This Is *That* Blog Post

In the several weeks since the sale of one 900-square-foot condo in Antelope was recorded with Sacramento County, and the keys to this place became mine, I'd estimate that a good fifty percent of the time, I've spent here, I've spent sitting, staring at a wall, and thinking, "Oh, my God. What did I get myself into?"

I finally have WiFi, but I'm using my laptop on a folding table in the dining room, sitting on a canvas folding lawn chair, with two old throw pillows under my butt because otherwise it's too low. My ancient, tiny, poorly-installed dishwasher is roaring on the other side of the half wall from me, and I had to throw soap in there willy-nilly because the dispenser isn't stuck, but it also won't open during the cycle. Looking to my left only reminds me that I don't yet have a sofa. Or a dining room table. Or a desk. Or a desk chair. Actually, the only chairs I have here are this folding one, two metal bistro chairs on the balcony, and a bean bag. Unless you want to count my piano bench as a chair. 

Yes, the place is coming together and feeling more like a home and less like an endless list of Stuff Going Wrong, but I hate how my laundry smells after I use my washer and dryer (musty), and that it smells that way even after I thoroughly bleached out both. 

I hate how the kitchen counters are chipped from careless past tenants, and that the kitchen sink has tons of chips that show the black beneath. I hate how there's a burn mark on my bathroom counter from the nasty-ass renters who were so careless, who kept nearly a dozen rodents and a dog in such a tiny space. 

I hate that the field right behind me is used almost daily by people on motorcycles and four-wheelers as a dirt track, so I get to hear the endless hum of their machines while I try to relax in my living room.

These thoughts come and go--for the most part, I chase away the "what am I doing?!" angst pretty quickly, by reminding myself that this is mine, and I get to do what I want with it. I admire the new flooring, that no one has had a chance to foul with guinea pig poop or dog piss, and that I picked out because I liked it, and it looked good with my paint choices. I open the windows and the sliding glass door for fresh air, as summer glides into fall, or glance up to my right at Grandma's china in the hutch. I unpacked it first, which seemed so impractical at the time...but there's something so comforting about seeing it there, a reminder that Grandma would be proud of me. That my parents are.

I hate that even writing this post makes me sound ungrateful, and I hate that the minute I share it on Facebook, I'll get endless reams of unsolicited advice--all contradictory--even though all I really want is to just vent, not get everyone's tried-and-true recipe for Washing Machine Potpourri and do-it-yourself dishwasher repair. 

I'm just tired, from five weeks being back at school, going ninety miles per hour all day, every day, getting behind in lesson plans, grading, you name it, and then coming home to more work that needs doing. I did laundry on Sunday--it's still in a basket, waiting to be put away. That's unheard of in my world.

So this is *that* blog post, the one where I bitch and moan and carry on because owning a home is not like renting at all, and comes with a considerable amount of worry and stress. And I'm doing it on my own--which is fine, I moved to England by myself so I can do this, too. It's just all on me, and that's exhausting sometimes. 

And yet I just glanced up into my bedroom and I can see the sunlight hitting my pretty new bedding just so. Dinner was chicken korma cooked on my brand-new stove. Slowly, slowly, I'm making a home here, and I know I can, because I've done it before, in so many different places.

But damn, I really hate my dishwasher.