HOUSE SHOPPING

I'm listening to NPR. They're talking about the Venus Transit, Ronald Reagan, and Guantanamo Bay.

In addition to my new ability to stay up past 7:30 pm, buying a house is the latest thing in my life. Lindz and I have made an offer on a house we like. It is exciting, and I don't know how much of it has really sunk in yet. I've never had my own walls, never in my whole life. This house is a 1220 sq ft ranch on .34 acres in Raleigh. The back windows don't even have drapes or blinds because the back yard is so thick with trees. I was sitting on the deck yesterday evening with Lindz and the realtor. It was our second showing, and I was drifting off into a sweet, gauzy state while the conversation hopped from furnaces to fixtures to termite inspections. Must have been the birds in all those trees.
I am a barely employed ne'er-do-well at the moment, despite the loving objections of my wife. My decision to leave Brown Hell doesn't really help my income. The only reason any of this is happening is the fact that I have married very well. I didn't expect any of this when I asked Lindsey to be my last girlfriend. She inherited a few bucks from her late grandfather, which makes a down payment. Her dad has been an excellent source of advice, and he's helping us a great deal. She also has a real job. We'll have payments, of course, but it won't be rent. A crucial difference.
I yearn for the ability to be more than a passenger in all of this. We've been equal partners in choosing a house, but my lack of a career is a drain on my pride. I suppose I can't complain; countless wives have fared far worse. But I want a real job again! Where are the fucking jobs? What am I doing wrong? I do not suffer from any male insecurity about being overshadowed by my wife; I just don't want to wear a damned green apron for a living anymore. I want to use my brain. I want a little respect. Serving four-dollar cups of sickly sweet designer coffee to these ignorant, complacent, absentee-parenting, SUV-driving, Atkins-Diet-crazed, cell-phone-addicted suburbanite yuppie trash does not serve that end. Yes, it's a petty generalization, but I can't let myself get bogged down by details while I'm ranting. I bitched less when I was Report Specialist at my beloved DermTech in San Diego.
Now that I'm done whining and feeling sorry for myself, I'm going to finish my Liberty Ale, take a shower, and go to my shit job.