Knock on wood

Let's go back to The House That May One Day Be. We're closer and closer, but I am not allowed to state anything definitive about it until the potential owners have keys in hand. I jinx things. It is the opposite of the Midas touch. Like last Friday I signed a purchase agreement for my house, and today I signed a cancellation for same said purchase agreement. I am Suzanne.

 

This house needs some love. My peeps saw the house, and felt that they had the love to put in to the house, at a price that would allow them to love it a pretty good amount and buy some furniture. Not "new counters and backsplash before we move in" kind of love, but "let's bring a man with a paint sprayer in here to get this freshened up a bit." Also something about leveling the yard, which makes its own swimming pool when it rains.

Not as much as football

Please catch up on what we've got going on this school year before you keep going!

 

Raising a son with special emotional and developmental needs has always commandeered this blog. I talk about Jake more than Landen. Back here, we're exploring some sort of medical anomaly that I hope to have pieced together like some WebMD Nancy Drew with a great story at the end for how much better Jake feels. On the other end of that spectrum of activity, we have tackle football.

 

Warning: this will make you swoon.

Maybe this time

Two weeks ago, I did room boards for a particular living room built around a gray sectional. This week, I'm back, still unable to tell you about the house, but having played and put together room boards for a linen sectional. Because this is what I do when I cannot sleep. Sometimes the excitement causes an inability to sleep.

 

This one got a big "no." Because it's too fancy and impractical. It is not Rock Hudson or Doris Day. Maybe some Elizabeth Taylor with some Nate Berkus. I suwannee, who would not want to have an old fashioned in this room at the end of the day. Especially with a roaring fire and Charlie Hunnam.

Set this party off

Updated: my cousin just reminded me that her father, a Wilson, married an Allbritton, her mother, who is also from the same original group of Allbrittons as my wasband. Our Wilson-Allbritton wedding invitations were a joke because of this. That Wilson-Allbritton union went belly-up as well. From the source: "I would devote a whole page to explaining why Wilsons and Allbrittons CANNOT marry....like a chemical reaction, the chemicals are initially attracted to each other and create a really pretty color...then explode after seven minutes of chemically bonding." Because, people, this is science, which is always true.

If you want to add to your understanding what it means to live as perfectly imperfect (to augment what I clearly have to teach you about it), go read this blog at Momastery. Joy unto me. Because you know that split second between when you realize you are about to spill something that is going to be difficult to clean up and the moment it actually happens? That mood-altering moment between oh sh*t! and sonofabitch! I exist in that space, almost entirely, from head-off-pillow to head-on-pillow. And I'm not afraid of it at all, because I do it boldly, assertively, and with supreme confidence that more often that not, I will not make that big a mess.