Ramblings on living and loving a man with a brain disease called alcoholism.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
I want a home. I want a place to call my own. I want to raise my family alongside my man in this home of ours. I want to live in this town. I love it’s history, it’s charm, it’s proximity to the ocean. I love all the old houses, the friendly shopkeepers, the local farms.
We found this house. Built in 1850, it’s been completely redone and turned into a two family. We could have the second and third floor. We’d have our own yard. I want this home.
Before we started looking, I bought the cheapest, warmest, shortest vacation I could find. Steve and I are going to Florida on Friday for a long weekend.
When we get back, maybe we’ll make an offer. It’s just that it costs so damn much. 20% down? HA! We can barely scrape together 10%. And then all the closing costs, insurance and taxes, OH MY! But when I crunch the numbers, it looks like we could do it. As long as the economy doesn’t tank and neither one of us loses our job. I want this house. I want to put a big fluffy perennial bed in front. I want to push a stroller up to this door. I want to call THIS one, home.