I'm supposed to be scheduling screenings and surgeries, but apparently all I'm doing is failing at phone tag. I'm not comfortable, and I'm disappointed that I'm getting delayed. I'm starting to dip into the pills prescribed at the beginning of this latest flare up, and I'm about a paragraph and a half from my next one. As soon as it hits my stomach, all thoughts of writing and returning voice mails will fly out of my head. Oh, who am I kidding? There are barely thoughts of writing right now. But at least then my belly won't hurt.
We got a clearer view inside several of the houses we have been flirting with over the last several weeks, by proxy. The house I was most interested in changed from being "for sale" to "taking backup offers," while my realtor and my daughter were en route. We are not ready to make an offer on anything this soon, especially from long distance. So much for that house. Another that seemed like an interesting project turned out to be a house that really should be scraped off of its crumbling foundation, and put out of its misery. There was a third option (isn't that how it always is on television?), that was really interesting, but the house and the lot were so small, there was very little room to expand. I was desperately eager this morning, knowing that our realtor was going to get us more information about these places. Now I'm depressed. House hunting is a long process. It's all greetings and goodbyes. You fall in love at first sight a hundred times, and ninety-nine times you either have your heart ripped out of your chest when another lover steals the object of your desire, or you see them for who they really are, and you leave in disgust.
I'm back to where I was before: waiting. Just waiting. Waiting for surgery, waiting for a house to come on the market that I love, and waiting for my condo to be ready to sell. Ah, well. I'm good at waiting. Haven't I proved that irrefutably by now?
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