The Bigger They Get

When One sells a house it’s always a good idea to have somewhere to move TO, especially when One has to hit the bricks in say, oh, 30 DAYS.

Thus, if One is smart, One begins house hunting immediately which One has been doing compulsively for two years already, but now it’s time to actually VISIT some of the places One has been stalking online.  So One undertakes a journey, meets with a Realtor, and visits the three most promising homes currently available in One’s price range.

And then, if One is me and Yes,Dear (which I guess, technically, would be Two), One chooses to make an offer on the only house of the three One likes and the one, apparently, whose owners appear to disagree, now that they have an offer,  about whether they actually want to sell.

And One sits and twiddles One’s thumbs, all four of them, and taps One’s feet – and I don’t mean gentle tapping; picture instead Michael Flatley of Lord of the Dance – waiting for a response to One’s offer while the property owners debate whether to actually sell the property they apparently agreed to put on the market over two months ago.

One is stressing.  One is overeating.  One is playing game after game of Spider Solitaire.  One is constantly checking for voice mails and/or emails from One’s Realtor.

One should be packing and hiring movers so One is prepared in very short order to move to…

Yeah, exactly.

It’s not even as if this is a super great house.  It is a good house.  It has good bones.  It needs some cosmetics, but nothing too far outside One’s skills and abilities and hopefully within One’s budget.

But THAT VIEW.

One would live in a BOX to wake up to that every morning.

One needs a drink.

This entry was posted on Tuesday, December 16th, 2008 at 8:26 pm and is filed under Hell in a Handbasket. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.