Friday, July 22, 2011

I'm the luckiest bitch in the world.

So all of that went down in early April. April 3, to be exact, was the first time I saw the house. And loved it, and knew we'd never get it.

Resigned, I went home and made a list of the final things that needed to happen to our house. I had the wheels in motion to get our loan worked out, and I went back to the real estate listings in hopes of finding something else that didn't make me want to cut myself in the next month or so.

It's nerve-wracking, the notion that you can find "the house" and not have your sold. Or, possibly worse, sell your house and not have "the house" picked out to move into. I was trying not to think about it. I regularly called Lindsey and Adam over to console me with wine and help me stay motivated to pack boxes for storage. But it felt hollow and futile.

I obsessively checked Craigslist every day to see if the house was still available. I emailed the seller love notes and sweet nothings several times a week, in hopes of softening him to the idea of a contingent contract.

The house remained for sale, and all hope was not lost, but the seller wasn't budging. He needed a real offer from someone who wasn't backing out.

And then, one day, there was a knock at my front door. Thinking it was Mr. Meat and Potatoes who was supposed to be outside mowing the lawn and who I figured probably had his hands full of god-knows-what and wanted me to help him with something I didn't want to help with, seeing as I had a toddler underfoot and hot dinner on the stove, I threw open the door and before I even looked up I said "WHAT?"

And there stood a nice old man, looking rather sorry he'd ever chosen this door upon which to knock.

I recognized this man as the one who walked his old black dog up and down our street every night with his son. We'd been waving cordially for the better part of five years, but we had never spoken, beyond "It's a hot one!" or "Cold enough for ya?"

And so, embarrassed at my outburst and the state of my living room, I invited him in.

He told me he had heard through the neighborhood grapevine we wanted to sell the house, and he thought he might like to buy it.

And then an 85 year old man picked me up off the floor of my own living room, and offered to call 911.


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