Please let the house we looked at today show no major issues at inspection.

Becuase if I have to come up here (really it’s better to house hunt when you have a chance to go to your seperate corners.) and look at one more house with that man that I married of my own free will and volition, of sound mind and body, of… well you get the picture… I am going to kill him.

Kill him dead.

We’ve worked our way through the stages of home perusal.  

Step 1: Opening the discussion of purchasing a grown up house instead of renting yet another crappy apartment filled with crappy furniture that reminds one of their college glory days.

Step 2: Gaze dreamingly into each other’s eyes as you discuss all the fabulous things you are going to do with said grown up house.

Step 3: Realize that the house you see in your partner’s eyes looks nothing like the house in your eyes.

Step 4: Shake it off as you both really just want whats best for you as a family.

Step 5: Start scouring every possible online listing you can find.

Step 6: Wonder out loud how anyone expects to sell something without providing pictures.  What on earth could be so bad that they couldn’t take a picture of it?  (It should be noted that one of the houses we went to see that had not provided pictures ended up not having a floor in the master bath shower and the surrounding floor was falling into the subsequent sinkhole.)

Step 7: Hook up with a realtor.  This is a tricky step because when you do hook up with the realtor you just might find yourself back at step 2: Gaze dreamingly into each other’s eyes for a brief moment.  However, I assure that this relapse is momentary because the first time that you hear your spouse say “Why on earth do you need a formal dining room?” you will find yourself hurtling towards step 8.

Step 8: Come to the bitter realization that your fear back in step 3 was completely justified.

Step 9: Hate every house you see.

Step 10: Start hating your realtor.

Step 11: Start hating your spouse.

Step 12: Start hating life.

Step 13: Start hating the kid who does the Welch’s commercial- no not Alton Brown, I’m talking about back when they had the cute little kids talking about grape juice.  You now hate them.  Yes even the blond little girl who did the commercials a little while back.  You don’t know why, you just do.  All you can see is that kid traipsing around the non-existant now ruined in your mind’s eye forever, house of your dreams staining every possible surface with that grape juice and my god why won’t they just sit down at the table in your fabulous eat-in kitchen which is nestled nicely inbetween a family room, not a living room- those are two seperate space, and a formal dining room.  WHY?  WHY CAN’T THEY REALIZE THAT THEY NEED TO BE OUTSIDE IN A FENCED IN BACKYARD THAT DOES NOT INCLUDE A DRIVEWAY?  DON’T THEY KNOW THAT THE DOGS WILL RUN FREE AND MORE THAN LIKELY BE RUN OVER BY SOME HEARTLESS BITCH IN A CAMARO AND THEY WILL DIE ALONE ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD?  AND THAT WOULD HAVE NEVER HAPPENED IF THERE HAD JUST BEEN HARDWOOD FLOORS INSTEAD OF CARPET?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!?!

Step 14: Come to grips with your hatred of Camaros.  Really the car has never done anything to you.

Step 15: Walk into a house (on the same day that it snows in southern Georgia for the first time in 10 years) and realize that it is possible that this stranger you find yourself married to just might be the same one you married and holy crap you just might be able to live with them in this house.  

Step 16: Put in an offer and pray to god that the inspection comes back all right.

Step 17: Write a blog post- using it as your therapy outlet.

Step 18: Apologize to all innocent bystanders.  

Step 19: Go back home and start packing up the college dorm crap for Goodwill because you are back in a grown up house!

Caveat:  The steps involved with packing/moving/unpacking are similiar but involve more bungee cords, cuss words, and mother in law putdowns. 

I don’t know if it was obvious or not- but I’m currently around Step 17.

It’s a day to day process.

Please help me dearest baby Jesus.

Love,

Amanda