Last night, I found myself playing air guitar and lip-synching as I unloaded the dishwasher. Happiness, you see, is the picture of the backyard attached to the house that Working Mom looked at yesterday, which she fell in love with.
Here’s what you would have witnessed in our kitchen last night:
I’m a bitch, I’m a lover
[I’m a drinking glass and a spatula]
I’m a child, I’m a mother
[Spoon spoon spoon and a teaspoon too]
I’m a sinner, I’m a saint
[Four plates with one hand]
I do not feel ashamed…
[To sing into the ladle]
It was a little disconcerting to discover myself in such a compromising position, but the house just seems to fit us, y’know? It’s not showy or large, but it is…
- A block away from hiking trails (in San Francisco!).
- A block away from a bus stop.
- A ten-minute walk from a playground.
- A fifteen-minute walk from a nice grocery store
- In a neighborhood named for one of those classics of old English literature that call to mind chivalry and fairies, and…
- I’m not telling you anything else because you’ll come here and try to buy the house from under us, I swear you will.
And, as if all that weren’t enough,
- The backyard has a huge blackberry vine. (Boo loves blackberries, you’ll remember?)
Now, of course, we have to manage to extricate ourselves from our horrifying cotenancy, raise a down payment that would choke a horse (if horses ate down payments, that is), and successfully bid on the new spot. So I’m counting on y’all out there for some good juju: Cross fingers! Knock on wood! Burn smudge and chant and dance around idols! (Or just think good thoughts. Not quite as spooky, but still much appreciated.)