I sit and think sometimes about running away. About packing a bag, heading to the airport and grabbing a ticket to anywhere. Usually in my little daydreams, it’s Ireland on a bottomless budget and I never come back. I have fabulous carefree hair (with curls) and a thin fabric scarf and a pile of books in a leather satchel and a big old silly dog I’ve collected along the way that accompanies me everywhere.

Yesterday, I spent a lot of time with that fantasy, kicked off when The Mc got from our real estate agent yesterday morning, which began something like this: “Good morning!” “I have terrible news!”

Oy.

We aren’t the only people who fell in love with the house (even though I fell in love two weeks ago, I mean really, what is wrong with them? Can’t they see I’m clearly committed to the house? How rude.) and we aren’t the only people who made an offer this weekend. In fact, two other people made offers, the sellers have selected who they’re going to work with, and it’s not us.

My self esteem is in the toilet. Did I do something wrong? Did I have a boog? Do I offend? Was it my potty mouth or was it the being mean to Sarah on the playground in 3rd grade coming back to haunt me? Did they find my blog? Do they not like us because we aren’t married and don’t have/want kids?

*sigh*

We’ve accepted the jagged painful shard of truth being jammed in our hearts after a not-so-healthy dose of mourning, whining, cursing, pouting, and blaming. I’m pretty sure we covered most of the phases of grief in spades and a sprint. We had a wee wake and consumed the better part of a jumbo bottle of red wine, reminiscing about how lovely the house was, recounting our visits and it’s adorable quirky qualities and how we’re going to miss it. Then talked about which apartments I need to go look at tomorrow on my “day off”, ate some stupid yummy frozen pizza (all I remember is garlic and bacon…) and passed out before 8pm.

Everything happens for a reason. There is clearly an even more fabulous house waiting for us, even if it’s as hard for me to fathom that such a thing could exist any more than I can imagine myself liking prison. Hm. Then again, I’d have plenty of time to knit and read…

The anti-Barbie dream house must be out there somewhere, because here we are. Here we are on the verge of saving mortgage money by paying rent at a fraction of the amount, cowering at the threat of moving twice, and taking our sweet southern summer time waiting for it to be time. Waiting for it to be not too hard, not too soft, but just right.

Oh, and BTW…whoever said there’s a housing crisis [in Atlanta] is full of dirty kitty litter and old lady roll down knee high pantyhose. So there.

We made an offer – on a totally different house than we intended to on Friday – and now we’re waiting.

They have until Monday afternoon to accept/counter, and I’m [still] dreading the possibility of being “homeless” and finding an apartment to bridge whatever transition gap may loom.

The house we’re hoping for was one we looked at two weeks ago, a house I fell in love with immediately, and a house it took The Mc a few weeks to recognize the value of in comparison with other houses in the price range/neighborhood with similar or lesser amenities. It’s a bit more than what we originally intended to spend, but would/will be worth every cent. Better investment, better structure, less hassle on the whole. It means The Cabin plan and dates get adjusted a bit, but that’s worth the change and investment as well.

Here she is:

Regardless of what happens with the offer, we close on The Big House May 23rd and I’m starting to say goodbye. Goodbye to The Big House , the burbs, the commute, the hill up to the house that mocks me, the glow of the green in the back yard when it rains, the basement we never use and the glass shower I’ll never have to clean again. Maybe the most remarkable part is that I’m only mildly freaking out about all the logistics that await my time/energy/patience…

via email from my auntie:

Paddy has not lost his sense of humor, recently he was in the exercise room on a bed with three women, all exercising at the same time. When he got back to his room the nurse asked how his therapy went and he said “that’s the least amount of fun I have had in bed with three women” needless to say it went around the floor in about five minutes, if not around the whole hospital. He took a huge teasing over that. He is doing very well.

Thanks to everyone who spent a moment manifesting a happy thought.

Yesterday morning I saw five more houses. Ones that smelled like old vitamins, one that had a single closet in the entire house – in the hall, two new construction (eh…no thanks), one that didn’t have a silent room in the entire place (sometimes a great location is a bad location), one that had great kitchen cabinets, one with the original clawfoot tub. I ruled most of them out. For you? I created a Flickr set I haven’t had much time to add to, maybe later. It’s aptly titled: FAIL.

I did like one that The Mc had on his short list. One. The one with the portal to hell that reminds me of Threes Company of The Love Boat. The one that is neither Craftsman style or brick…but I liked it anyway. Damn it.

It’s being rehabbed by a woman I hope to resemble in thirty more years, she’s abrupt and sassy and remarkably stylish on the job site. Is that possible? That fact that it’s still in progress means I still have options. Control. The ability to put my touch on it. I like control, and it’s been a stranger lately.

Last night and this morning The Mc – despite having raved about the house two days ago – is rubbing his forehead, squinting at pictures and saying things like “where will all your books go” and “where does the garbage can go” , researching the standard width of galley style kitchens and otherwise asking a lot of other good questions that are driving me batshitcrazy. I don’t want to move twice, to move into an apartment while we look for the perfect house that doesn’t exist for the price we’re talking about. I don’t want it because I’d be the one responsible for all the logistics, because he doesn’t love change like I do. It gives him a rash.

Our agent has drawn up an offer that I don’t entirely agree with, and we’re meeting the seller/tough sassy older rehabbe-r at the house at noon.

The back yard…it goes on for miles.

Oy.

The one day The Mc goes out with our agent all by himself, he finds four houses he’d be willing to make an offer on.

Go figure.

I’m going to meet her this morning to question his judgment.

Think happy thoughts, and come back later. There will most assuredly be pictures.

Lemme give it to you straight.

If your momma never taught you to clean up after yourself and to have a tidy house for guests, that’s one thing. Maybe you were raised by a pack of High Life guzzling, ball scratching men with failing livers and an unhealthy affinity for bleach blondes with blue eye shadow and chests that remind you of rocks in socks. But you probably weren’t. And even if you were, I know for a fact you own a TV. I’ve seen it in your sty, and along with the tell tale dent in the couch directly across from it – it was still warm. Which means you’re probably not oblivious to the likes of HGTV, or one of the other half gaziilion channels with programming about how to sell your house. In fact, I also saw a computer in your “home office”, and a blinking router. That means you have access to them thar interwebs and could have done some homework ala Al Gore. You know. Research. On how to get top dollar for your house.

No? You’ve never thought of such a thing?

Well shucks. Then let me make it E-Z for you with my uber simple patent pending list of how not to waste a buyers time.

- Smoking in your house is probably not a great idea. It’s spring, your house is for sale. Go outside.
- Maybe clean the 15 years of cat hair collection memorabilia off your fabric window coverings
- Hide the Rogaine and fifteen other bottles of crap in your shower. Do not showcase the lack of space by propping them all up on the towel bar.
- Clean the toothpaste crust out of your sink.
- Scrub your shower. If you can’t, hire someone to do it for you.
- Get a foundation guy to come by and put a new brace under the dining room floor so I can’t feel the sinkhole/hear your china rattling when I walk across the room.
- Put up some screens on your roof line where the squirrels have been crawling in. This is Atlanta. They’re as plentiful as pollen and in all the same places.
- If you know the cellar has a leak, disclose it. Leaving the wet vac out with it’s nozzle in a puddle doesn’t count.
- Once upon a time you thought lavender was a good color for a room, or that “white washing” a door with primer was artsy. You were wrong. Spend the $100 to correct your mistake.
- Clean up all that crap from home improvement projects gone wrong from under the garage.
- I have no need for your old hangers, paint, broken clothes rods, BBQ or tacky azz wardrobe. If you’re going to vacate the house, take all your crap with you.

Hmmm…what am I forgetting…