The Zombie in my Basement

A zombie garden gnome lives in my basement.  He’s still in his box, this terrifying little man with a cute red hat and blood all over his face.  I don’t know what to do with him; he’s been there since Christmas, when my dad gave him to me as a gag gift.  I bought a house last year and apparently, this little guy was all that was missing.
I’m sure he would be happy in my backyard, maybe crawling out from under the old swingset or hiding in the trees. My neighbors would be less happy if he were on my front porch, his dead eyes menacing out at the street.  
Perhaps he’s best suited to my classroom, maybe as a warning to my students to turn their work in on time or face the gnome. Or just to solidify their belief that their teacher is, in fact, a nerd. (He would go well with the “Pride and Prejudice and Zombies” poster I already have.)  

This zombie statue is the central point of an ongoing battle with myself. Like I said, I bought a house last summer. In that time, I’ve decorated and painted and bought new furniture, all part of the classic suburban life.  
Now, though, the question must be asked: Do I want a classy house, or a nerdy house?
I am legitimately torn over this decision.  The suburban woman in me wants a super-classy home, one with perfectly tailored curtains and a consistently clean counter. I'm not one to spend a ton of money, but a lot of my current decor fits the style I'm going for -- my deep red and black curtains flow gently over white blinds, and the pale shade of gray that coats my walls meshes perfectly with the dark couch and black furniture of my living room. The art on my walls -- a collage of wedding photos and vows, the carefully selected images of my hometown at dusk, the Roman numeral clock over my stairs -- has been chosen to compliment the walls and furniture around it. In many ways, though perhaps not "Better Homes and Gardens"-worthy, I do have a classy home. But the nerd in me will not be denied. If you look closely at my home, the signs start to show. The lithograph over my fireplace is of an old Mississippi blues-man, hinting at the deep knowledge of music that my husband keeps safe. Star Trek's Enterprise sits unassuming over my stove, disguised as a pizza-cutter. On the shelves of a dark but messy workstation sits an old metal lunchbox adorned with superhero faces, peeking out at the rest of the room in surprise. Even my wedding pictures are filled with deeper, nerdier meaning; upon close inspection, the ceremony lines start by discussing the heat death of the universe, and the sonnet, a classic of William Shakespeare's, betrays my obsession with his work. Even my bookshelves, whose colors and shapes match the rest of my semi-classy furniture, were chosen for their abundance of shelf space, now overflowing with Stephen King books and graphic novels.

I have surrounded myself with the things I love, part of a life that makes me happy, from the books on my shelves to the comfort of my couch. In doing so, I've made my home a haven, where my favorite colors and designs can coincide nicely with my favorites of the nerd world.

But the garden gnome might be too much. His freaky little face can't be hidden, peeking out into the rest of my life. He demands attention. As much as I enjoy a good zombie story -- "The Zen of Zombie" and "World War Z" both sit on my shelves -- he's just a little too much.

Maybe, just maybe, he belongs behind the guest bathroom door, perched quietly on the transporter-room rug, waiting for his next victim.