The Year of the House

Oregano Spice warms my bedroom walls, the perfect "garden" backdrop for my dad's watercolor mountain and farm landscapes and a bright yellow, orange, red, green, and blue/black autumn road scene in oils. Identical gold metal frames give the threesome a purposeful feel. Balancing the paintings are three large metal trees, another threesome, this time hanging diagonally above the bed, each one with different painted leaves in muted tones - one green, one copper, one frosted white. The combination of these two types of seasonal artwork, along with the sage and eggplant painted dresser, the soft brown covered armchair, the India-inspired footstool, and the muted gold and silver sparkle of the leaf-embroidered cream comforter creates a warm, welcoming, natural feel in the bedroom.

A tweedy gray and navy suitcase stands against the open closet door, draped with a shirt and sports bra thrown there carelessly after a weekend of bucking two giant pine trees that fell on my yard during Hurricane Sandy's windy wrath. The digital video recorder case squats amidst the cords that should be wrapped neatly inside on the wide, unpainted windowsill. One windowsill and frame, three doorframes, and three doors remain to be painted the correct pale Lichen color in this room. The soft, yet brighter, hue of the Lichen balances and warms the darker Oregano Spice on the walls, but too much remains unpainted and so the vibe of the room is unfinished, halfway, sloppy. On the dresser is a small mound of folded, clean laundry waiting to be tucked into drawers and hung up in one of the two closests. The footstool is buried beneath two of the big throw pillows that belong on the bed when it's not being used. On the armchair is a larger mound of clean, folded laundry, many summer clothes that have yet to find their way into the trunk for winter storage. An outlet plate hangs unceremoniously - still not screwed into the wall. Incongruous next to the light-switch faceplates covered carefully in Monet's sunflowers.

The dark hardwood floor feels cool to my feet, warm to my eyes. Modern nature is my theme and the house came with these floors. How convenient. The archway between the living room and hallway has a quaintness that always draws comments. The built-in shelves were carefully repainted to match the woodwork color, "Day Spa," an almost white blue hue that only clashes with the main wall color, "Fresh Sky" in certain shadowed corners that only I notice, and melds perfectly with the accent wall in "Tahoe Blue." The dark chocolate corner sectional sofa, pale sand rug with leaves woven in, the dark brown DVD and chachki corner shelf, the dark black rectangle of flat-screen on the dark chocolate TV cabinet, the walnut antique entrance table, and the modern rust-gold-shaded lamp all work in harmony to create a lounging area that beckons. Quite the opposite from the home in which I grew up where furniture was not to be laid upon, no feet on the sofa, no lounging comfortably. Rather, furniture was carefully designed, with both aesthetic and functional purpose, fabric-covered museum pieces for sitting (carefully) only.

The ottoman in front of the sofa is cluttered and stacked with magazines, unopened mail, unpaid bills, a hairbrush, crumbs, a napkin, a water glass, and several pens beneath my netbook's soft black cover. The beautiful wine-barrel top serving tray that sits on the ottoman and has both beauty and function cannot be seen and is merely gathering stuff. The pass-through between the dining area and living room features tools (hammer, screwdrivers, razor knife, measuring tape, paintbrush), and papers related to my mortgage. The large round glass dining room table hosts smoke detectors for the upstairs apartment, a bag of paint samples, two rock-covered placemats, a carved-out wood stump vase filled with blue, green, and gold Christmas balls, two unused hangers from the closet shelf system, a Swiffer duster, and a small stack of paid bills atop the newest Time magazine. The beautiful hardwood floor in the dining room is streaked with mud tracked in from the yard during the tree-bucking weekend, footprints, dirt and sawdust.

I'm so frustrated with all of the things undone - the unfinished painting, the demo-chic bathroom, the laundry room mastic-covered cement floor, the pipes that need hangers in the basement so they are more secure, the unfinished office with boxes of stuff that made the move (much of which will be thrown out if I ever take an afternoon to dig through it), all of the accumulated clutter and clothes and dishes not put away, and now, two giant trees down in my yard, crushing my shed and fence, more projects and tasks to handle, more responsibilities to  pay for.

This weekend, after we had worked ourselves stiff and sore from cutting, dragging, hauling, throwing giant branches and trunk sections, my boyfriend looked at me as we both lay on the dark brown sofa in pjs, robes, and under blankets. He studied me for a moment and then asked, "Are you glad you bought this place?"

Right now, that's a loaded question because the answer seems to be less clear as time passes. Had he asked me this summer, despite all the harangue of the purchase and the annoyance of the previous tenants, and the extraordinary expense I undertook to begin making this place "mine," I would have answered quickly in the affirmative. But this Sunday, I just looked back, breathed a sigh, and said, "I don't know. I'm conflicted."

At this precise moment, thanks to a storm, a looming strike, extra unexpected expenses with house and car, and no raise for two years, my financial situation is on a knife's edge. Exactly what my parents predicted would happen if I bought a house. They always warned me that buying a house meant having to spend thousands a year on it - basic maintenance and upkeep, plus things go wrong every year - big things - things like furnaces and water heaters and foundations, oh my. My own desire to be transient was part of my decision not to buy, despite always wanting to own my own home, but the drumbeat of my parents' doubts and fears year after year made the whole process seem daunting and unappealing and worse, foolhardy.

Having done my research, saved the necessary downpayment, and gotten quite a good mortgage rate, I looked at places for six months before taking the plunge. And despite all of the difficulties with banks trading my mortgage around like a beat-up rag doll, I relished selecting paint colors, planning the look and feel inside and out, and then slowly working my way toward creating a new home reality. But now it just feels overwhelming, and my parents' admonitions about how expensive it is to own a home are inside my head, tormenting me from across time, space, and mind. Maybe they were right. Maybe I should have remained an apartment dweller. This is too much. I can't afford it - within the last two months, it has become too expensive with no sign of abating.

Then I remember that my tax return should be healthy this year. And eventually, the strike/contract situation at work will be resolved one way or the other. And I do love the Tahoe Blue accent wall, and Oregano Spice bedroom walls, and my cool/warm hardwood floors, and the comfort I feel in this space.

Comfort. And a sense that I'm getting to know this place. It really is starting to feel like it belongs to me. Working on the property and the walls and the floors, putting in sweat and time and bruises and tears creates a bond of sorts with this place. I feel comfortable here. I like it here. I enjoy changing the space and improving it, tweaking the good bones and making them better. And maybe that's enough in the Year of the House.