I’ll bet you thought I might do a political post.
Don’t get me wrong. I have strong opinions about very important issues, but I’m not blogging about them. I’m tired of the bullshit drama and sniping back and forth about stuff that none of us can change. Furthermore, I don’t trust any politician, and I’m sure their primary goal is to get votes. I don’t think the answer lies within the government, but within us. I vote my conscience, and my faith, and that’s that. I like to make people think, but mostly I like to make people laugh, and the state of our nation is no laughing matter. That is all.
Anyway, my life has taken a drastic turn lately, as many of you already know, since we have purchased a home and moved (mostly), and I’ve had many occasions to think about buyers remorse. I am a great believer in buyers remorse. Hell, I own a boat, for crying out loud, and nothing triggers buyers remorse like a boat.
For those of you who maybe haven’t experienced the agony of buyer’s remorse, allow me to explain. Buyer’s remorse is that feeling you get when you realize that you have recently spent a LOT of money on something that maybe (probably) you didn’t need. The buying buzz wears off, and reality kicks in. A lot of people get this from home buying, and I was afraid I might.
You see, reality has certainly set in. Lots of the “charming” things (and trust me, those are great, BIG sarcastic air quotes) that we liked when we bought the house have lost their charm. Those original windows that seemed so cool are huge energy suckers. The kitchen is pretty much blah, there is a shocking lack of closets, some of the floors are slanted, and my daughter’s room is approximately the size of a large shoe box. The ceiling leaked a little when we had all the snow last week. My washing machine tears my clothes, so I have to wash them in mesh bags, and I still don’t have a functioning shower for Mindy. The yard is an overgrown nightmare–I’m pretty sure there are lions and baboons living out there. One part of it is a rock bar, the other is swampy and soft. The driveway needs lots of work, as does the sidewalk.
But I love it.
You have no idea the joy I have when I wake up in the morning and know that I am home–really, truly, home. My home. If I want to hop out of bed and parade to the bathroom in my skivvies, I can. (I don’t, incidentally, and I apologize for the image.) I can turn up the television too loud or listen to obnoxious music. I can make a huge mess in the kitchen and then not clean it up for a couple of hours. I can decorate my own house with my own things, hang my own pictures and paint the walls any color I want. If I want to go squat in the yard and…….okay, okay, sorry. I was getting a little carried away there.
Now, before someone says, “Wow, The Grandparents must be really awful!” let me assure you, I could have done all of those things at their house, too. But you have to understand–I never would have, because it wasn’t my house. Nobody ever made me feel that way but me. If The Grandparents were to move to Florida tomorrow and give me that house, I still could not just walk in there and take it over. It isn’t my house.
Can you understand?
So anyway, the stress of home ownership is certainly, well, stressful (sorry, I couldn’t come up with a better adjective) but it can never detract from my happiness. That leaky ceiling is my leaky ceiling. Those lions and baboons are my lions and baboons.
Now if you’ll excuse me, my coffee is kicking in. I need to visit the yard.