Part two of yesterday's post is going to have to wait.
Last night I put an offer on a house. This house.
I had a whole system going for the house hunting process. There was a clipboard, and a carefully constucted 43 item checklist, and a rating system that included such descriptive terms as "good", "excellent", "poor", "meh", and the always useful "not fab". Every house I went in underwent this rigorous screening process, and afterward I and my pink pen would ruthlessly score each house to determine which, if any, was the right one for me.
Last night I looked at three places. The first one was terrible. The second was ok, but only if I wanted to live next to a crack dealer. By the time we started driving to the third, I was feeling pretty discouraged, and with every mile of 460 that passed, I was more certain that I would never, ever find anything I liked. The clipboard had already had a rough night.
We pulled in, and I was intrigued. Cute little neighborhood, like something out of a 1953 Christmas movie. Swingset and toys in the yard, and spray-on snow in the front window obscuring the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree inside.
I walked in, and all 43 checkpoints suddenly became irrelevant. The list stayed blank. I was too busy finding my way home.