I Own This

After you’ve finished buying a house you will collapse into your new-to-you couch. You’ll likely sleep for three days straight.

You will then take a deep breath [trying not to inhale the gas that is leaking from your gas cook-stove] and sit on your [slightly dusty] couch and look around at the empty walls and stained carpets and you’ll say to yourself, “I own this.”

Then you will get your phone to call the furnace guy to come and make your baseboard heaters work upstairs. The furnace guy will return 4 times before your heating will work. You will pay him a large sum of money. Then you will sit in your nice and warm upstairs room and say: “I own this.”

After the first snowfall you will remember that you were supposed to call someone to come and plow your driveway. As your husband is outside shoveling in 1* Farenheit you will stand by the window with a glass of wine and look out at the lovely land around you and you will say to yourself – “I own this.”

When family comes to stay and you realize the night before that your carpet looks like a muddy dog just rolled in it you will roll up your sleeves, get down on your hands and knees with a bucket of warm soapy water, and you will scrub the carpet. You will scrub the carpet so hard that you will get dizzy. On second thought, the dizziness might stem from the fact that there is still bleach in your water from that shock-treatment you had to get done on your well to get rid of that pesky bacteria. But, you’ll gesture dramatically to your family about the carpet and you’ll say, “I own this.”

The next morning, despite your scrubbing, your carpet will look pretty much the same. You’ll move a rug over to cover the worst spots.

As time passes you’ll become used to the smell of gas oozing out of your stove every time you cook. You will be reminded of this problem when a fiery “whoof” explodes from your stove while you have the church youth group over for a party. You will pretend that this does not freak you out and, well, fires happen all the time, yo.

A few days later you will make pork chops and fire will shoot out from behind your stove and engulf your favorite sweater in flames for a second and you will resolve to call someone to come and fix it on Monday. Until then you can eat Subway. Sandwiches are delicious, right? You’ll look at your sub and you’ll say, “I own this.”

You’ll measure rooms and do math and realize that to put that lovely tile flooring down in your bathrooms and kitchen will cost an entire month’s salary [that’s you AND your husband’s salaries]. And you will begin to think that linoleum, really, you know, isn’t all THAT bad, sometimes it even looks like tile [if it’s in the right light].

But, despite all the hardships caused by the fact that you can’t find your husband because your house is too big, and you have to search two bathrooms and a bedroom and a closet before you know if you’ve found all the laundry, and despite your discovery that floor lamps are typically ugly and always expensive, you’ll take down your Christmas tree, carry it outside, and throw it in your woods. And you’ll celebrate that fact.

[Last year you had to saw your Christmas tree in half, squeeze it in the back of your sedan, and drive it to the dump in two trips].

You’ll throw your Christmas tree into the clump of trees that you think will disguise it best and you’ll say to yourself: “I own this.”


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