That's right, kids -- the time has come for the biennial resurrection of the blog and kidding myself that this time will be different!
Before I found myself given to fits of misanthropic indignation, this blog was intended to document my pitiful attempts to play house while shacked up -- a role and circumstance I referred to as hausfraud. A great deal has changed since my last post, and yet not so much. After a four-year relationship and two years of living together, my beau and I broke up -- in sentiment at first, but not in dwelling. Since we renewed the lease for another year two weeks before we pulled the plug on "us," we continued sharing our one-bedroom apartment for another year after the breakup, both of us working from home the whole time. Maybe at some point I'll post something on how to not kill each other when you're within 500 feet of each other 24/7, because I'm frankly extremely proud of the civility of that breakup given its duration and proximity.
Since my first foray into domesticity was predicated on that relationship lasting, I thought for sure that a breakup would mean moving back in with my mother and turning into Little Edie of "Gray Gardens" infamy (Google it), but then a miracle happened: I bought a condo. I'm blessed with a smart and sainted mother who embodies the perfect balance of pushing her young to better things and also helping them get there. Because she'd pushed me to go to college in high school on the state's dime, I had a large enough college fund to put a down payment on an 880-square-foot condo in the same complex where my kid brother had already bought one (you see, in our family, the fetus isn't viable until it has a mortgage). She functioned as my realtor and hooked me up with other family friends to cut me a deal on renovations and help with the accounting and loan-acquisition side of the equation, which made this small semblance of autonomy possible. Clearly I'm not grateful at all.
At any rate, the point is that I find myself in a new stage of hausfraud-dom (hausfradity?): keeping a house I own, for no one but me. In a masochistic sort of way, being able to support myself and also be my own housewife feels like having it all. Because I live alone, there is no one else to please, no one to object when the urge to grow a new thing comes over me, and no one to kvetch when I cathartically clean the kitchen and listen to standup at 1 AM. I have a lot more responsibility, but also a lot more freedom, and keeping my home has become my greatest joy, even with no one around to keep it for. I'm beholden to no one, which means the domestic itch in me can grow completely unchecked. Be afraid, be very afraid.
Since I've been plastering my Facebook with pictures of plants and kitchen decor for several months now anyway, I figure I might as well consolidate it. I'd promise more content, but it is me we're talking about. We'll see.