Here I am, writing from my new house. That I own. It is weird to think of myself as a grown-up home owner, especially since my parents were nearly fifty years old before getting a mortgage. They taught me that buying a home was a huge commitment-- scary, even-- something that traps you in one place. Nevermind that they lived in the same town for almost fifteen years before realizing they would, in fact, be staying in one place. But we have a three bedroom home now in a neighborhood that is borderline scary and appreciating rapidly, and we are loving the hell out of it.

We have painted the living room and office (formerly the "parlor") a pale yellow to brighten things up (it had been a hideous brownish pink!), took our bedroom from dark gray to a light beige (boring but pretty), hung pretty patterned Ikea curtains, and did a great deal of scrubbing and cleaning. Though we have a list of forthcoming improvement projects that await more money and energy (we're out at this point), we already know we are really happy here.

Because of our fenced-in backyard, we also got a new dog last weekend to keep In*ie Lou the Puggle company. He is half German Shephard, half Chihuahua (crazy!), and we have named him after one famous Czech writer known for taking his characters though nightmarish scenarios. I love the doggies-- a funny thing since my parents also scared me off from pet ownership-- but it really is a lot of work.

In other good news, R. got a job where I work. Yeah, yeah, I'd like to get out, but now the both of us work a block and a half from home, and R. loves what he's doing. In fact, for him it's a real resume booster that, coupled with his degree, may lead to something better down the road. Life is good right now, and that's something I haven't always been able to say.