There’s No Place Like Someone Else’s Home

Want to give yourself a major case of the I Wants? Go into a fully furnished Open House. It will be doubly impressive if you’ve spent most of the last two decades living in military housing.

We drove by a couple of Open Houses today and stopped, because one was hosting a charity event, and we figured it was worth donating a couple of bucks. Plus, they’re raffling off some furniture, and while we don’t need new furniture, it would be a kick to win.

My intelligent utterance upon walking into the first house: “Wow.” It was awesome, this nice big kitchen with a sun room, formal dining, separate family and living rooms. Upstairs there were 4 bedrooms—and the wise home builder put the laundry room upstairs, where it belongs--and the master bedroom had these freakishly huge closet. I left with a major case of I Want.

Right next door there was another Open House. We were there so, why not just go peek? If my gut reaction to the first house was “Wow” for this one it had to be “Holy Freaking WOW.” It was beyond awesome…it was drool-worthy. The master bedroom was at least 3 times the size of what we have now, the bathroom was huge and the bathroom closet was the size of our smallest bedroom.

I left thinking “I want I want I want I want I want I want I want I want…”

But it wasn’t necessarily wanting either of those particular houses, as impressive as they were. It was wanting our own house. Our own, we can paint if we want, we can put our personal stamp on it, home.

That’s about 5-6 years off, once we’ve been able to pay off all the debt. Or sooner, if we win the lottery. But then, too, we would have to actually remember to buy a lottery ticket, something that’s only happened like 4 times since we moved here.

But damn. While the house we’re in is decent—it’s certainly livable and there’s enough space, other than the kitchen—it’s not ours. It’s not something we’d ever consider buying if we were able to. It’s low-bidder gets the contract military issue housing. There’s nothing in it to invoke that feeling of “welcome, this is home.” I’ve finally hit the age where I want that.

Or maybe I’m just tired of moving every three years.
Either way, I want I want I want I want I want I want I want…

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