The wedding is over, the thank you cards are nearly done (only 10 more to go!) and the album is nearing completion. So what’s a girl to do with all of that time that she once used to plan, execute and post-mortem? Well, how about house hunting?

That’s right, kids. Looking for a fabulous place to hang our collective hats has become my new hobby. And it is sort of killing me. You see, much like the wedding planning, I feel like Husband is sitting this one out.

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In his defense, he has been working an average of 87 hours a week since we got hitched, but I thought that our chance to literally build a home together would be more of a team effort. Sure, he has opinions — anything with a windowless basement he finds peculiarly inviting (I think he imagines a man room furnished with Buck Hunter and a kegarator). And he schleps to a fair amount of open houses on his limited time off. But there is something about the entire process that makes me feel like I’m functioning in a bizarre space-time continuum. I spend at least an hour a day trolling listings; I have an index of the best mortgage programs; I’ve got the broker on speed-dial and I’m constantly looking for ways to tease our credit. You’d think that I’d welcome this newfound project and embrace the fact that we are moving forward on the Life Plan. But in reality, I feel a little frustrated and alone.

I know Husband is beyond biz. And I know that all of those billable hours translate into bankable duckets for our future, but I thought that the house-buying process would be a conversation, not a monologue. I’m totally fine with doing the prescreen of properties, the dealing with the banks and brokers and the number crunching, but a little more class participation in the entire shebang is welcome.