I love New York, and, quite frankly, I love apartment living (minus smoking neighbors). My apartment isn't big, and it doesn't have "great bones", but it's close as can be to Prospect Park, quite possibly my favorite place in the world (read: during spring and summer, and fall. and sometimes winter). It's across the street from my bodega where the guys who work in the middle of the night know me, it's close to the subway, and it's close to my friends. It's got this sunlight in the kitchen in the morning that, honestly, fills me with hope. I can't tell you how many times I've lain on my bed on summer nights and felt the breeze sweep around me and felt Anne Shirley happy.
But, I looked. I committed the cardinal sin of small apartment dwellers and I looked at a house. I'm not in the market for a house, I have no interest in moving out of Brooklyn, but Pandora wasn't real specific about details when she took the lid off that jar.
Anyway, I found one. And I neeeeeeeeeeeed it. Look at that little porch. Doesn't it need me? The house is in the Finger Lakes region of New York, which I visited with my family right after high school and picked out arbitrarily this afternoon.
I have to stop idealizing small town life. And reading Anne of Green Gables. It's getting me all befuddled. It probably wouldn't hurt if I stopped watching so much Murder, She Wrote, but, come on, there's no way I'm doing those last two things.
Also, this is on 5 acres, which normally I have no strong feelings about (what am I, a farmer?), but I could get a giant trampoline. I've always wanted a giant trampoline. California kids always dream about having giant trampolines like their Utah cousins, but, you know, you have to put the pool somewhere.