[Domino, via Drudge] - MY MOTHER IS OBSESSED with real estate. Not a casual perusing-homes-for-sale-in-the-Sunday-paper kind of obsessed. It’s more than even a "let’s sneak into this open house and pretend we’re interested in buying this Spanish Tudor" kind of obsession. This obsession borders on romantic. She’s never been content in a home for more than a few months before she starts fantasizing about the next one, searching and craving and driving everyone around her mad with her desire to level up. I’ve often tried to understand what she’s after. It’s not the classic American desire for more (more space, more windows, more clout), and it’s not about how she looks to other people or what her neighborhood says about her place in the pecking order. That’s far too basic a reading of the situation, considering she’s downsized, upsized, and resized in no particular order. She’s dragged our family with her, and the most major fights of my parents’ 44-year relationship have been on this topic (it’s a miracle that they survived the Williamsburg rental with the black lacquered kitchen and faux Warhol wallpaper). Her hunger takes no prisoners (unless you count the guests who had to sleep in the room off the kitchen of our unwinterized farmhouse). I sometimes have trouble differentiating between the exteriors of the homes we’ve lived in and homes we’ve driven by when she took the long way just to get a peek.
