Today, while raking up six yard waste bags and three trash cans worth of leaves, I wondered what apartment rent prices were running these days. Having a house can be such a pain in the ass sometimes. So I forced myself to think of a happier memory: like the day we first came and saw this house.
I had poured over internet listings for weeks. Steve and I picked our ten favorite houses. Our realtor told us to meet her at our favorite house. “But I do have some bad news: it was sold yesterday.” For some insane reason, she still wanted us to come look at it; to compare to other houses and because, you never know, it could fall through. Right.
So we pulled up to what is now our driveway and waited. We looked at the perfect yard and mourned that someone beat us to it. We waited and waited. Finally, Steve called her. “I’m at the house, where are you guys?” she asked. We were already at our favorite house. She thought our favorite was a different one. She hadn’t met me yet and didn’t know I would want the house that was the
most expensive biggest newest best. She probably thought we’d be picking on charm and affordability and other bull shit like that.
So we went and met her at our second favorite house and toured house upon house until we finally ended up right where we started: at our favorite one. And now it is our’s in all it’s glory: the millions of leaves, the leaky water heater, the air ducts with dead mice in them (we got those sucked out last week). But I don’t think I would trade it for anything, because despite all that, it’s Home Sweet Home. Because we couldn’t afford a brand new mansion and for that reason only. We had to settle for one that was affordable and had charm.