When I was 16 I listened to a lot of R.E.M. I wanted to move to Georgia, live in a farmhouse and be an artist. I would grow a garden, recycle, be a vegetarian and spend evenings on the porch with my best friend Michael Stipe as we sipped tea and discussed global politics. And, glory be, I would can my own vegetables.
I don’t remember when it happened, but by the end of college (the first time around), I had abandoned the farmhouse, Michael and the vegetables. Not only were they abandoned, but forsaken. Maybe this blog will help me figure out why, maybe not. We know the consequence, I guess we don’t need to know the reason. So for more than 20 years, I rebuked all things domestic in nature. I didn’t (well, don’t) know how to cook, sew or hang a picture properly.
Then I did the most domesticated thing of all: I got a dog, got married and bought a house (in that order). It still took a while to realize that all I had rebuffed, I must reclaim. I will learn the art of happy homemaking. [OK, that still makes me cringe.] And because I have a knack for turning a blunder into a full blown debacle, it should make for a few good stories.
In reality, I should have started this blog last summer when we first purchased our house. I would have happily — and probably with the use of much profanity — told you about the trials and tribulations of being first time homeowners. There was the elderly German cleaning lady who wore half shirts and booty shorts while she danced around the house singing ’80s pop tunes. Then there was the painter/handy man with homicidal tendencies toward lawn art. And let’s not forget the insulation installers who were quite possibly on work release from Central prison and the brick masons who kept asking me if we wanted our belongings. Hey, ma’am, do you still want this? Um, yeah, I think we’ll keep our TV.
I can’t promise that what I write will be compelling or even coherent. But maybe I’ll learn something. And maybe you will too.