Magical Thinking - Augusten Burroughs [97]
I voiced some of my concerns to Joanne, but she only absently fondled the cross around her neck and said, “I’m not sure I even understand what sort of house you’re talking about. Because that doesn’t seem like a house. That seems like some sort of military compound, and we certainly do not sell military compounds.”
Back in the car Dennis said, “Where did that come from?”
“What?” I said.
“That panic room and electrified-fence stuff.”
“Oh. Well, you know. If we’re gonna live in the country, we have to be safe.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Dennis said. “You can have a little pen in the backyard with an electrified fence around it.”
This made me happy. Dennis always looked after me, indulged me, spoiled me rotten, like meat in the sun.
“Okay,” I said and leaned over the seat to kiss him.
Back home in New York, we went through the book that Joanne gave us. The book contained two hundred log-home plans, along with prices. I thought it was fantastic that you could just pick a house out of this catalogue and then . . . have it built! Like ordering a sandwich from Subway.
Dennis, ever practical, suggested that we order more catalogues from more log-home companies. This is smart, as I would have simply picked a floor plan out of this book and then placed my order. But Dennis is not a take-what-you-can-get-and-be-glad-you-got-it sort of guy.
I went online and visited the websites for as many log-home companies as I could find. Then I sent away for their brochures.
And for the next week, we spent our free time looking at floor plans, an activity that proved to be entirely overwhelming. To make matters even worse, all the floor plans could be combined, mixed, and matched. So you could have the master bedroom you like from the Eagle’s Nest together with that great in-law suite from the Montana. Then, if you wanted, you could steal the loft from the Pine Crest but use the loft railings from the Dusty Rose.
The process made me increasingly more anxious, and my obsessive-compulsive disorder went into overdrive. I began to twitch frequently, wash my hands every half hour, and adjust my glasses constantly. I took an extra ten milligrams of Lexapro to keep my symptoms in check.
Clearly, it will be years before we step foot inside our own log cabin. It will take at least five years to choose a plan. Then another three or four to decide on the finishing options. And of course before we can do any of this, we must first choose a piece of property. And I can’t even imagine how this will happen. Once you find your property, you have to have it checked for radon, leveled, electric and water brought in. Honestly, I don’t know how anybody builds anything. If I had been in charge of developing the modern world, we would all still be living in caves. We wouldn’t even have fire yet.
So for now, we make do with our own view of the Trump apartments. When I get a craving for Nature, I turn on the Discovery Channel and watch bear-attack survivors recount their horror and show us the results of their reconstructive surgery.
My friend Suzanne in California gave me some advice that her own therapist gave to her: “Tend to your inner garden,” he said.
This seems wise to me. I will stop obsessing over log cabins and weekend houses. I will instead focus on my inner garden. Around which is my own personal electrified fence.
UP THE ESCALATOR
I
’m through the revolving door, and instantly, profoundly, the air is different. Washed with chemicals and mercury vapor light, scented in such a specific way that I would know the name of this store if blindfolded,