Playing House

The rental house does not have a dishwasher, or a garbage disposal, or, as I realized the first time I washed dishes, a sprayer at the kitchen sink.  The kitchen sink is enameled cast iron and probably weighs 200 pounds. I know I'll break a few glasses washing dishes in that sink. (Picture Jim rolling his eyes when he reads that last sentence.  Sure, Anne, YOU'LL be washing dishes.)

It's an exaggeration to say we're living in primitive conditions.  But I keep wanting to say it. Because I'm spoiled.  Even our circa 1981, Menard's quality kitchen spoiled me.

I have a fantasy of living a simpler, Waldenesq life but when faced with the reality of doing it...I don't know if I could handle it.  

When I was a real renter I spent very little time thinking about the people who came before me.  The rental was built in 1926.  Every time I walk in the door (Hi Honey, I'm home) I wonder about the first family that lived in the house.  Actually, I wonder about the first wife that lived in the house.

My hair's a bit longer than usual right now.   I think it looks best when I first wake up.  I look girly in a mussed up sort of way.  When I look at the mirror in the morning I imagine my self as a 1920's house wife getting up before my family in order to get the house ready for the family's day. (Jim will tell you when I'm looking in the mirror he's been up for an hour and has given me my first dose of coffee just to get me to out of bed.)

Sometimes I wonder if the simplicity of this house wore her down - as she washed endless dishes in that tiny, hot kitchen. Or if the house - with it's electrical outlets EVERYWHERE was a high-tech marvel full of time saving gadgets to make her life easier.  (I am very happy that the Dyson works with all those outlets.)

What I wonder most often (usually when I come home from work with my younger daughter opening the screen door and giving me a formal bow and a crooked little silly smile as I come in) is the most obvious question.  Could that first house wife handle my life and, more importantly, could I survive hers?

Smaller Footprint

We moved into the rental house this weekend. A solid brick bungalow that appears to have never been touched by a modern rehabber's hammer (outside of the landlord's addition of a bathroom and "bedroom" in the basement. )  We have 1,140 SQ feet of living space sandwiched between a large but stinky basement and an attic.

So lots of storage space coupled with a smaller amount of living space.  Our REAL house had 1,800 SQ feet of livable space before the flood.  But no basement and a hard to access attic.  So why do we have more stuff than could possibly fit into the rental?

Ambitious, logical Anne says we just need to methodically go through the rooms, garage, and attic in our REAL house and mercilessly edit our collection of stuff.  Ridding ourselves of the baggage of things we don't use.  Green Anne says we need to take anything we don't need and either offer it up on Craig's List or drop it off at Salvation Army.  (I'm sure there's a frat house somewhere that wants our flood touched couch.)

Real Anne knows what will happen will be different from what should happen.  Boxes of stuff will be wedged into the attic and basement at the rental and a storage locker.  Because we don't have the time and energy to go through all this crap it will follow us to the remodled REAL house.  Much of it will sit there for years -for the kids to deal with someday.

Real Anne also knows that bags and bags of things will make its way to a landfill someplace.  Because, when faced with a crabby, hungry seven year old at 8:00 PM on a Sunday night, we'll end up tossing plies of stuff into garbage bags (and proably stop for pizza on the way back to the rental.)

So, even with all our green ambtions, moving is not doing anything for our desire to reduce our footprint.  Let's hope we do better with the remodel,