How do you find a house that fits just right?

Shopping for a house is a little bit like shopping for a new pair of pants. Is it too small? Too big? How does it make my butt look?

Last week (if you are obtuse enough to figure out from my previous post), Andy and I decided to finally, finally, finally meet with our realtor instead of scheduling and then cancelling. We saw more houses than we knew were even for sale on the entire planet. And then we decided that we are too poor to afford a house that is big enough that it doesn't make our butts look big, but small enough that our butts don't feel claustrophobic and enclosed-upon, that is not out in the middle of Nowhere, Colorado.

What is it about looking for a house? You look on the World Wide Web at the pictures and you think, "This is it! This is most positvely, absolutely the house we were meant to own! I know it in my heart! And my butt, because my butt would look very small in that vast (but not too vast because we already have determined we don't want that ever again) house."

And then.

You actually go to look at the house, all up-front and in-person with your realtor, and you realize that the ghetto is not just around the corner, but that it actually resides next door behind the chain-link fence and the BEWARE OF DOG sign. And that the "bark, bark, bark" from Bosco the Rottweiler behind the chain-link fence is, in all actuality, NOT happy to see you. He is saying "Beware! Beware of the ghetto and houses that appear too cute to be true." And also, "I will bite you if you take one step closer to me."

You realize that when a house description says "quaint," it actally means "smaller than a mouse's attic and anyone over 5' 1 1/2" should not attempt to squeeze into here at peril of suffering from at the very least claustrophobia and at the very worst death." And if the description says "needs TLC" or "great for first-time buyers" it actually means "the dumpiest dump dumpier than any dump you've ever been to and by golly be sure to plan on spending every single second of all your waking hours in the next two years to get rid of mold, gross smells, and to repair the damage done by Rick the Unhappy Owner Who Was Foreclosed On."

And you start to feel very sad, and wonder if you will ever find the right house that makes your butt look just perfect. And then. You think, quite possibly there is no way you are ever going to be happy with a house and then...

...you find it.

The House. The House that you will look perfect in.

The House that doesn't have a huge garish garage covering the front of The House in such a way that it is difficult to see even the front door, but instead has a quaint (and actually for-real Old Fashioned quaint, not code-for-tiny-quaint) little front porch that makes you want to sit on it and sip the lemoniest lemonade of all time (which actually comes from Chik-Fil-A in case you were wondering).

The House that has the highest of ceilings and the most spacious of kitchens with ample, and I do mean as ample as Pamela Anderson's bosom, cabinet space.

The House that has just enough rooms for the activities which you desire to persue over the next five to seven years, namely, eating, sleeping, cooking, playing, loving, and living. And watching TV. In no particular order, of course.

The House that has a yard that is the delight of your soul - just big enough to manage decent-sized gardens (of the vegetable and flower variety, of course) and small enough to accommodate small-ish parties wherein you cook for your fabulous and hilarious friends who will now have to drive 40 minutes each way just to pop in and say hello. Which means approximately 99% of said small-ish parties will only accommodate two guests: me and Andy.

And then.

You realize that to find The House, you drove so far out into the boondocks that you do not even know if you are in Colorado or Kansas and you begin to fear for your life due to whirling tornadoes. To find This House, you will have to give up morning runs with Anna, quick and easy drives to Sonic for Cranberry Limeades with Sam, last minute movies with Dennis, Chris, and Barb. And many other such activities to which you have grown accustomed.

But, on the other hand, you do have a yard large enough to host a family of beautiful lady chickens to lay fresh eggs for you.

How is a girl ever to choose? How does one determine what is the very most important thing that they must have to help them decide where to reside for the next five to seven years?

You ask yourself questions like, "Would we be happier in a house we don't like as much near people we love, or in a house we love near people we don't know yet?" Or even, "Will our old friends ever visit?" and, "Will we make new friends?" And most importantly, "Why is Clay Aiken bothering to come out of the closet in People magazine when the entire population of the known galaxy already knew he was gay?" Really. This is an important question.

Perhaps it is time to petition The One Who Answers Prayers. I'm still waiting to hear back about the orange coat, and maybe He can just give me both answers at once, like a two-for-one. Now that's a deal!