23 July 2010
It's happened again. I've moved.
After six years in my loving if occasionally inept hands, the house on "Escalada Terrace" (that its pseudonym in Life Would Be Perfect If I Lived In That House) is now someone else's problem. And someone else's joy. It's truly a wonderful house, but it was just too small. When I bought it back in 2004 the idea was that Rex and I would live there forever by ourselves. But fate intervened. I met a tall man (i.e. he took up a lot of space) and let him move in. Despite the clutter and chaos that ensued I married him. We continued to live in the house despite the fact that there was very little closet space. Or cabinet space. And no driveway (we had to put the U-Haul truck in the neighbor's driveway across the street.) Oh, and no air conditioning. And there was only heat in one room. I had a space heater that I dragged around with me from room to room. This is the kind of behavior that lands you on the 6:00 news when you burn your house down.
So it was time to move on. We're renting now in a totally different neighborhood. I love the novelty of being in a new place, but I think I love the old neighborhood more.
Here's the living room. In real life, it's so small you can't really fit a sofa in there, but it looks nice here. I've always thought there's something exquisitely beautiful about an empty house. So much possibility and so little baggage. Like a blind date.
Here's Rex taking one last look around the place. He knows this routine all too well.
And one last walk on the hill across the road.
See that llittle white boxy thing in the center? That's the house as seen from the hill. If you've read the book, perhaps you remember the scene on my first night of homeowership where I get drunk and weepy and walk up the hill and look at the house. As cute as it is here, it's even cuter when you're drunk.
Okay, feeling weepy again. On to Redfin to see if that house next door is for sale.