If you've ever wondered what it might be like to chuck your miserable job, leave the city and go run an inn (or B&B or plant nursery or general store) in the country, then welcome to my new life.
The story goes like this. At the end of 2004, I was living in NYC, pregnant, looking forward to three months of maternity leave, and busily renovating a house in Queens with my trusty partner, who we'll call Cap'n. Living in our newly renovated apartment was all I wanted in the world, and I often imagined it as the attainment of perfection, at last. The floors would be eternally clean, the dogs would be permanently attached to their beds, and life would gain that Martha Stewart glow.
A few months later, after the arrival of the new and very cute mascot to our lives (we'll call him Major Poopies, who just returned from a tour of doody...ah ha ha ha ha...watch out for the mess hall...oh) we get some news. Through a happy turn of events we would soon receive a bit of money, and no one had to die to make it happen. It wasn't going to permit the purchase of mansions, acres upon acres of land or any level of financial independence, but enough to make you think, "oh wow, this isn't going to happen ever ever again, what should we do?"
So rather than getting out of debt, putting some away for the Pooper's education or any other variety of very adult and responsible conclusion, we decided to jettison our office-drone status, change our lives and buy a little motel and cottage business in the mountains and move there to run it for a living. And it actually happened. In June 2005 we closed on the property and it's all ours. We are proprietors. We are owners. We are maids and front-desk people. Handy-men. Reservation-takerers and laundry-doers. But it's ours.
And this is the story.
Keeping my head above water.