I am home. Not by choice, but home never the less. One of the ways I try to fill my days is to be a homemaker. Sometimes that means, however rarely, that I clean. Other times that can be defined by cooking. I get enthused a couple of times a week and actually come up with a meal plan. More often than not, it means I will do laundry and look at decorating websites and blogs. Literally a homemaker is what I’ve become. I used to love to look at real estate, but that is hopeless as an unemployed person. Only slightly less hopeless is to look at decorating and trying to figure out how I will transform the space I live in to something classic with quirks, or down to earth glam, or eclectic with a traditional twist, sometimes modern with bumper corners to soften the edge, sophisticated with a sense of humor. It seems that while I try to figure out who the hell am I professionally, I also struggle with what’s my personal style. I look at couches and pillows and art and drool thinking how that particular piece found in a consignment store for just the right price would complete my home, and therefore my life. I look at lovely large bursting works of art and think my talented children- artists themselves- should be able to recreate those pieces as demonstration of their gratitude for creating them. Yet still I here I sit, home. My walls and me are temporarily stuck in the aspirational stage.