The stone egg of my dreams showed up at work the other day.
I’ve been waiting patiently for it, ogling the eggs with each new shipment. But I knew this egg was the one the moment I laid eyes on it.
Buying a house is not like that. No matter what those delusional (and/or extremely lucky) people say, you will not know a house is “the one” when you see it. You will not be filled with immense, undeniable joy. You will, instead, look around, nod, and say, “yeah, this could work.” Then spend the next week wondering if you’ve made a grave error in submitting an offer — an offer which was accepted.
In the past three months we’ve seen a lot of houses and eaten a lot of donuts, but the neurotic part of me will perhaps never feel like I saw enough to make an educated decision. I’ve seen houses with stairs leading nowhere, suffocatingly small kitchens, terrifying wall art, and more basement “kill rooms” than I can count. But I’ve also seen gorgeous yards, amazing hardwood floors, and adorable kitties. All aspects must be weighed.
I don’t know why this one is the one. It doesn’t have the enormous office I thought I required — just a humble bedroom. But it has a beautiful kitchen, and a completely finished basement, and there’s a big porch overlooking the quiet neighborhood. I’ve spent 7 years listening to cars drive by outside my apartment, and I cannot wait for the sound of silence.
Also, no more skittering about outside to take photos quickly so I don’t offend any of my neighbors’ delicate sensibilities.
I am in a weird state: simultaneously thrilled that I’m going to have an actual office with an actual door, and terrified because this is the biggest sum of cash I will ever spend at once. Also, did you know that hoses cost a lot? Yeah, I might be broke before I can even water my lawn.
So if I’m scarce here for the next month or so, it’s because I’m busy packing, getting rid of everything I own, launching my next giveaway, painting, masturbating, rearranging, preparing for my upcoming online class, and decking out my new office (I still need someone to embroider me something that says “I Think You Hate Sex“).
Turns out, the stone egg isn’t anything special. It’s not a challenge for my vag — it doesn’t want to escape on its own. It’s not as stimulating as the LELO Luna Beads. Gorgeous as it is, it isn’t perfect. Nothing truly is.