Some days I’m ashamed of our house. {Sorry house}

Other days I’m pretty sure our house is ashamed of me.

The house and I? We have a love-hate relationship.  Some days more hate than love.

You see, it’s not really my house. I’m a renter. There, I said it. I’m a thirty-seven-year old, long time married woman with three kids and I’ve never owned a home. Did you get that? I have never owned any kind of land beneath my feet, white picket fence or a red front door. {I dream of a bright red front door}.

Pete and I have lived in three different countries and gypsied around so much that at first we never wanted to own a home. Then when we wanted to, we had no easy work history, since so much of it was overseas. And then, well, yes, there was the issue of debt to credit ratio.

So we’re renters.

And for years it made me feel like a dork who would never be a “real” grown up. Because “real” grown ups owned homes and planned renovations and didn’t get intimidated by the Home Depot. And our rental, well, she’s reliable, but she sure ain’t pretty. She’s small and has faux bricks in the kitchen that constantly come unglued, barely there counter space, and a mosquito infestation for a back yard.

After a while I started to feel as small on the inside as my house was on the outside.

My friend, the Nester, invited me to share the rest of my renter’s journey over at her place; I’m so thrilled to do so, because my house dreams of growing up to be like hers one day. And she’s a grown up with three boys and is a renter too. Add to that the fact that Nester has about the bestest, quirkiest sense of humor of anyone on the net these days, and it was an invitation impossible to say no to.

So come on over, won’t you? And be sure and let her know Lisa-Jo brought ya!
{Just click the below logo that I totally swiped from her blog!}