My new obsession

The first step is admitting you have a problem.

I, similar to GirlFriday (with her fondness for Ethan Allen interior decorating), have an unhealthy obsession with real estate and furniture. I don't know when it happened. Probably some time during all the craziness of wedding planning when I realized that after the "big day" was over, I'd have lots of free time to plan the "ever after." I'm sure HT could tell you when he first started noticing the longer period of time I would spend pouring over the Pottery Barn Catalogue. . . I'm surprised he hasn't started throwing them out before I get home like I do with his Griots' garage car-washing supply catalogues. . . but I digress.

Somewhere in the last two years, I have really, really started to want to buy a home. It has something to do with throwing upwards of a few thousand dollars away in rent each month, but it also has to do with just wanting walls I can paint and rooms to decorate, and a big red front door with an antique looking knocker.

HT and I spent the better part of Sunday afternoon wandering around a little haven outside of DC where we'd love to be able to buy a place. We clip-clopped along brick sidewalks and popped in and out of cafes and boutiques trying to avoid strollers and dogs, smiling families, and tourists. We sat for clam chowder looking out at the potomac, somewhat exhausted from our prior evening's activities and wished that we could just plop down right there, put down roots, and stop all the what-ifs that come with the ACTUAL headaches of homeownership.

The problem with the obsession is that it's fun right now. We haven't broached the topic with lenders, we haven't really, earnestly, tried to figure out what we can afford, and we haven't set foot across a threshhold yet. And I'm certain that once we make those steps, my tone might change. But right now, home to me is clapboard and blue shutters with a red door and crooked, colonial front step. And filled with pottery barn furniture. . .