I will say that it's kind of interesting to imagine the different families we could become in all of these new places...
Spacious 3-bedroom farmhouse,
built-ins in living room,
cottage in backyard,
perfect for a playhouse or convert to a chicken coop...
Oh my God we would be so freckled and hardy.
We could grow our own organic vegetable garden in the raised beds. The children would learn how to touch young vegetables without clawing them to pieces or squeezing them until they explode. They'd tend to the chickens and maybe we'd get a goat, too, for the milk and to both fertilize and trim the grass.
Suddenly I would know all the names of trees and be able to recognize stinging nettles before I sat on them. At night I would put on my reading glasses and pull out my knitting while listening to bluegrass and sipping an earthenware mug of hot tea with whiskey and lemon. I would stop going to the movies, watching Netflix. The world, such as it is, would fall away. I would settle into the quiet peace of our little acre of life.
Sometimes I would look up into the clear blue sky, shade my eyes, and say, "Hmm... looks like the red-breasted mergansers are nesting again. You know what that means... going to be an early spring." The boys would practice their letters on a chalk slate, and come running when I hollered, "Chicken! Buster! Time to mill the wheat!" They'd start to call us Ma and Pa. In the summers they'd catch lightnin bugs in jars and we'd tell tall tales under the stars.
Ryan could grow a beard and open a carpentry shop in the cottage. His hands would grow calloused and his collection of flannel shirts would grow to... more than zero, which is what it is now. At dinnertime we would gather round the farmhouse table, look over the platters of picked-that-day roasted potatoes, corn on the cob, snap beans, warm pillowy rolls wrapped in soft cloth, and a roasted chicken, and we would--
Oh who the fuck am I kidding, Ryan hates flannel shirts and I don't need tea or lemon fucking up my whiskey, thank you very much.
This life sounds so beautiful. I just wish it was the one I wanted for myself. I like walking to the coffee shop and 4 different grocery stores and the gym.
I like being humbled by the diversity of human life, not the diversity of bird life. If I'm being totally honest I fucking hate birds. Not with the fire of a thousand suns or anything, just casually, the way I hate mayo. I see it and I'm like... blech why? Also I've been shit on no fewer than 7 times in my life.
Sleek 2-bedroom condo 10-minute walk to heart of downtown.
Modern touches, stainless steel appliances, granite countertops,
bamboo flooring, high-end fixtures throughout...
Oh my God we would be so sleek and city chic.
First things first, new asymmetrical haircuts for EVERYBODY. My new uniform would be ponte pants and ponchos with $400 ballet flats and a latte. Chicken and Buster would be in harem pants and rock star shirts and kiddy Vans and when we left stores instead of saying "bye bye" they'd either say "cheers," or "la'ers" with that super-cool like half wave that turns into your hand slipping your Ray Bans back on.
Ryan would sell our cars and buy a Fiat hybrid.
I'd buy an oversized camel-colored cashmere cardigan to wear around the flat. Oh yeah, we'd definitely call it "the flat."
I would write seven books in the flat. They would be really mean and funny but also... a little sad?
There would always be a bottle of red breathing on the counter.
Chicken and Buster would start requesting pickled beet and goat cheese salad for dinner and guess what motherfuckers I could totally just text my guy and have a fucking quart of that shit in my flat in 10 minutes flat.
At bedtime the children would bathe contemplatively, step out of the tub onto the steel-gray Restoration Hardware bath mat without dripping on the heated tile floor, and proceed to floss, unbidden.
The art student next door would come over after the children went to bed and Ryan and I would walk to an art opening, declare the work to be phantasmagorical yet mundane, and then catch a set at the jazz club before walking 10 minutes home again where I would change into my cashmere house sweater and Ryan would put on an LP and we would sit on the balcony of the flat, sipping Fernet-Branca and discussing eternity and our new linen sheets (they really do breathe.)
Hahahahahahahaha jk jk jk jk jk sweet lord we are way too loud and messy and sticky for that business. Not to mention anyone who calls their apartment a flat in SEATTLE had better be fresh off a transatlantic journey and/or fucking kidding.
NOT TO MENTION there is no fucking way I would trust my children with a balcony. I've heard Tears in Heaven and I've got no qualms about going overboard too if my whole reason for living quite literally went down. Let's avoid a tragedy, people. No condos.
Cozy cottage in up-and-coming neighborhood.
Perfect for a family.
House has character, original doorways,
big-for-the-city fenced-in yard,
good school district...
I think this is it. I think this is the place that is my family - cozy, a little messy, not quite square, but comfortable, full of love, and-- wait I'm sorry... there's not a dishwasher?
I swore when I left Brooklyn that I would never go back.
I threw away my rubber gloves and my fucking DISGUSTING sponges and I said NEVER AGAIN. Go ahead - call me a gold-digging materialistic bratty princess whiner millenial Kardashian Becky. Call me anything you want. I won't be able to hear you over the sound of this machine that I just turned on that is fucking washing my dishes.
Oh oh oh oh I see what happened, I guess when you said "newer appliances" you meant "newer appliances in fucking 1847 or whenever it was RIGHT BEFORE the dishwasher was invented."
You know what's perfect for a family? If you guessed "original doorways," EEEEENNNNNNGGGGGGGGH (that was a buzzer sound) (buzzer sounds are hard, phonetically) (I went back and forth between "iiiiih" and "eeengh." Not sure either one was correct. But at least I was able to explain my joke with like 40 more words. Which is how you know it's a good joke.)
No, original doorways do not a happy family make. You know what's perfect for families? Moms that don't have to drink to forget the sensation of touching repulsive still-damp sponges with little bits of unidentifiable white matter caught in the green webbing of the scrub side.
Dishwashers, asshole. Dishwashers are fucking PERFECT for families.