Home sweet home.

Thanksgiving, Christmas and new years have come and gone. Mister Man turned two with not a lot of fanfare but a hell of a lot of cake. Today is Valentine’s Day and my birthday is right around the corner. It’s a big birthday. Let’s not make a deal out of it.

When a lot of things are going on in my life, my brain just starts to turn into a liquid, drippy substance that can only be useful for short spurts and not long enough to spit out any sort of drivel about the life that is making me stupid.

To be fair, my mother was here for a month so my main audience was living with us.

We bought a house. A nice house in the suburbs of Dublin. Close to the DART and the sea but far from the amenities of city centre. It was built in 1965 and from the outside you can totally tell. A strange, big balcony over the top of the garage and very small bit of orange-red brick accent but that small bit just screams “When I was built when fall out shelters were the next big thing!” Not that it looks like it is or has a fall-out shelter, it just wants to.

In fairness to our house, we looked at another house that was on sale two doors down, which was definitely build by the same builders, the same year and that has wood panels on the walls and sinks in all of the bedrooms; just in case you need to wash your hands and brush your teeth while your sleeping. Or cleaning. Or listening to your Herman’s Hermits records. Whenever you need a sink, it’s right there!

Someone bought The Sink House the same week we bought ours. I think we win here.

If you’ve ever bought a house, you know it’s a frustrating, long, drawn-out process. There is a lot of negotiating and bad mouthing people to be done. The seller is always crazy, no matter what and, I’m sure to the seller, the buyer is always a pushy jerk. The solicitors are lazy and the realtors are slimy. I think I asked what is wrong with humanity more times than I have said my own name.

And at the end you still have to move.

This is my least favourite part. I don’t like calling up the gas/electric/cable/internet/phone people to cancel/start-up services or to change my address. I loathe packing. I hate how much it costs and how much trouble it is. Something always breaks. It’s usually your favourite thing. I don’t like lifting boxes or carrying them and, much to my mother’s horror, I really, really dislike decorating. I’m bad at it and when it’s all done I have to face up to my own bad taste.

But, in the end, we have a house with space (oh the space!) and a to-be-worked-on back garden (yard for my American readers mom) and a driveway that is all our own. That should quiet the mind a bit.

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Liz in Dublin