The move was a debacle of gross proportions, starting with movers who should have been done with us in four hours, but were cut loose after eight, leaving us with countless trips to complete on our own. *le sigh*

The loft is wonderful and bright and just the right size (with the exception of cabinet space in the kitchen maybe). The perfect amount of space if you don’t consider the obstacle course of wood on my side of the bed which has the following borrowed from Beetlejuice and slightly modified words on loop in my head:

“If we don’t put the bed together tomorrow night / before you leave town for the weekend, I’m going to go insane and I’m going to TAKE YOU WITH ME.”

Cupcakes fix [almost] everything.

If only I’d eaten them and not just shot them through a window during a photostroll with Paulie.

The Mc’s new wheels have arrived…

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.

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.

The Mc has a Man Cold. Again.

I swear he’s sick at least once a month, and since my memory can’t be trusted (don’t ask what I had for dinner last night) he gets to argue I’m wrong.

From now on, when he sniffles, coughs, or whines at all about not feeling “well”, I’m blogging it. Documentation and photographic evidence are the best tools for an argument with the PFL.