I am now obsessed with buying a new house. If I could spend all of my time on redfin and themls I would, I so would, in a heartbeat I would. This morning I drove by a house in a neighborhood I don’t even love because I saw the kitchen sink online, and the kitchen sink is TO DIE FOR. And I thought, well, maybe I’d get used to the neighborhood. Maybe with a kitchen sink like that, I’d forget that there are no hills around here, and I can’t get to a freeway to save my life. Maybe I wouldn’t mind being sandwiched between two busy streets, and does the weird dead-endy thing at the end of the road REALLY matter? With a kitchen sink like that, would I even notice?
But then I got to work and the internet showed me another house, an old Victorian with an exterior ballroom. Yeah. You read that right. A room in the back yard JUST FOR THROWING BALLS! (Meaning dress-up dancy parties. Or round bouncy things. Round bouncy things would probably throw very well in this room.) Do you have any idea how many balls I would’ve thrown in the last ten years IF I HAD A BALLROOM?
So. Many. Balls.
And then there’s the medieval castle-looking house… and the craftsman with the built in window seat, and who doesn’t love a good window seat, I mean, really, is there anything better than a window seat on a rainy day?
No. No, I say. There is, in fact, nothing better.
And so I imagine a life in each of these houses… me at the kitchen sink… the dogs sliding on the hardwood floor… the Kiddo playing in the backyard…
And I think that is how I’ll know. When everything I imagine just fits, when I see myself and the Kiddo and we feel at home…
That will be the house. Ballroom or not.