We Did It

This may have been the two busiest weeks of my life, not counting 1) when we had babies #2 and #3, and our four moves cross country. 

So forgive the spotty posting, which I hate to tell ya, is going to continue for at least another handful of days as I am about to leave after work tomorrow for Art Is. (see sidebar on left -  bet there are still a coupla walk in spots should any of you locals care to make it to THE East Coast Art Event and not only meet ME, but take some great art classes with the likes of Keith LoBue and other lovelies,)

So what's going on?

Well, without getting all mushy about it, let me say simply that after twenty years of talking about it, Mr. Pom and I were so very lucky to buy a small little cottage on the Cape. 

I have gone back and forth about a hundred times in my mind about posting about this.

I know this a terrible economic time for many people, including some people in my own family.

We are very, very lucky and I am knocking on a lot of wood and throwing salt over my should and not spitting into the wind.

Mr. P was the leader in all this, which is usually the case for Landmark Decisions in our family. I am the wild-eyed big talker and he is the persistent planner nose to the grindstone guy who just plods along until he gets to where he wants to go.

I was resistant. I was like, "are you crazy there's a recession, another kid to put through college, two we haven't finished paying for, and did I mention the recession?"

And Mr. Pom was all, "Dudette, wake up! The housing market has crashed and it's a Buyer's Market on the Cape!"

So in the cold, harsh days of New Year's, we began looking at houses on Cape Cod.

The realtor, we found out later, was brand new to realty.  He was very sweet and found creative ways to tell us that there was no way in hell that we could buy a house in our price range in the town we wanted to live in.

No way. Nope.

And for many months we believed him as we looked at ...nothing in our price range or even close to it. 

We saw teeny tiny cabins that would make great writing retreats but not much else; teeny tiny cottages on streets that featured abandoned cars in front yards; freestanding teen tiny condos (are you getting the teen tiny picture) that needed to be turned into year round residencea; tiny Cape Codders where only half the family would get to sit down at one time; raised ranches filled with shag carpeting and plastic room dividers; cute, spacious condos that only had an 8 by 10 deck for outside space and restrictions for one dog (we decided we would put Bella Sera in a baby carriage and tell everyone she was from the Italian side of the family).

At one point, we gave it all up and spent a few summer weekends looking at boats for sale and marinas in our area.

The kids just rolled their eyes and said, "they'll never decide".

I gave up. Where were the romantic, picket fenced cottages down the road from the beach, the ones with outbuildings and marshes and bowers of roses and banks of hydrangeas?  Where was the romantic cottage of my dreams?

It was on the market for a zillion bucks.

We tried for one last look on vacation in August. Mr. Pom was rather, uh, obsessed at that point and every time we went in the car to the beach, he would hijack us all to show us the perfect house - on the other side of the Cape. Or he'd been online, grabbing my arm to show me real estate listings. It was either buy a house or buy him Prozac.

At breakfast one morning, we opened the paper to see that a beautiful house we'd been pining over was listed with a big price reduction. Uh oh, it had an open house. Yesterday. We quickly called the realtor to make an offer, site unseen. But they'd just accepted an offer. Dejected.

Then driving around on our own, we ran across a contemporary Cape in a wooded neighborhood. Two people happened to be outside and when we rolled down the window we found out it was the owner and the realtor. And yes, they'd just accepted an offer.

On the very last day I told Mr Pom that I would spend looking at houses on my vacation, the realtor took us to a ranch in a plain old year round family neighborhood.  It was an estate sale and was empty and they'd just lowered the price. Again.

I walked in and said, make an offer.

Mr. Pom hates when I do that cause the sellers start flashing dollar signs into their eyes.

But I knew it was it. A sunny, spare, simple ranch only ten minutes from ocean or bay. It was all white inside, clean, sunny, and had a comfortable family ambiance.  As the realtor said, it's a happy house.

It has a big backyard that is overgrown and waiting for our yardwork. There's a pretty brick patio laid with antique bricks. And plenty of spaces for dogs to explore.

There are two 1970's bathrooms: one powder blue;one avocado. And a narrow bedroom with a bay window and built in bookcases that will be my writing room whenever it is unoccupied.

The living room has a fireplace and big picture window. There's three bedrooms and a big mudroom for the dogs. There's even an attached garage that someday will be my art studio.

It's in our favorite, favorite, town.

There's a kettle pond down the street. 

And my cousin is trying to buy a house in the same neighborhood.

Mr. Pom and I went up this weekend to close on the house. We spent 3 crazy days closing, cleaning, moving stuff, and buying out Christmas Tree Shop and TJ Maxx  housewares.

Finally, on Monday the sun came out and it was 65 degrees. We had nothing to do but wait for a few deliveries and repair persons. I was painting my latest submission for the magazine (it's coming guys, just a few days late!) and working on my workshops for Art Is. Mr. Pom was outside puttering around. I made BLTs for lunch. I painted my collage. Mr. Pom read his book. I wrote some outlines for my workshop. Mr. Pom futzed around with the catch on a sliding door.

I pinched myself.

Before we left, we went to say goodbye to the ocean. Many people were sitting on the beach. Surfers were running into the waves. It smelled like summer and fried onion rings.  We stood side by side for about ten minutes, just taking it all in.

Then we drove home, leaving it all behind.

Till next weekend.

I am pinching myself again.