Adventures of an Urban Homesteader: The Diary of Kendall Whitney

By Brooke L. Davis

After three years under the thumb of a cretinous boss who’s sucked all the joy out of working a 9-to-5 job, twenty-eight-year-old Kendall Whitney has had enough. She
flees San Francisco, her annoying roommates, and her overbearing mother, and takes refuge in Bozeman, Montana, where it feels like the big sky’s the limit.

Safely ensconced in her best friend’s guest room, she promptly launches a three-pronged plan: to live alone for the first time in her life, develop a successful graphic design career, and figure out what she wants in a relationship.

She embarks upon Operation Kendall Independence, only to realize that she doesn’t know the first thing about adulting. Hangovers, homemaking, freelancing, friendships, and modern cowboys bent on monogamy . . . it’s enough to send a single girl running for the gin & tonics.

With self-deprecating charm and endearing humor, Adventures of an Urban Homesteader is the raucous and heartwarming diary of a young woman who’s determined to seek stability and security on her own terms, and to make her own safety net in case she fails.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gallatin River Press
• Release date: Jun 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781662900792

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Published by Gallatin River Press, Highlands Ranch, CO

Copyright © 2020 Brooke L. Davis

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

Print book interior design by Victoria Wolf

Cover design by Brandi McCann

Library of Congress Control Number: 2020906756

Publisher’s Cataloging-In-Publication Data

Names: Davis, Brooke L., author.

Title: Adventures of an urban homesteader : the diary of Kendall Whitney / Brooke L. Davis.

Description: Highlands Ranch, CO : Gallatin River Press, [2020]

Identifiers: ISBN 9781662900785 (Paperback) | ISBN 9781662900792 (eBook)

Subjects: LCSH: Young women--Montana--Bozeman--Fiction. | Single women--Montana--Bozeman--Fiction. | Graphic artists--Montana--Bozeman--Fiction. | Autonomy (Psychology)--Fiction. | Man-woman relationships--Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Romance/ Romantic Comedy. | FICTION / Coming of Age. | FICTION / Women. | LCGFT: Bildungsromans. | Romance fiction.

Classification: LCC PS3604.A95564 A38 2020 (print) | LCC PS3604.A95564 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23

Prologue

Thursday, August 1

San Francisco—My apartment.

Dear Cretinous Toad,

It is with great pleasure that I am now, after three years of putting up with your tirades, nitpicking, and general jackassedness, able to bid you adieu. My last day here at the hellhole known as Patterson Enterprises is today! Best of luck finding my replacement, and may God have mercy on that poor sucker’s soul.

Hugs and kisses always,

Kendall Whitney

That was the resignation letter I wanted to turn in today, but I opted instead for the standard nicely worded two-week notice. After the Toad read it, he sneered at me in his nasal whine as only an insensitive and aggravatingly condescending graphic design manager can.

We’re sorry to have you go, he said.

Right, because all you’ve done the last three years is ignore 80% of my work, pass me over for a promotion, and treat me like I’m some invisible ghost haunting the far cubicle. Maybe it’s the upcoming cloudy winter. Maybe it’s PMS. All I know is I’m done. I’m done with crappy bosses and working insane hours for nothing. I’m done with flighty men, a flightier mother, living with an ever-revolving cast of hyperactive anal-retentive roommates, and not having two minutes alone in my own private space. I’m done with big-city living. It’s time to move to Montana!

It’s taken me six long and conflicted years to realize that what I really want is independence. And to have independence, it’s entirely impossible to live in San Fran—or possibly even in the same galaxy—as my mother. I love the woman, I truly do, but sometimes I wonder how we’re related. Despite Dad’s massively successful real estate career, and the lifestyle it continues to afford her post-divorce, she still lives in Delusionland, where being married equals security. Without a man and his money, she’s lost, which is why she’s convinced that my sister, Hannah, and I will be lost, too, if we don’t get married. She also deems my brother, Josh, a lost cause because he doesn’t have a stable job. She needlessly frets about him even though he’s always employed and has more of a life than Hannah and I do.

I have no illusions that marrying the One equals security, and no interest in sacrificing myself on the altar of thankless jobs. Because of this, Mom thinks I’m lazy, crazy, and not taking my future seriously. I don’t know if there is a One or if I want to get married and have kids. I don’t know if I’d like living alone, but I have to try, because I can’t take noisy roommates arguing, having sex, or feigning psychotic breakdowns at all hours anymore. I started my own business, but it’s floundering because I haven’t had time to build it. I don’t know if I’ll like being my own boss, but commuting to my kitchen wearing jammies sounds like high-quality #workgoals.

There’s so much I don’t know, and there’s no way for me to find out by living in San Fran because all I do is deal with family drama and work forty-seven hours a day, which leaves no time for an actual life.

I’m launching Operation Kendall Independence in Bozeman, Montana, with fifty thousand people, a university, and the support of my best friend. I will hereby conquer the following obstacles:

Obstacle 1—Housing: I will successfully live alone, ideally in a real house.

Obstacle 2—Employment: I will expand my freelance graphic design business and eventually stop working for The Man.

Obstacle 3—Men: I will (finally) figure out what I want in a relationship.

I’ll also need to make a plan for when this escapade falls apart and I have to crawl back to San Fran. I have no permanent home, no job, and no relationship prospects, but I will be successful beyond words, because really, how hard can it be? (Maybe I should add overcoming delusion and denial to my list of goals, because I clearly inherit those tendencies from Mom. Moving on.)

August:

What the Hell Have I Done?

Sunday, August 19

Nowhere, Nevada—Cheap motel room. I’m exhausted and have stopped for the night one day outside of Bozeman. I cannot wait to be out of this lizard-harboring dust-storm-smothered burnt-to-a-crisp wasteland of a state.

My startled yet enthusiastic college bestie, Vanessa, greenlighted me moving in with her after I shared my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants plan to land a part-time job, expand my freelance business, and live on my own. Housing isn’t as tight as it used to be in Bozeman, but it is expensive. I’ll need two incomes plus the little money I’ve saved to get my own place, all of which may require divine intervention.

Van has a new roommate moving in on November 15, and because I’d rather not live in a cardboard box on the sidewalk in potentially subzero weather, I have to get my act together and find both the job and house pronto. Right now I just want to be there and get this independence party started.

Wednesday, August 21

Bozeman—Vanessa’s house. I’ve awakened to the faint scent of pine in the light and airy guest room of Vanessa’s small rented Victorian after the most peaceful sleep in ages. The view of her wood-fenced backyard is calming and quaint: a lounge chair tucked under a giant oak tree, clusters of multicolored flowers, and a few finches helping themselves to water in a tiny concrete birdbath.

Last night, after she and I lamented my horrid box pile and the current brain-melting near-100° heatwave, I sat on the bed, my brain spinning with what could be. What could I do with time-freedom, and the ability to make my own schedule? I’ll still be working serious hours to expand my business, but instead of dreading it, I’m excited; without the time-wasting, useless meetings or the Toad hovering and criticizing, I’ll be building something meaningful and completely mine.

Living alone should be an adventure in relief and freedom, and though I’m not actively looking to date, I’m curious about the men here. Van has mentioned in the past that Bozeman continues to grow, and I’m wondering what that means for the dating pool.

I’m already feeling saner than I ever did in San Fran (which is probably because I only have three freelance clients, am basically unemployed, and am sponging off Van). I’m instead writing the relaxed feeling off to being out of the Land of Toad and in the land of mountains and fresh air.

Thursday, August 22

Van and I were out last night with a couple of her guy friends, and my head is pounding, thanks to the remnants of altitude change and the impact of one too many gin and tonics. I don’t drink, so I probably should’ve stopped at one, but I had four instead. Never again.

The cast of characters: Van; Rich, a wonderfully fun and conversational gay guy who reminded me of a plaid-shirt-wearing older version of my easygoing brother; and Mike, a clean-cut, engaging, and polite Bozeman native studying ranch management whose last name I should remember but can’t, thanks to alcohol-induced brain fog.

Mike is a fourth-generation cattle rancher whose family has lived in the Gallatin Valley since God was a boy. Rich is a landscape architect who moved here from the East to go to school and never left. Both of them offered to help me get settled, and when I mentioned I needed a place to live, Rich winked and said he might have a lead.

Barely awake from my 2 p.m. nap, I’m plastered on the leather couch. I’m not the picture of career ambition, thanks to recovering from the toxic Toad workplace and exhaustion from driving through Nevada. My head feels like I haven’t removed the band from my long ponytail in days, and when I do I’m afraid half of my hair will go along with it. My incessant shedding combined with Van’s Barbie-blonde strays should be enough to make our vacuum roller look like a skunk pelt.

I’ve ignored four texts from Mom, who’s undoubtedly wanting to vent over her current man-of-the-moment drama.

Note to Self and Mother: Don’t divorce someone after almost thirty years, have a fling with a younger man, and then expect sympathy when the fling goes horribly awry.

Saturday, August 24

Damn these blasted black and white birds and their early morning squawking! They’ve woken me up the last two days, and I’m over it. Van enlightened me yesterday; they’re magpies, and thanks to the city being infested with them, I can look forward to being rudely awakened by their outbursts from now on.

I enjoyed a non-date work-related dinner last night with Mike, the clean-cut rancher. He’s twenty-five and struck me as cowboy with a modern edge, which I found mysteriously attractive. Having never been around cowboys, I expected stoic conservatism, but his vibe was more contemporary. His vision is to evolve his family’s cattle business by melding history with twenty-first-century technology and brand awareness.

Without the power of gin and tonic, I came off as intelligent and capable when we chatted about the cattle-themed logo he needs for a school presentation. I didn’t mention my mortal fear of hoofed ungulates and tried to encourage a Let’s develop the project from pictures approach vs. a Why don’t you come out to the ranch and take a look at the animals? approach. I’m more of a dog and cat person; fish, ideally. I’m praying I don’t end up hip-deep in cow shit to make a buck on this project.

The doorbell rang late this morning and in bounced the most darling little girl holding an egg carton.

Nessa, look! Eggs! she exclaimed.

After giggling over Van’s new nickname, I noticed the munchkin was dressed as if a crayon box had exploded onto her. She had on lime green crocs, a hot pink dress, and a blue headband holding back the biggest mess of light brown corkscrew curls. Luckily the eggs were in a carton. Otherwise, they’d have been all over the hardwood floor.

Van introduced me to Lila, who bounced up and down on her tiptoes, and her lovely young mother, Annalise, our next-door neighbors. Annalise shook my hand with unexpected enthusiasm and said to stop by if I ever needed anything. After they left, Van explained the tragic story of how Annalise’s husband died of cancer two years ago at twenty-seven, leaving her with little Lila. Diagnosis to death was less than a year.

But you’d never know Annalise is a widow, Van said as she set the eggs in the fridge. She’s usually so upbeat, and can you imagine, she’s only twenty-five. Lila’s such a sweetheart. She was jumping around today, but she’s really pretty well-behaved. I don’t know how Annalise takes care of Lila and manages her job as a nurse. Her parents live in town, but still, that’s a lot to handle.

After Van excused herself, I stood in the living room for several minutes, gobsmacked by the idea of having a four-year-old at twenty-five. I then tried and failed to wrap my brain around being married at twenty-one and losing my husband at twenty-three.

The responsibility of having and raising a tiny human feels overwhelming. Once I throw in the implosion of my parents’ marriage, and now the possibility of spousal death, I’m pretty confident I’m going to pass on procreation altogether. Unlike my sister, Hannah, who is twenty-five and dying to get married, I’m not sure I want to have a spouse at all. (Although Mike is tipping the scales back toward the uncomfortable maybe part of the fence I’m sitting on, all while trying not to get splinters in my backside as I slide along it.)

Sunday, August 25

Sleeping with a pillow over my head drowned out the magpies, ceiling fan, and my alarm, and I woke with a start to find I’d missed four texts and three calls from Mom. After I rehydrate, I will tackle the beast that is her obsessiveness.

The fantastic smell wafting up from the kitchen made me wonder if Van was cooking with some of the eggs Lila brought over, and sure enough, I discovered pancakes and a veggie scramble in the fridge.

With Van away on a hike, I took a deep breath and dialed Mom.

Good morning, Kendall, nice of you to call, she said, sounding only half as irritated as I’d expected, given how long I’d avoided her.

Hi, Mom, how are you? Sorry it’s taken me so long to call. Moving was busy.

Well, I’m panicking, dear. The money’s running low, and I don’t get a payment from the settlement for another seventeen days.

The woman has been on the same income schedule for three years and cannot for the life of her figure out how to make money stretch. In addition to her money woes, she wanted to gripe about Dad, but I cut her off. Instead, she breathlessly updated me on Hannah, whose man of the moment is an investment banker and sounds like quite the catch.

Haven’t they all? I secretly wish the man would marry my sister and they’d spit out triplets so my mother could focus on grandbabies instead of my apparent life and career shortcomings.

Mom asked whether I was enjoying my new job, as if being here four days is long enough to have magically conjured twenty-seven freelance clients and landed a part-time gig. I assured her things were moving along.

I ended it with my most recent fellow, she said. I thought I might like dating someone younger for a change, but he was too young. Forty-six and all. Seven years is too much of an age difference. We didn’t have enough in common, and he was very fond of his phone. What is it with you young people and those phones?

We tend to like our tech, Mom, and you may be living in the wrong city to find someone who isn’t attached to one of their devices.

Speaking of devices, she twittered. I bought my first vibr—

I have to go, Mom, I’m glad you’re well.

I didn’t wait for a goodbye and smashed the End Call button. Ick! Secret fan of them as I am, I cannot have the device conversation with my mother. Mom’s poor ex-boyfriend. I hope she didn’t try to use her new device on him.

Thursday, August 29

Mike and I had a spectacularly successful meeting at a downtown coffeehouse this afternoon about his logo project. A brief wave of anticipation hit me when he asked what I was doing this weekend. I thought he might ask me out, but he mentioned it was Labor Day and wondered if Van and I would like to get sushi with Rich and someone named Ashley.

I graciously accepted his invitation but was disappointed at not being asked out on a proper date. I can’t put my finger on it, but the man intrigues me. He pulled out my chair at the table and then held the door for me as we entered and exited the coffeehouse, all of which were appreciated.

I’m proud of myself for landing my first local gig but realized on my way home that we didn’t discuss pricing. This is an outrageous oversight and something I’ve never done before with a client. I need to get the scoop on him from Van and ask him out. Or maybe that’s not how things work here with modern cowboys. Either way, the man has a certain irresistible charm, and I need to be charmed.

Friday, August 30

I enjoyed an excellent sushi dinner this evening, made a new friend, and am basking in victory. Not only did I meet Ashley Thompson, a web designer, but she turned into my new local BFF (other than Van, of course) by:

inviting me to a rustic cabin in Bridger Canyon for a long weekend in mid September

inviting me to her gym to help me acclimate to the altitude, and

most amazingly, whispering that she would recommend me to her boss when the firm where she works opens up a part-time position in the near future.

Ashley is a pixie-sized sprite from Wyoming with cropped blonde hair and sparkling blue eyes who exuded a sense of calm yet spontaneous yoga-loving energy. I cleaned myself up before I went out, but my demeanor may have said Sad and desperate new girl in town needs a job, which could’ve been why Ashley took pity on me. I’m ignoring that thought and am confident my soft-pitch explanation of ecotourism and boutique hospitality graphic design experience moved her to the decision.

I ended up internally stewing in the restaurant over why I felt torn about committing to a part-time job, then realized I’ve become enamored with sleeping in and having no responsibility. Laziness, not a stellar entrepreneur trait. I wanted a longer break to decompress from my move and former stressful work environment, but I can’t stay at Van’s until the Rapture or be a slug too much longer.

I pulled Mike aside before I left and promised him a mockup of his cattle logo by Thursday. I then sheepishly admitted we’d forgotten to talk about price. He apologized, when in all honesty, it was my fault, and we settled on a discounted student/Friends and Family rate. Forgetting to set a price for services is a surefire way to go out of business, but it was really code for I want to date him, and my brain was addled.

September:

Bull Balls and Bisquick

Monday, September 2—Labor Day

Altitude is a bitch, and she continued to kick my ass yesterday. Before I go hiking again, I must buy real hiking shoes to prevent blisters, and looser pants to avoid chafing in unfortunate places. I want to exercise more here than I did at home (the irony, I can embrace healthy living here, but not in San Francisco) but had no idea the price

Reviews for Adventures of an Urban Homesteader

[Nikolaj Carter · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Very good book couldn’t put it down at all!! Loved it!!