Our house is in contract. On the market one day, two offers, a 30 day escrow, and now there is this: me very almost slightly freaking the fuck out, sad, like a break up, only my house will not get jealous at the thought of me moving on, nor does it notice that I have put on lipstick to make myself feel better. I kiss Bryan. He is happy. Zoey says our house is broken, that is why we are moving and as always, she is right.
I wonder how I got here.
Last week we had painters at the house, two guys: Tony and James. James brought donuts and talked to Zoey about the color pink. I sat in the living room and pretended not to be uncomfortable with two strange men working on my house while I did nothing. Later Zoey started crying, screaming really. I HAVE TO FART! she kept yelling. I HAVE TO FART! She crawled onto my lap, tried climbing up my chest and into the crook of my neck. I HAVE TO FART! Well then fart, I whispered quietly into her ear, not knowing what else to say. But she wouldn't, or couldn't, and she kept screaming. Sshhh, I was embarrassed, knowing that Tony and James were just down the hallway painting the rooms not pink but ecru. Just fart, a Nike swoosh endorsed by this mother, but she would not stop. Do you have to go poo? I asked. But I HAVE TO FART! is all she would say. I don't know why, but these stories are somehow related, the selling of my house and that. Shit happens? I don't know. Am I embarrassed about having to sell my house? Yes, I think so. I mean really, how did I get here? But everybody poops and I choose to believe that this will be good in the end, a release. Faith, a trust without proof that someday soon I will once again buy chicken breasts knowing full well I will never cook them.