Post It If You Got It

There are days when I say to myself, "Nay, I will not post the drivel today, for it is tedious."

Other days I'm happy to post like a broken record and suffer the consequences. (BRING IT, TROLLS!!!)

One thing I've learned about myself over the last month or so of home searching: I can switch fixations faster than democratic candidate allegiances.

(As you might imagine, my heart breaks for Hillary, but I'm Barackin' it now.)

On Tuesday night the P-Dawg came home and announced that he had chosen a morsel of real estate for us to call our permanent abode.

I attached myself to his pant leg while he went about the business of setting his briefcase down and loosening his tie, until such time as he saw fit to disclose our family's future.

It was a house we had seen before (He wouldn't pick one I hadn't even laid eyes on, would you, P-Dawg?), but we had deemed it a little too big, way overpriced, and in need of some TLC in the area of fugly 80s wallpaper and carpet removal.

However, if we could get it for a good price, the P-Dawg now announced, he felt that it would be the perfect choice.

We gave them an offer yesterday morning. Alas, our offer, in comparison to the asking price, was so low that it kicked up dust on the baseball diamond as it whizzed past the sellers, who swiftly rejected it and lobbed it back into my hopeful face.

Problem is, in the space of time it took for all of this to happen, I had already made out with this new house several times and was planning on bringing my toothbrush over that very night.

You see, once my greedy little brain had wrapped itself around the possibilities inherent in this latest home, it took mere moments to dump the spindle railing death trap house and jump into bed with ChateauRama.

The teal carpeting and peach orchid bonanza wallpaper in the master bath? Pffft! I would lovingly replace it with tranquil hues and cherry cabinetry from Restoration Hardware!

In no time flat, I was delightedly googling "fugly 80s glamour bath remodel" and fantasizing about which leather sectional I would buy for my new great room.

It's what I do, this fervent devotion to one fickle fantasy after another. I was going to fill in the backyard fountain with sand for the kids and host twinkling midsummer dinner parties on the patio, dammit.

And now? . . . back to square one. When we placed the bid yesterday, we also drew up offers for two other houses that the P-Dawg had selected to low-ball in quick succession until somebody is desperate enough to sell us their home.

This is the P-Dawg's clinical approach to real estate. He believes there to be a veritable glut of serviceable homes for us to buy, and only the unfortunate matter of price inflation standing between us.

Silly old sellers, overpricing their huts in a down market! We'll show them! We'll lo-ball every dang property that is up for sale this side of the Mississippi, and then we'll see who has the last laugh.

(Like, when we're living out of a suitcase at Extended Stay America, for instance.)

"You have to take the emotion out of it, Rimster," the P-Dawg tells me as I weep over the loft reading nook that could have been.

"My hopes are not high that any of these next two offers will be accepted," he continues, "But I have six more homes to bid on lined up right behind them, and I do believe that eventually, we will hit the jackpot."

I am to be fully prepared to accept rejection after rejection, to place all my emotional chips squarely on a series of wobbly tables that are destined to collapse up to seven more times.

I don't even know what to perseverate about anymore.

And so, I will not speak of this matter again until the ink is dry on the contract for Hut Beautiful, so help me God.