I'm a creature of habit. Without rituals, I would lead an entirely directionless life. Every morning when I wake up I have to rub my tummy in little circles right before I turn the coffeemaker on and proceed to brush my teeth. When I go to bed, I have to listen to NPR, have a large glass of water beside my bed and enough light to keep away ghosts. When I'm hung-over, I have to go house hunting.
Clearly, I've stooped to a new low.
It's hard to say when house hunting became so addictive. On hangover mornings, my friends and I would wake up, our faces still caked in makeup, and decide it was a good idea to throw on sweatshirts and slippers and drive thru McDonald's for a post-party large-and-in-charge Diet Coke. To prolong our day, we'd drive around aimlessly, mocking people who were doing things like running. One day, we found a street with a row of houses with picket fences, shingled roofs and screened-in porches, perfect for escaping deadbeat husbands for a secret cigarette.
Now, dreaming up plots to lure a husband seems like a perfectly reasonable way to spend a Sunday afternoon. Besides, that's all we have energy for - abstract thoughts on our future husband's jobs, taste in decorative art and light-bulb changing abilities.
We'll drive down blocks and pick out which houses fit certain men we know, none of whom could afford a home, besides the Madison West Wrestling coach who proposed to my friend over a vodka cranberry.
We share our thoughts and feelings about monogamy, pregnancy and our fears of having to resort to sperm donors and test-tube babies to get the daughters we've always wanted. But our eyes are peeled in search of the home that symbolizes the perfect nuclear family - or something like it.
Oh! That's it!"" I exclaimed, pointing to a house resembling a shed with a pick-up truck parked in front, Christmas lights still dangling from what appeared to have been a roof.
""If I miraculously get pregnant, that's where I'd have to live with my alcoholic husband,"" I decide.
""He'd have me making him sandwiches and washing his nasty underwear, while he's out screwing some broad.""
Then we spotted a colonial house with pink shutters - this home was blatantly homosexual. I took a picture and decided I'd Photoshop my suspiciously gay ""straight"" male friends in front of it holding hands, a Yorkshire terrier guarding the front porch. I'm giving it to them as a present, with the promise that I'll carry their lovechild.
All of this was imaginary fun, until we passed a Victorian with an ""OPEN HOUSE"" sign.
This is where we may have crossed a line.
""The kitchen was just recently remodeled,"" the realtor said, gesturing to the shining granite
countertops.
""The appliances are brand new. When we head upstairs, you'll see the master bedroom has enough room for three."" The realtor blushed at the thought of our sleeping arrangements.
The three of us started up the wooden staircase in our slippered feet, dizzy with excitement. The house was perfect for three young women to start a semi-lesbianic family.
We took the rest of the tour, mostly for the realtor's sake, though I was thoroughly impressed with the bathroom. Plus, I called dibbs right when I saw the bidet.
""Here's some more information,"" she said, her hand pointing to the asking price - exceeding far more than my four-year, out-of-state-tuition. Times five.
""I'll have my people call your people,"" I told her after I grabbed a flower out of a vase and brought it to my nose. "" But I've looked at a lot of houses and you can tell the owners, I'm not paying asking
price. It doesn't even have a bar!""
She rolled her eyes, said nothing to me and simply opened the front door. And at that moment, I was pretty positive that my future must include a test-tube baby.
If you have blue eyes and dark hair, play a classical instrument and are interested in donating your sperm to ""science,"" e-mail Ashley at aaspencer@wisc.edu.
