The Waste Land
what branches grow/out of this stony rubbish? --t.s. eliot
Cakes decided to get up way too early this morning. But that’s OK--I'm less pissed at her than I would have been at the bulldozers and jackhammers that were out in full force at 7 AM. I needed to be up anyway for the drywaller who is coming at 8 (to repair the results of our flooded basement last week).
We purchased an infill townhouse in an “up-and-coming” neighbourhood. That was three years ago actually..before we were married…before we had a baby. We finally moved in when Cakes was seven-months-old (until then she slept in her playpen in the dining area of our one-bedroom apartment--the reason she is such a great sleeper now).
I don’t mean to whine (we love the house), but does it ever end? When will I be able to go to the kitchen in my underwear without worrying about been seen by some guy working back there? When will S. put up the shelf in the laundry room? When we will have grass? I am dying to get my hands in the garden. Every time I go to Loblaws I press my nose against the fence of the garden centre like a child and a toy store. Baby Cakes wants to play in her minuscule patch of grass.
I am never moving again. I’m recording this angst so I will have something to remind me in case we ever get some irrational desire to move to the ‘burbs.
On the bright side, with the absence of fences, we are getting to know our neighbours. It’s been kinda fun kvetching on each other’s back steps over a glass of wine.
I think there is hope--there's a guy planting a tree in my front yard as I type.
I managed to watch the premiere of SYTYCD last night (lovely S. rescued the TV from the sodden basement--if you’re reading, thanks honey). I think the Greek girl will be this season’s Melody. She won’t get my vote--way too perky for my taste. My early money is on that guy who can pop like there’s no tomorrow. It will be interesting to see how well he can Tango.
Labels: the homestead