It Makes My Brown Eyes, Blue

Dating is hard work.

My mother taught me that first impressions are very important. I've always believed that to be true. Which may be why when we pull up to a house on our "to see list" the yard says a lot.

That little, white, angel house we went to look at on Sunday, well, she was so pretty on the outside. Charming. Colorful. Fragrant. Simply lovely. Her price was right too, but her rooms were small. So very, very small. Too small truly. I sighed just a little as we drove away. She'll be the perfect house for a newlywed couple or a single person. She was just not right for us. Sadness.

We stopped by homeless man's house. You may recall that Beloved and I went to look at this one on our own and found a homeless person had kicked in the back door and was residing in that hidden upstairs room. Since we were too early for our second viewing of the four-bedroom farmhouse, Marisa the Marvelous insisted we take a peek inside the homeless man's house.

So. Bad.

I don't think I an describe the horrific condition of that house, other than to say that it's smell may still be clinging to my clothes. Ewww!

The farm house was large and roomy. She featured an old fashioned staircase that led to a roomy upstairs with good sized bedrooms. Her floors were slanty. Her kitchen didn't shout to me. Not to mention that she was way too expensive for us. We're just cheap that way.

Our next date was with a 1915 farmhouse in a small town not too far from work. We didn't expect much. She's so old you know. Yet, there she was. Lovely fenced yard. Neatly trimmed bushes. Covered porch. She smiled sweetly to me as we entered the front door and were greeted by crown molding, lovely arches, and truly vintage light fixtures and electrical switches. My heart went pitter patter.

Then I saw the kitchen.

For me, the deal was sealed. She could have her way with me and she didn't even have to buy me dinner first.

This little house is AMAZING. She's got perfect lines, solid construction, and all the charm that comes with a vintage home that has been lovingly cared for. We poked around the upstairs bedrooms with their slanted ceilings. We investigated the yard, listened to the noise of that busy street, and discovered a crawl space that was roomy and didn't smell of mold or any other hidden nastiness.

The only problem, well there were two actually, she's in short sale (poor dear!) and we are already involved with a short sale. Difficulty number two, well, frankly, she's in a neighborhood that may not be all we'd like. While I think our passports are good, I worry about my little, lovely, blond daughter.

Then again, we own a big dog and a gun.

Our houses are protected by the good Lord and a gun, you might meet both if you show up uninvited son...

Come on, sing it with me...

Anyway, 1915 has become our official second. If our first choice falls through its short sale, we'll offer 1915 our hearts. Just between us, she's already got mine.

Of course, we had two more homes to look at, so off we went.

The next home really spoke to me. It was ugly, ugly, ugly. All the windows were open...to air out the party from the night before I suppose. It stank of beer and something else we couldn't put our fingers on. I was surprised not to smell Mary Jane. I'm pretty sure she must have been there.

The last home on our tour was way out in the middle of no where. I kept saying, "You're kidding," to Beloved who had been so excited to see this one. There wasn't a neighbor in site. Truly, no neighbors. Just acres of weeds. Which would have been okay. I mean, you can always tame a yard, but the house had a few features that made me want to run screaming back to 1915 and never leave.

It smelled. The kitchen was trashed. There was poop on the toilet seat. Seriously, and let's not forget the puddle of dried pee in the hall way.

I think Beloved saw the possibilities of really loud music with no neighbors to complain.

He can live there alone.

I'm going to live in 1915...or...house number one, if either one of them will have me. For now, it's still a waiting game. I don't want to look at any more houses. I don't want to smell those smells or be disappointed. I just want closure. I want drive the U-Haul. I want to complain about how much junk we have as we unpack.

And I want my stomach to stop hurting and to stop rearranging furniture in a house that isn't mine.