After two arduous, seven-day white-knuckle weeks, Kerry and I found a house. Yes, it had been an exhausting and sometimes brutal ordeal but we finally – finally – have our place. A house. H-O-U-S-E. In Snoop: A hizz-ouse in tha hizz-ouse.
Two weeks. Never in a lentillion years would we have ever imagined it over that quickly. I expected weeks and weeks – months, maybe – of ups and downs and downs and downs. We always considered the odds were equal that it could happen in April just as easily as it could in September. Or next year. But neither of us were prepared for it to actually happen.
Item! Our house – in the middle of the street – is at 157 Lenore Street (above, not the greatest quality image, but it's all I've got for now). It was built in 1911. It has two stories with a tiny, single-room third floor and a front screened-in verandah. It has a parlor with a gas fireplace. A bathroom with two sinks – for teeth-brushing races (I dunno?). A yard. Two yards. I haven't had a yard for eleven years. Do people still have yards? I know there was a trend towards artificial turf in the early 90s. I think ours is natural.
My friend Stacey, a recent house-purchaser herself, asked me the other day if I had the "Oh Shit" feeling. And it's true. All week Kerry and I have slept poorly, ate crappily and have spent a great deal of time staring at each other.
But today is beautiful and sunny. I wrapped up the deadline-heavy spring issue of my magazine. And I'm about to become a homeowner. I've officially turned the "Oh Shit" feeling into a "Holy Shit" one.
We get to go inside – to live – in July.
So that calls for some props. Let the congratulations rain down!