Homeowners

When we bought our first home, we bought three. Three in one. It's possible to cross a major marriage milestone and kill a couple of birds with one stone. In our case, we moved into a 306 square foot cottage (they told us it was 400 square feet) and were the live-in outback landlords behind a lovely duplex, occupied by two young couples. 

Only then the birds aren't dead. And they want to kill each other. 

One couple hates the other's barking dog, so they text us at 10 p.m. And 9 a.m. And Saturday morning. 

The animal couple accuses the hippie couple of smoking pot and partying. And brewing beer. On the front porch.

Suddenly, our beautiful experience of homeownership is more like parenting/camp counselor/mediator.

We can hear the barking dog from the cottage. We can see the potsmoking greenlight glowing from the hippie's bathroom window. And Branson keeps telling me that they pay the rent. 

Now, we've moved out of the cottage and into the duplex. So, the animal couple is out and the hippie couple can hear all our footsteps, coughs, and shower singing. 

We may be surrounded by dead birds, but nothing makes us lovebirds like a tiny cottage and practice parenting.

Songs for my Sister

From our childhood:
Atlas Hands by Benjamin Francis Leftwich "I've got a plan, I've got an atlas in my hands"

For a reminiscent drive at twilight:
Thinking About You by Big Scary "Come on"

Because the video is like the inside of my mind:
Jungle by Emma Louise "My head is a jungle, jungle"