I’m in my mid thirties, more or less.
I have a husband.
I have two kids, whom I shall call Kid 1 and Kid 2, or perhaps K1 and K2.
I have a dog.
I like to garden.
I like to camp.
I like to read.
I like to cook.
I’m an ex big box scary religion. The nasty one based in Utah. It really fucked up my life.
I’ve been trying for K3 for almost 3 years, but I also have thyroid disease which isn’t playing nice, currently.
I am short. My husband is much taller than I am. He leaves things on the roof of the car I can’t see. And then they break, because I drive off with them up there. The crazy thing is that the stupid thing still works.
You always thinks that when you buy the house you’ll fix it up all so purty within a couple of days, but such is not my methodology, I guess. Oh, we have a few pictures on the walls, and things on the shelves, but we have not painted any of the rooms, except for the girls’. You know those nice, curvy walls? Well, I hate them, because I am sure I can’t paint them and make them look nice.
Add in the fact that neither Brian nor I are what you could call handy, and well, projects turn into huge gaping vortexes. Hanging a new light took us something like 6 months, because the wiring was wonky.
Brian doesn’t like my old fashioned frames that came with the pictures I inherited from various places, so much of the artwork is sitting in the corner.
No, we spend all of our time working on the endless project that is our black hole of a yard, and now that I’m gardening, I spend an inordinate amount of time watering and weeding. Honestly, if I had the money, I’d tear the whole thing apart and –no, I would pay someone ELSE to take the whole thing apart.
I think, however, that I am going to set a goal of hanging something on the walls twice a week. Brian said the other night that we need to make this place more “Ours” and while I agree with him in theory, I’m not sure that anyone who knew us could argue that certain parts of our home are undeniably ours.
I need to reorganize our books (add it to the list!) but that always seems to fall behind READING one of the books. If there is a room in our house that defines us, then let it be this one.
Poem written on a pizza box ten years ago:
An authors foreword making light of romeo’s plight
A pussy-whipped nere-do-well
Who should have dumped juliet
had a few beers with his buds
and rented a fuckin porno
I assume he was drunk, but even drunk he knows what he’s talking about.
Sprouting beans to plant in my yard. Yeah! Urban gardening!
Taking summer classes! Yeah! I also kinda somewhat graduated from my CC and have an Associates Degree. Not a big deal, really in the grand scheme of things, but since I married an asshole instead of graduating from high-school, it is none the less a milestone for me.
Participating in a bike event on Saturday–25 miles, yeah! ( Disclosure, I’ve never gone over 12. This…might not end well.)
Gardening. Lots and lots of gardening. And also plotting which of my neighbors homes to burn down after the Apocalypse, to give myself more gardening room.
Growing worms! They are all named Clyde, and they are multiplying at a rate I wish I could. Well, not really…I don’t want a million babies in a year. I only want one more. Here is hoping my thyroid will cooperate. Also not try to kill me, like it did the last time I was pregnant.
Did I mention all the gardening I have been doing?
Thinking about hanging pictures on my walls. We have only lived here four years, why not hang ALL the pictures? I have a few, but mostly the walls in our home are bare, and white. I’d love to paint, but these damned rounded corners… make it difficult to paint.
Speaking of painting, we need to paint the outside of our house. It is MEH. And have I mentioned the hatred I have in my heart for our HOA? I hate them.
Learning! I’m studying church history and getting SUPER PISSED at the lies these old white dudes in SLC are perpetuating. Since I left 10 years ago it’s really pointless but super interesting.
Parenting! I love me some little sweet girls. I have the best children in the world. Seriously.
Being happy. I keep telling people that happiness is not overrated. Some of them believe me. The others are miserable. Sad, really, but sometimes being happy is more work than just existing.
I remember being told in church that if I ever left, the holy spirit would forsake me; that I’d become a soulless person who didn’t know wrong from right.
I find it sadly ironic that the reverse is true.
Leaving allowed me to see the wrong from the right with a clearer view.