In now a reading of Lena Dunham's essay, Lena Dunham finds her happy place from this month's issue of Domino.

My mother is obsessed with real estate, not a casual perusing homes for sale on 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 tutor 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 tutor 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.

It's not about how she looks to other people or what her neighbor 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-lacred 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.

My mother would be mad if this made us sound like we had a lot of money to hurl around.

As artists, sometimes we did and sometimes we didn't,

like the year that Christmas was a tiny newspaper tree, an Indian takeout from 6th Street,

or made her sound like a covetous jerk.

Because she isn't just fantasizing, she has a gift.

When she dreams of a home,

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