At the risk of sounding completely delusional, my house is not happy. And when I say “not happy”, I don’t mean in a sad kind of way. I’m talking about that hairy-eyeball-look-you-get-from-your-dad kind of not happy. The kind he stares you down with because you’re seven and you just gave him the finger. Only you were stupid and didn’t check to make sure that his back was turned first because, well you’re seven.
Before I continue I just want to say that I can hear you shaking your heads from here. In my defense, 1) I did warn you about sounding delusional; and 2) that finger-flipping experience with my dad was a real eye-opener for me because I got to learn about the importance of looking before expressing my feelings through sign language.
Back to my house.
It all started last October when I decided to accept a full time position. Not that I wasn’t working full time before that. The transition is that I went from working full time from home, to working full time somewhere else. It’s at this point that my house started to change; becoming this stranger that I barely recognize anymore.
Where once we would enjoy the solitude of each other’s company (and maybe a glass or two of wine), now it’s just nag, nag, nag whenever I AM home.
Gone are the evenings of chilling in peace on the couch with a Criminal Minds marathon. Now all I get is:
“You never vacuum anymore.”
“Hellllll-oooooooo! Have you met your kitchen?!”
How do I explain to my house that it’s not her; it’s me? And that I don’t even have time to shave my legs anymore, let alone water the plants!
I can almost sympathize with that cheating line, “she doesn’t understand me” because I’m about ready to rent an apartment.
And then just as I was beginning to think that maybe some time apart would do us good, my boss tells me that I have to go to New York.
So here I am in NYC, it’s 4 a.m. and I so miss my house. I miss my bed . . . cooking in my own kitchen . . . I even miss the dust bunnies.
PS. I’m thinking that the solution may be to get some help . . .
PPS. But I just hate to pay for something that I can do myself – even if I’m not doing it . . .
PPPS. Hmmmmm. But I wouldn’t actually be hiring a cleaning lady. It would be more of a therapist for my house. A house therapist, to help deal with the sadness. And since I don’t have a degree in house counseling, I have no choice but to hire outside help.
PPPPS. I love it when a plan comes together!