I have a giraffe with only one horn, a cat with only one ear, a bottle with a star stopper in its cracked neck, several kicked and scuffed wooden chests, turnable cushions with curious spots on their backs, a boxful of they-might-still-be-working pens and a dearth of matching towels and facecloths.
That seems about right for almost 4 years in this condo. Our wooden floors still shine, but they're scratched in numerous places, about 2 feet of granite counter refuses to ever look like it's just been washed, our dishwasher just cost me more to fix than I'd paid for it initially (that happened in stages though, so I'm taking a pass on guilt), there are places where the paint has been scuffed that correspond to where Dave and I eat at the counter, and I've been noticing that there are 6 almost-hidden spots on the kitchen floor where I've tried to paintsmear away a scar left by a falling utensil. Now I've discovered I really don't have a place anywhere for two lovely bronze dragonflies I just bought.
I think this smirky feeling I have is satisfaction.