It is only the 2nd actual place I have considered my home since I left my parents' house in 2003. I had a one bedroom apartment briefly in Knoxville that felt like home to me. But that lasted a year before I wanted to move elsewhere. I've considered myself a nomad up until last year, and this boy finally settled me. So now I play house, and little housewife, and domesticize myself to death.
I've only had apartments or condos until now, so I have never been completely familiar with the general upkeep of a house. I mean, my father was a plumber/electrician and I had a brother, so I never had to fix a sink, toilet, blown fuse, or mow. But now I am learning to do all of those things and more.
Not to mention housework. And you know what? I love every damn minute of it. All I want to do when I have to go to my job is stay at home and make sure all the laundry is done, the living room is clean, the bed is made, the toilet and shower are clean, and that the kitchen is filled with some sort of wholesome food.
I realize some of you feminism loving females out there are sneering your nose right now. Trust me, I am still all for feminism. I am not selling out. Or maybe I am. A part of feminism is choice, and I choose to love doing these things. He does not force me to do them, or require it of me. In fact, if I had a penny for every time he says,"I just want you to be happy. You do whatever you want with your life, and I'll be right there beside you." then neither of us would ever have to work a day in our lives again.
Right now, my feet are stained green with the juice of fresh cut grass, and the blisters are forming on my thumbs. And I am aching inside to write down the stories rolling in my head.
But I am content. I am happy. And I will attempt once again to fall asleep tonight.
Good night, all.
Good night, all.