I just filed my taxes and I am getting a decent amount of money back. What do I went to do with it? Buy 7,000 pairs of new Frye boots. What am I going to do with it? Stick it in my stupid savings account. Because I’m saving for things in my life like retirement and houses and all that dumb grown-up stuff. For real, I have a 401K. The office accountant didn’t like my theory that I didn’t need a 401K because I would never actually get old. But that is a side note.
I am my boss’ official dog sitter. Everyone wins with this arrangement- she has someone to watch her dog and house for free, I get a weekend vacation from my roommates and full control over the remote. Whenever I am there, I imagine how I would repaint the walls, doctorate the living room, the dinner parties I would have. I think between that and all of the row houses for sale in my neighborhood, I can’t get houses (better than babies!) off my mind.
It doesn’t help that I live in an absolute shit hole. The place has needed a deep clean for freaking months, but trying to convince 3 boys that they really need to get on their knees and scrub the kitchen floor is next to impossible. Honestly, I swear boys can’t see dirt. Dave Matthews Band concert posters hang on our walls next to a photograph of the 18th green at some South Carolina golf course and heaven help me, there are two televisions in my living room.
For the time being, it doesn’t make sense to me to live in a nice place. What is important is hot running water, my own room and a roof over my head. I would rather pay cheap rent (and have the option of watching 2 different sporting events at the same time) than live in a super nice place that I have no long term investment. So what if my bare feet are sticking to the kitchen floor?
Owning a house, much like giving birth, seems frightening to me. There is no landlord to call. You are forced to shovel your own sidewalk and fix your own toilet and get crafty with some home improvement projects. So for the time being, I am content with my shit hole home that doesn’t have a dishwasher and the looks for a frat house. But years down the road, when I pull all that money out of my Roth IRA to buy a house, I am going to decorate the shit out of that joint, drink a cocktail on my front porch and think Rachel Shea Baby, you are grown as hell, girl.