Dee-Rob

We have a dream. In M.’s version it has a white picket fence.

We’ve offered, been countered and signed on the bottom line. If all goes according to Hoyle and plan, we might be living in this very kind of white-picket-fence, Ward and June Cleaver, c. 1954 California ranch style.

I was going to embed Google’s street view. But, too much information really. If you know me, email me. If you don’t after this weekend, we should have some photographic evidence of where our money is going. Including the apple tree, from which will spring the culinary embodiment of the dream.

How fucked up is it that here in 2008 where I live (not 1982) the news is full to the brim with crashing markets, failing banks and federal bailouts, not to mention old people protesting to have enough juice to fire up their oxygen machines? Still and all, this election is CLOSE, statistically too close to call. And, folks are still talking tax cuts and a very, very, very expensive war (both in dollars and pointless, indefensible deaths).

Worse yet, the fucking homeowner of the place on which we put an offer hasn’t quite sorted out her house was listed too high for the market and the coming fiscal Armageddon. Maybe she’ll realize our offer, coming as it is from two employed, loan-qualified worker bees with actual cash money in the bank, is fine and dandy and come back to us.

But for now, the search, still down by the beach, goes on.