Takin' A Break

I don't know how I can make this any clearer:

Being a grown-up is HARD.

Why was I in such a hurry to move out of my parent's house, where I lived rent free and my dad filled the beer fridge weekly?  Why did I think it was so important to get a "real" job when, as an actress, I was required to only work 5 hours a day and go to amazing parties afterwards?  Why oh why did I think buying a house with my boyfriend would far outweigh living in separate apartments when buying the house meant that we would be managing three households, two families, one dog, and a partridge in a pear tree?

I might be exaggerating a bit.  We don't actually have a partridge.

I know it sounds like I'm complaining, but I've already had a glass of wine and I'm well into my second.  I'm just mildly cranky.  I absolutely love our new house.  I do.  I love working on it and dreaming about it and spending every weekend there.  I don't love coming home to a small disaster of an apartment.  I've completed neglected my actual living space, so there is a trail of laundry piling up from the front door to the bedroom.  Dirty dishes were piled mile high in my sink until Blake took pity on me and did my dishes last night.  Random knick knacks are strewn across the floor wherever they happened to last fall, since these days I generally am only home long enough to strip off my paint covered clothes and fall into bed (my parents are reading this right now and thinking, so what's new?).

It's all completely worth it.  I'm going to be living with the only man who could possibly put up with me in a house we are quickly making our own.  That's the light at the end of the tunnel.

But DAMN, why's it gotta be so hard?

(Insert cliches about how working hard for the things that matter blah blah blah.  Pour more wine, talk less cliches.)