I fell in love with a house over the weekend. Well, actually, last week, but it went under contract, but the deal fell through on Friday and it came back on the market. It meets our requirements, is in our price range, would shorten my commute and not make us change church communities (something mom has angled for over the years), and it has this fabulous space for me, separate from hers, that is everything I want and more. A little bit of luxury and privacy in the face of what is a reduction in privacy and little luxuries, for me. Most of the other places we’re looking at don’t offer this feature.
I spent several hours Friday night deeply obsessing over everything in the listing.
It’s in my neighborhood, so I tried to swing by Saturday to see the outside before puppy physical therapy— actually found it after physical therapy, and it’s in a walking friendly neighborhood, so I took the dog out and snooped surreptitiously. From the outside, even more perfect.
I drove by again Saturday night, on my way home from an errand.
I walked by on Sunday, on my way home from an errand, checking out the neighborhood.
Sunday night, after church (and possibly against her will), I brought Mom over (she says it’s “too colorful” because of a red valance in the living room window. I say we’ll take down the valance. Problem solved!) to see the outside. She was impressed, and admitted that she liked what she saw better than she thought she would. It’s possible that she sees how desperately I want THIS ONE. THIS ONE RIGHT HERE! AND NO OTHER!!! I was joking that I was around so often, surreptitiously snooping, that the neighbors were going to call the cops.
Her response was just so funny I had to share it: “You know, there are bad people in the world, people who do bad things, who don’t feel guilty about them. You, you’re like Snow White, and yet you’re guilty about everything! Things that aren’t even things to feel guilty about!”
And then a couple of minutes later, she said: “This is probably my fault. I probably did this to you.”