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.