One of the most difficult things about being a first-time homeowner is suddenly taking on a thousand new responsibilities that I've never had to deal with before or, in some cases, had even contemplated. A lot of these are simple, but not being in the habit of remembering to do them turns the task into a new source of anxiety, simple or not.

You guys. I don't have room for new anxieties right now. GLEE HAS STILL NOT BEEN CLEANSED FROM AMERICA.

My neighbors can probably testify about the anxiety thing as they've now seen me on four separate occasions running the garbage bin out to the street, barefoot and half naked, on a Wednesday morning as the garbage man watches with amusement from one house away.


I feel like the garbage man and I have a perfectly synchronized dance that we are able to practice on a weekly basis. My bin is thrust into the arms of the garbage truck at the exact moment the wheels screech to a halt. If I don't let go at precisely the right time, I'll be launched into the air. In December I referred to this performance as "The Trashcracker." Now I call it "Swan Garbage."

It's all really beautiful if you think about it. And I'm typically dressed for the part anyway, although not purposefully.

Then there's the whole mail issue. Look. I know this isn't the first time in my life that I've had to check the mail. But for some reason it only occurs to me about once a week that people are still communicating in this way. In the past, remembering to check the mail was simple. Because I always lived in some apartment complex and would have to pass the locked mailbox to get to the elevator anyway. Now I've got a mailbox in a place I don't traverse by foot often.

The mail builds up for several days and every time I realize this has happened I can hear Cathie's screaming in my head, "BURGLARS  AND CRACK WHORES ARE GOING TO THINK YOU ARE OUT OF TOWN IF YOU LET YOUR MAILBOX FILL UP THAT WAY!"

Then I spend the rest of the evening faking a large holiday party with cardboard cutouts and battery-powered toy trains just like Kevin did on Home Alone. Also I blush because my Cathie mind-voice said "crack whores."

And did you guys know that door-to-door salesmen can just walk right up to your door? And you HAVE to buy whatever they're selling or it's super awkward.

In the last week I've purchased 12 knife sets, half a dozen security systems, and become a Jehovah's Witness. Twice.

This new mandatory missionary work is really eating up my time right now.

Also, WHERE ARE THE GIRL SCOUTS?! 95% of the reason I bought the damn house in the first place was because I was assured that Girl Scouts go door-to-door with their cookies in neighborhoods like this. How am I supposed to buy all of the shortbread cookies in the greater Salt Lake area if nobody is awkwardly forcing them on me in the comforts of my own property?


Everybody lied to us. Owning a home is awesome. But also stressful. Stressful because buying the house quadrupled my responsibilities but neglected to quadruple my responsibility.

It's Tuesday night and here I sit, a mailbox full of junk mail, garbage bins resting idly in front of the garage, a spread of Watchtower magazines on my kitchen table, and NO Girl Scout cookies.


~It Just Gets Stranger