No, Actually We're Living in Sin. Thanks for Asking!
Even though I was born and raised in rural Vermont, I consider myself a quasi-urbanite. Sure, I like rolling hills and lush pastures as much as the next farm girl, but after I'm done dodging cow patties I prefer to come home to sidewalks, restaurants within walking distance, and red wine. Both Best Guy and I enjoy the outdoors but prefer the luxuries city living offers. As much as a Vermont city can offer anyway.
All that being said, living in the suburbs has been a whole new experience. This is the first time either of us has bought a lawn mower (we went with an electric mower). This is the first time we've been responsible for the maintenance of the entire house, inside and out. We're getting quotes to replace the furnace, because if it goes on a Saturday night in February (which is pretty much the only time an old furnace can go), the amount we'd have to shell out to replace it would quadruple. We're going to have to buy a snowblower this winter because driveway maintenance is on us.
It's a bit of a learning curve, and more than once we have looked at each other like "what are we supposed to do here?" Nothing says "grown up" like owning a home. It's a little freaky.
What we have found to be the most disconcerting is the fact that everyone assumes we are married. We never had this problem living at the condo, but for some reason we move 15 minutes down the road into suburbia and everyone assumes we're hitched. It's gotten to the point where we've stopped trying to correct everyone because it's just easier to let it slide.
|For god's sake we have a Scarlet Letter on our mantle. What more do you people need?|
Because I'm home the most, it's gotten to feel a little too housewifey. Whenever we have someone in to give us a quote or whatnot, I'm always the one answering the door and I'm always the one to say "Best Guy will be here soon, he's on his way home from work." It sounds like I'm one of those useless stay-at-home throwbacks who has to let Her Man make the decisions. At times I feel like I want to say "please do not mistake my waiting for my partner as an inability to make decisions or take care of things on my part. I am an intelligent and modern woman who lives and participates in society."
The fact that I have no desire to remember how many feet of piping it's going to take to run the gas to the new furnace is completely besides the point. Best Guy is good at remembering and understanding such things. My talents lie elsewhere, so I defer to his knowledge. That does not mean that, if I had to, I couldn't do the same thing. Far from it.
And mainly right now I'm whining to myself. Although I have started calling Best Guy "Darren" in deference to the fact I appear to be a stay-at-home witch these days. My familiars are a geriatric beagle with lethal farts, one senile cat who forgets what he is doing in the middle of eating dinner and starts whining to be fed, and one other cat who simply is above it all.
At least the cats are both black.