Checkout line at the local home improvement warehouse. I have a gallon of paint, some brushes, an edging tool, a narrower putty knife than the one I've been using, and a work light. Things I forgot to buy on my first visit to the local home improvement warehouse.
Guy in line behind me says, "What's a little girl doing with big boy toys?"
Let's leave aside the part where nobody has described me as "little" since 1979.
I'm more interested in what big boy toys are. Paint. Brushes. Edger. Putty knife. Work light. When I think "big boy toys" I picture table saws, nail guns, maybe a drill with realistic rubber fist attachment.
I smile at the man-- he doesn't mean any harm-- and tell the truth. "I'm painting a house," I say.
I don't add that I also have a big boy mortgage on said house, and yes, to quote Miranda of "Sex and the City," (my personal patron saint) it's just me.
On my first trip to the local home improvement warehouse I was waiting in line at the paint counter for about a million gallons of color when a guy advised me to paint the trim in the house using a gloss finish. "That way it's easy to clean when your husband and kids get their fingerprints all over it," he tells me, helpfully.
I want to tell him my husband divorced me because I can't have kids or that they all burned up in a fire-- both total lies--to make him as uncomfortable as he just made me. Instead I smile and enjoy the irony. "Really? That's good to know," I say.
My friend K, another single real-estate holding woman, said she gets the same thing all the time.
It's not a revolutionary act. The Suz moved in with Not So New Anymore but Still Very Much Improved Boyfriend, and I had to live someplace. I figured I could continue to give my money to a sleazy landlord or h
eartless management company, or for about the same price, make an investment at a time when I can buy low and, I hope, in a few years sell high and come out with a little profit. And I get a yard and a dog in the process.
It's economics, not revolution.
Guy in line behind me says, "What's a little girl doing with big boy toys?"
Let's leave aside the part where nobody has described me as "little" since 1979.
I'm more interested in what big boy toys are. Paint. Brushes. Edger. Putty knife. Work light. When I think "big boy toys" I picture table saws, nail guns, maybe a drill with realistic rubber fist attachment.
I smile at the man-- he doesn't mean any harm-- and tell the truth. "I'm painting a house," I say.
I don't add that I also have a big boy mortgage on said house, and yes, to quote Miranda of "Sex and the City," (my personal patron saint) it's just me.
On my first trip to the local home improvement warehouse I was waiting in line at the paint counter for about a million gallons of color when a guy advised me to paint the trim in the house using a gloss finish. "That way it's easy to clean when your husband and kids get their fingerprints all over it," he tells me, helpfully.
I want to tell him my husband divorced me because I can't have kids or that they all burned up in a fire-- both total lies--to make him as uncomfortable as he just made me. Instead I smile and enjoy the irony. "Really? That's good to know," I say.
My friend K, another single real-estate holding woman, said she gets the same thing all the time.
It's not a revolutionary act. The Suz moved in with Not So New Anymore but Still Very Much Improved Boyfriend, and I had to live someplace. I figured I could continue to give my money to a sleazy landlord or h
eartless management company, or for about the same price, make an investment at a time when I can buy low and, I hope, in a few years sell high and come out with a little profit. And I get a yard and a dog in the process.It's economics, not revolution.
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