I know, I know. I’ve been unforgivably crap at posting for the past mumble mumble months, cruelly teasing that something enormous was amiss when I bothered to post at all, and then fading back into oblivion with nary a peep.
It was a raw deal, and if I were on the other end of it, I would have been anxious, and then annoyed, and ultimately, I think I would have completely lost interest.
But I’m hoping that apathy has not found too firm a grasp…because I am (finally) able to tell you what’s going on. (Here’s a hint…)
It’s a house. More specifically, it’s my house. As in the-house-that-I-now-own. Whaaaaaaat?
If you’ve been hanging around these parts for any length of time, you may remember that I listed out thirty things I hoped to do before I turned 30. Number 20 on that list was ‘Buy a house.’ In all honesty, I figured that would take far longer than, say, going to the Newseum (a far more manageable goal…which I still haven’t done, by the way).
But then I found this house. Oh, this house.
True story: I stalked the internet for months trying to find the right house, but in the end, I only looked at one. This one.
I was a goner pretty much the moment I walked into the dining room, which is the second room I saw. It was kind of pitiful, actually. But I knew. And I’m willing to throw down a When Harry Met Sally reference to prove it…(or does no one else get that?)
This house reminded me of some deep, comfortingly familiar place inside me. It is an amalgam of every old house I ever spent time in growing up.
With each new room I entered, I wanted to sit down on the floor and daydream. (With the possible exception of the master bedroom, which is the victim of some particularly hideous wallpaper…like big pink pineapples exploded all over the place—you can kind of see it there in the background, but it is quite mercifully washed out, otherwise I couldn’t vouch for the safety of your retinas.)
I have MamaPen to thank/blame for this house. One day she says to me, “I was driving down the lake, and I saw a for sale sign.” I (wisely, and quite accurately) replied, “If it’s on the way down the lake, it’s probably out of my price range.” But I couldn’t stop myself from trying to find the listing, just out of curiosity.
(When I relayed this to her just after I had made an offer on the house, she smiled like the freaking Mona Lisa and said, “I know,” and then proceeded to explain that she knew as soon as she passed the house that it was My House, but she couldn’t tell me that or I wouldn’t have considered it. Wily woman. Seriously, though…how do mothers know these things?!?)
((Also, MamaPen is a real estate ninja. I followed her counsel when making the initial offer, deathly afraid the sellers would tell me to eff off. But they didn’t. Which is how I was able to afford it.))
I’m not going to lie…the process of buying this house was painful (though I am assured by friends that this is standard). But every time I got really overwhelmed by the enormity and stress of the whole thing, I would imagine myself walking through the empty house…no furniture or anything, just the house. And it soothed me.
This house. Oh, this house. It feels like home in a way I’ve never experienced, because it is a home entirely on my own terms. This house is the way I want my life to be.