There is a lot of shit I hate about owning a home. At the top of the list is MAINTENANCE. Yards need to be cut, pools need to be cleaned, roofs need to be repaired, plumbing issues need to be fixed, fucking siding needs to be replaced, weeds need to be pulled, ant mounds need to be killed, trees need to be pruned, A/C units need to be replaced... and the list goes on, and on, and ON. My head hurts like the dickens just thinking about it.
And, when you belong to a Home Owner's Association with Nazi volunteer inspectors, you get regular "courtesy" notices asking that you kindly replace your leaning mailbox (leaning gives it character!), or paint the tarnished copper awning over your front door (copper is supposed to look like that, assholes!), or repave your cracked driveway (we LIKE crack!), or to power wash the north side of the house to remove traces of mold (mold, schmold... we live in fucking Houston, the humidity capital of the world!), or to remove the "truck with camper" from the driveway (it's a fucking RV, assholes... the Minnie Winnie was highly offended when that notice came). They're adult bullies. And, I hate them.
My point here is that our house has become a fucking money pit. And, when you're poor like us, you just can't afford to keep up with that shit. One step forward leads to five steps back. It's always SOMETHING... something broken, something old, something dirty, etc. Plus, it's annoying as fuck to spend money on things outside of vacations, booze, food and clothes.
So, we're finally giving up on the "American Dream" and moving back into the world of renting. That's right... when shit goes wrong, we're calling the property managers to fix that shit! I'ma sit on my fat ass sipping on a pina colada while someone else replaces the A/C filter or fixes the garage door opener. Life is too damn short to spend every waking minute fixing broken shit and throwing perfectly good booze money away on maintenance repairs. Screw that crap! Momma needs a REAL vacation!
So, I've been spending the last couple of months trying to figure out what the fuck I can do to make the same amount of money without going back to work in an office full time. Freelance writing doesn't pay shit, y'all. (Just sayin'... in case it wasn't obvious.) Aside from prostitution, diaper changing or serving as a drug mule, I'm pretty much open to anything. Running an escort service would be awesome... but then I'd be a pimp and probably end up in jail. I'm too damn cute for jail.
Anyway... I've been dabbling in some genius-ass stuff, y'all. If it all works out, I'll fill you guys in on it. Until then, we'll be munching on Ramen Noodles, Lone Star beer and generic peanut butter in a mobile home park that smells like piss. Feel free to send us some charity.
My spawns get tired of me complaining about our lack of money. The youngest spawn has even VOWED to never find herself in my pitiful situation when she's an adult....
Spawn: I'm going to have lots of money when I'm grown up! I'm going to be able to buy everything I want all the time!
Me: That would be awesome. You could even buy me a bunch of stuff.
Spawn: Yeah! I'm going to marry a billionaire.
Spawn: Billionaires have a hundred bazillion dollars. They never run out of money. That's the kind of husband I'm gonna need to get me all the stuff I want. And, I won't ever have to tell MY kids that they can't have all the awesome stuff THEY want.
Me: Sounds like a plan! But I would rather YOU were the rich one... go to college and become some great, fancy doctor or something.
Spawn: Oh, I'll be rich, too... but I'll save all my money in case my husband dies.
Me: Nice. Well, it's good to have goals.
I have raised that heifer well. My work here is done.