The Girl Is Mine

Oh yes indeedy. The very nice lady who was selling the house and this marginally unpleasant lady who wanted to buy the house have agreed: the house goes to me! For eleventy million dollars and my first grandchild (haha, kiddo, yer ma has already sold your future [very very very far in the future. VERY far] offspring to get us a big ol money pit fixer-upper for the last year or so you're at home)! Huzzah!

It's agreed that we're all agreed- even the lender- that I should spend the next thirty years of my life buying the wee cottage. So mote it be.

I'm getting one a them fancy loans that they give to people who buy money pits homes with a lot of potential, so all sorts of wrangling and coordinating and bidding and things have to go on between all kinds of interesting people before I get to actually move into the place. Namely me, and also the lender, and a contractor here, a sub-contractor there, plus someone called an 'appraiser', who I gather appraises things.

Then more lender, then some paperwork, then also some more paperwork, then I think I have to present my final routine to a panel of stern professors in my black leotard while they slowly and unwillingly go from sternly snotty and suspicious to a vaguely piqued interest as evidenced by one stern eyebrow raising or possibly one sensibly-clad foot tap-tap-tapping under the giant cherrywood table, then to out-and-out surprise and delight, heads nodding to the rhythm of my boombox and their feet all tapping like mad in unison and possibly the one really awful haughty prof chair-dancing as she unwinds her stern bun of hair and then my finale and they're on their feet as I slide 20 feet across the floor on my tired dancer's knees, sexily sweaty and bosom all aheave and bow my head, knowing that I'm in, I'm DEFINITELY IN TO THIS VERY EXCLUSIVE SCHOOL OF DANCE AND THEY ALL THOUGHT I WAS JUST THE GRUBBY EXOTIC DANCER FROM THE WRONG SIDE OF THE TRACKS AND I PROVED THEM SO VERY, VERY WRONG WITH MY SHEER GRIT AND DETERMINATION AND TRUE LOVE OF TEH DANCE.

Until then I just wait, and doublecheck the inspection report photos for evidence of ghosts. And limber up my mad design skills.