidote for depression. Though wallowing in your own sadness is often more tempting than making your bed and cleaning your room, at the end of the day you still may be sad, but at least you’re sad with a clean house. So instead of sulking over the fact that I couldn’t afford the $479,000 house that I’d like, I decided to take my sorry ass, my meager(ish) finances and My Darling Roommate up to the Outlets and do a little bit of retail therapy.

What a transformation! A few hundred dollars later, I returned to my dustball-filled, cluttered and (sadly) juvenile living room to do a bit of Queer Eye action, fresh off advice from one of my fave. Queer Eyes himself. I wanted the living room to look warmer, stronger, richer; wanted my bedroom to look softer, more elegant, more inviting. And after a day or two of cleaning, some new lamps, rugs, paintings, curtains, innumerable Swiffer cloths, a roll of paper towels, two sponges, three massive garbage bags that were so full of junk that I couldn’t even lift them, plus some good ol’ Ohio-bred elbow grease, I’ve gone from post-college “shabby chic” to post-quarterlife crisis not-so-shabby, oh-so chic.

Martha Stewart, eat your heart out.