I keep meaning to sit down and post, and then I open up the window, and *poof*. Nothing to say. And I'm afraid that might not get better for a while. My husband has decided that he wants to get the hell out of this community. If they want to let rapists and murderers and drug dealers go unpunished, then let them have them, says he. And since I've wanted to get out of this town since, oh, about a week after we got here, I'm disinclined to argue. So we're considering selling our house and buying another, and since Chet's at work and in trial term, all the grunt work falls to yours truly. I don't really mind much, truth be told, because I get to make lists and spreadsheets, and I love doing that. (Yet I hated my last office job. Explain that.) But I am more than a little intimidated. This is our first house. We've never sold a house before. I'm still not even sure I understand what all went into buying this one. Plus, our buying a new house is contingent upon us selling this one, and I'm not sure how quickly we'll be able to sell. Ugh.
I will be sad to leave this house, even if I'm happy about leaving the town. This is the first house we ever bought. Our sweet Isabella kitty is buried by the house. I found out I was pregnant in the awkward little second bathroom. This is the first house we brought our son home to. This is where he took his first steps. No other house will ever contain those memories.
So, for now, I will be busy, and maybe in the not-too-distant future, I will write to you from a much calmer, bigger, happier place. Or, you know, maybe I'll just continue to be a slacker and post once in a blue moon. Either/or.
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