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House For Sale

28 Aug

I made Rob look at a house for sale on Cape Cod.

To clarify, we are not in the market to buy a house, nor do we know where we will eventually buy a house (if we ever buy a house!)




But this house!

Oh it’s a good one.

But this house!

Oh the mortgage would be less than our rent.

It looks like a little cottage out of a fairytale. Barn meets Cape Cod. Shingles with an outdoor shower. A deck made for string lights and card nights. A clothes line.

There’s something so romantic about a clothes line, about a white dress fluttering in the salty breeze. About packing a picnic for a beach that lies just beyond the backyard.

I’ve picked out the tile for the kitchen. I’d turn the loft space into a guest room slash library slash play room.

The bookshelves would be millennial pink and I wouldn’t care.

Every year I’d send out colorful invitations to my closest people, inviting them to stay that summer, to borrow our deck and our beach and our bookshelves.

Whenever I imagine having kids, it’s always in a home like this. There’s shakshuka or an oatmeal bake or cinnamon toast in the oven. The windows are open. We run off to the beach or the pond or grandma’s house. We eat fish stew in thrifted bowls. Dolly lounges in a slice of buttery sun.

I made Rob look at a house for sale on Cape Cod.

Two weeks later the house sold.

I am surprisingly hurt, surprisingly invested for someone with





PS: A dream home in Malibu

Cape Cod Year Four

22 Aug

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The days blurred together on the Cape, one stifling afternoon after another. We walked through soup air, dripping sweat on our coverups. It’s so hot we said, our brains gone dead with the temperature.

The bay was cooler, with a breeze.  We set our chairs out by the water, letting our toes dip into the bathtub before us. The water’s so warm, we said, our brains gone dad with the temperature.

My hair found snarls, knotting and twisting, revealing my insides like I always knew it did.

Clumps and chunks and curls I pulled out to no avail. The next day it was back to the same.

Back to me.

I noticed every picture I took was a copy of the last. Command C. Command P. We went one place and one place only.

We went to the water.

There weren’t long rainy days in town, slow afternoons exploring the bookstore or eating fried fish. There weren’t day trips and gallery walks, plays and movies and vintage teapots like in years past.

The days were the same.

The heat turned everything to mush, including time.

Hank Green said Gilmore Girls taught him that your great ambition in life can be your life.

I wrote it down as soon as he said it, because he had put to words something I never had.

Your great ambition in life can be your life.

Gilmore Girls was about the minutia, but the minutia mattered. Where Rory went to school mattered, what Lorelai’s inn was like mattered.

The minutia can be your life.

Is your life.

We had big breakfasts, potatoes and butter, bacon and cranberry juice.

We piled our coolers full of drinks and treats. The best that the corner store could buy.

We took ladder golf and bocce, high-backed chairs and umbrellas. We spoke to neighbors, and took beach walks. We stayed in the water until it turned slate and the sky finished its last streak of light.

We walked back home in the dark to a kitchen full of food, to a homemade basil sauce and grilled tomatoes, fluffy white rice and marinated chicken.

We listened to themed music and watched the Olympics. Cuddled and talked and had ice cream sometimes and ice cream cake other times.

It was routine and small and boring and mushy and Command P again and again.

And again.


We did it with our greatest ambition.



Cape Cod Year 1 (and Martha’s Vineyard), Year 2, Year 3, and my love affair with it in general