I hate cottage cheese ... but I'm rather fond of this lil' cottage. It's our newest attempt at real estate in Idaho. The first property fell out of escrow (and it was a hard, hard fall!) and this one jumped right in to take it's place. Whatcha think? Think any vacationers will want to rent it out?
We've got a living room ...
and a roaring fire. It's not 'roarin with recipes' but it could be ... if I don't learn to cook something better than scrambled eggs...
It does come with a kitchen. But I'm not sure what to do in there.
I've heard that some people actually create food in these rooms. Something I know nothing of.
It comes with a nursery, too.
Now what am I supposed to do with this????
I think the grounds are pretty. Rick, however, does not. Rick wants a view. I told him it HAS a view. Right into your neighbor's living room!!
You can see a lot peeking into your neighbor's living room, you know.
So, we're in escrow, whether Rick likes it or not.
And we'll be open for business soon. I've already secured bunches of furnitures. Fifteen or so beds. 'Cuz I want you all to come.
Just kidding. Fifteen beds wouldn't fit in there. Only fourteen will.
Okay, two. Two beds, okay??
I will have two fridges, though. Bring lots of food!!!!
So, dang. I had such big plans for this weekend. None of them included holding a thermo meter under my tongue.
A metering device that measures my thermo just confirmed my worst fear. I'm on fire.
Pffft. That didn't stop me though. I still made it to work last night at the Cowboy Stadium where I promptly lost my voice. I also made it out to breakfast this morning for my newest addiction, the spinach soufflé. I then made it all the way to my bed.
Hatin' life right now ... but don't worry. I'll make it out to lunch tomorrow!
I am headed out to see this lady in a few hours. This lady be my momma. My mom. My mother. My ORIGINAL mother.
I believe I look nothing like her ... but the general public believes otherwise.
Not the best shot of my knees, by the way.
Isn't she cute? Much cuter than me, I'm afraid.
Nope, still see no resemblance, but she's still cute.
Anyway, I'm headed up to see her and celebrate her birthday with her. She does not know I'm coming. Hence the title of this blog ... heart attack city. I plan to give her one for her birthday. Well, not really, but I do hope she's surprised. Pleasantly surprised.
I plan to see sister Jeana, too, tomorrow. In fact, I better see her! She's my accomplice. And if anyone's gonna get in trouble ... I want it to be her!
Do I look like sister Jeana? Please say yes. I want to pretend I look 18 years younger. And she's so cute, too.
THIS is my favorite photo of us.
We're both cute here.
So's my phone. So's my purse, too.
And this is my favorite show. Because it introduced me to the cute ladies above. Well, I'd already met the blonde one once or twice.
I'm gonna love it again after Christmas. Why, you ask?
Feeling a bit blase about it all ... feeling a tad unsettled and a bit overwhelmed ... and feeling like I just plain couldn't afford the cute place ... I asked my little prayer group for prayer.
The path had been fairly straight in getting the place, not perfect, but not bumpy, either. It had been a little wavy with some questionable things on my credit report. But nothing we couldn't get past. Then, I asked for prayer. We all asked that God remove my doubt or that He close the door.
Guess what happened?
Less than 24 hours later ... more like 12, the door slammed shut. And hard. The seller had gotten a better offer on her property and gave us like five minutes to get everything ironed out or she wanted us out. We weren't even set to close on the place until the 19th of September, so I don't really know exactly what happened ... just that God closed that door. God said NO. And you know what?
A HUGE burden was lifted off of my shoulders immediately. I was sad, but I was not heartbroken.
I am getting a refund on my partial down payment (earnest money) and trudging forward with other properties that I actually CAN afford.
So, ya' know that cute little townhouse? Skip it. Erase it from your memory. Tear up the image and toss it out the window.
Meet Sherry Barber. Sherry is a dear, dear friend. And a kind one. Elizabeth and I were in California over Thanksgiving last year with nowhere to go to dine ... and she took us both in and fed us well. Sherry is also a phenomenal writer. And here is just one sample of her work. This tale speaks volumes in many ways.
"My birthday is September 11th. In 1943, while James Cagney sang and tap-danced his way to an Academy Award for “Yankee Doodle Dandy,” Greer Garson acted her way to an Oscar for “Mrs. Miniver.” I arrived at Seaside Memorial Hospital in Long Beach during a time of patriotism, and home fires burning.
During childhood, my birthday usually got lost in the shuffle because it fell on or near the first day of school. Shiny-faced students, in new trousers and dresses from Sears, were not yet acquainted with one another and certainly not buddies enough to drop by my house after school for cake and ice cream.
I would sit at my desk, hands folded, listening to the new teacher, secretly wondering if I dare tell anyone it was my birthday. Instead, the teacher distributed pencils and erasers from the school supply closet and instructed us to write our names in the upper right hand corner of standard-issue newsprint with blue lines. My birthday was unremarkable. Until 2001.
That year my son Justin called from Alexandria, Virginia to acknowledge my birthday and to tell me he was all right.
“What do you mean?” I asked. “Have you been in an accident?”
“Turn on your television,” he said.
Together we watched stunning replays of the World Trade Center attack; saw the billowing smoke and dust; held our telephone receivers in shocked silence. Later Justin would tell me he could smell the Pentagon burning as he left work and walked to his car. His wife had seen smoke from her office window. The Pentagon – its construction had been completed the year I was born and was hailed as the largest, safest office building in the world.
September 11th changed that day, not just for me but for the world. It became a defining moment in history. After that I didn’t even want to say the date, ever again. It reminded people of their horror and grief.
A year later I received a birthday card from my friend Christy Tunison Wait in San Jose, a card which arrived amidst the dirge of television retrospectives and documentaries. Christy had taken the time to pen these healing words at the bottom of the card: “I choose to remember the good things about today,” she said. “I celebrate you.” "
(This piece originally appeared in our local Daily News)