home is where the heart is
August 19, 2004, 3:32 am

"Jesus, Jessica! Don't give me any 'Poor Little Rich Girl' Bullshit!" --Disco, or at least, a bad nightmare version of Disco that keeps running through my mind

This is the argument that is keeping me awake tonight.

I have cleaned and I have yelled at the Beer Pong game downstairs to "pipe down." I have come to terms that in a few hours, mi casa es su casa and you'll be impressed. While I love to show off the house, there's something all of you have to understand:

I am not, nor have I ever been, rich.

Rich in spirit? Yep. Rich in family bonds? You bet! Rich in love? Absolutely. But not in the bling-bling, Fabulous Life of..., Paris Hilton, spending $3,600 on a Prada shirt way that many of us dreamed of when we were little.

I grew up in a blue-collar town as a kid of a teacher and an insurance salesman on a little street in a tiny house with one bathroom for three cranky teenage girls; I shared a bedroom with my sister my entire life. I used to be able to walk from one side of my house to the other in about ten steps.

My "new" house is about six times the size of the old one. For serious. I have my own bedroom with its own bathroom and we have a study. It is MTV Cribs-worthy, but I don't throw it out to say, "My life is better than yours" (though my milkshake DOES bring all the boys to the yard), but I bring it up because I'm proud of the fact I appreciate it. This house is the result of my parents' hard work; this house is the result of my grandmother's sacrifice, and this house will be in our family for as long as this land survives.

I tell you this because I want you to know that I know what it's like to not live here. I want to share it with you because it's swell. I want you to still like me and not dismiss me as a snob because I'm not, I promise...I'm just a girl with extraordinary luck, great parents, and the ability to accept circumstances as they are.