All Loud on the Home Front

Solidifying my desert woman title

TL;DR: Moving won’t dispel underlying mental anguish, but it WILL give you a sufficiently distracting to-do list.

One of my many Joshua Trees.

My own little slice of the desert

The nomadic life was fun, but my home search is complete and I now find myself working tirelessly to make my mid-century home even less modern.

You might be thinking, “She’s done it, she’s hit the goal she’s been blabbering about for years!”

It's true, a big life box has been checked. I made some terrifying wire transfers, packed up my furniture (that wall clock from Goodwill) and drove into the high desert.

What even is the high desert?

It’s the same sandy, hot place you’re imagining, just at a higher altitude. It also happens to have a wonderfully high concentration of artists, oddballs, blue collar workers, small businesses and even a few young people seeking their sandy fortune (now including me).

A glimpse of my floor and ceiling.

I’ve scrubbed kitchen cabinets within an inch of their life, trolled Facebook Marketplace for lamps (because canned lighting wasn’t that popular in the 50s), and signed up for pest control (rat abatement is all the rage here).

People love to visit the desert. They pass through it on long roadtrips and ogle artfully dilapidated buildings from air conditioned cars and even go to Coachella.

My solution to California’s housing challenge was to fall in love with a place that most people would never actually move to, where the summers are brutally hot and the winters are deceivingly cold.

So, are you deliriously happy now?

This very question floated through my mind as I fell into a deep pit of despair while scrubbing those seemingly endless kitchen cabinets.

A house is a big deal. Especially given how disparaging the discourse is on Millennial/Gen Z homeownership. Hitting the milestone before 30 felt impossible, yet here I am, the proud mother of a structure that desperately needs new plumbing, a new roof and plugs with three prongs instead of two.

I’m grateful to be here. Proud of the work it took to make this a reality. But I know that a house won’t dispel the anguish hiding inside my skull.

Spoiler: Reaching a significant goal doesn’t initiate permanent bliss

This searing truth reared its head as I sat with my scouring pads. My brain quickly cycled through dissatisfaction, guilt and confusion. But the spiral wasn’t surprising; I had this exact conversation with myself months ago when it felt like I would never find the right place.

No amount of DIY will satisfy me. An unlimited renovation budget won’t make perfection happen faster, or even at all. The thrill of a Facebook Marketplace find fades almost immediately.

Restlessness is a product of my mind, not my environment.

And the worst part is that I can endlessly distract myself with that to-do list in the name of false progress.

As usual, Seneca’s words soothe:

“It was nature’s intention that there should be no need of great equipment for a good life: every individual can make himself happy.”

Seneca, On the Shortness of Life

If a house won’t make me happy, then what the hell will? It’s the usual answer: Writing, making pictures, spending time with the people I love, talking with those who are trying to live well.

None of which are dependent on having a house.

Answering Carrie Bradshaw’s age-old question

Cleaning all those cabinets gave me time to re-watch SATC for the third time. Carrie’s question from a later episode made me laugh out loud.

In my case, in my new found peace and quiet, the answer is hell no. You’ll hear from me again soon, as writing continues to be one of the few activities that truly satisfies my mind.

Talk soon.