There's a weed whacker in my kitchen

Or at least there was; now it's in the spare room until I can figure out how to re-spool the damn thing. Just one more statement I'd never have made before I bought my house.

I can't believe it's two years since I went into debt up to my ass. And while I love my little home to pieces, there continues to be a rather steep learning curve when it comes to being a homeowner.

For example, even though their primary function is to funnel water, rain gutters apparently aren't self cleaning. Turns out all those leaves that ended up in there must make a perfect growing medium for plants, because I have a full on garden at the roof line. They're actually doing much better than the flowers on my deck. Sort of like a hydroponic grow op you need a ladder to reach.

Also - century old homes make a lot of noise. I grew up knowing this. Why, then, for the first several months, did I become convinced that every creak, groan and clank was surely a serial killer whose m.o. was to prey on the single and recently mortgaged? There was also the night I kept hearing a faint cell phone ring. Couldn't sleep. Was convinced someone had broken in, was lying in wait, sharpening his hatchet, and had forgotten to turn off his cell phone. Turns out it was MY new cell phone, trying in vain to tell me to recharge it. Note to self: "Criminal Minds" and creaky old house not a match made in a good night's sleep.

It takes a looooong time to put together a barbeque. There are approximately 9000 steps, none of which can be facilitated by cats. Freeloaders.

The real shock to the system, and the thing I don't think anyone can truly prepare you for, is that houses are damn expensive. I used to have conversations like this: "Sushi?" "Sure!" or "Sushi?" "Sorry - can't. I'm hungover / have plans / spent way too much on shoes."

Now I have conversations like this: "Thai food?" "Can't. Furnace sounds funny / I have squirrels in my attic / did you know polished nickel cabinet handles are $12.50 each and I need 14 of them?" And who knew I had such strong opinions on engineered vs. "real" hardwood?

I wouldn't trade my house for the world, nor the sense of accomplishment I felt the day I walked in, without my realtor for the first time, and it was truly mine. Followed one minute later by a complete and total "holy fuck what have I done?" moment. But sometimes, when I'm scraping silicone caulking off my fingernails, or trying to remember if the numbers on sandpaper get higher as the grain gets finer, or I'm balanced precariously on a padded barstool, standing on tiptoes trying to hang a swag lamp because I can't justify buying a ladder (which you think I would, what with the grow op and all), I wish for a landlord for about three seconds. Or at least a really hot handyman who knows his way around a weed whacker.