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.