I've been debating if I want to write about this.
But this blog is about me, my life, what makes me happy and what makes me sad. And what really bugs me.
And I promise I won't start another sentence with the word "but".
My mom bought her house when she was in her early 20's. It's a cool house. It might be full of asbestos and lead paint, but it's still cool. I grew up in that house (when I wasn't living with my dad on the farm).
Growing up, the house was a duplex (upper/lower). We lived on the bottom and mom rented out the 2nd floor. I met some great people because of that. Not that I keep in touch with any of them anymore, but hey, they were great when I was there.
When I got to high school, mom decided to convert the house to a one-family.
Looking back, this probably wasn't the best idea.
It was great for me though-I had the entire 2nd floor to myself! I may have had a party or two up there. I faintly remember putting a crapload of ice in the claw-foot bathtub to use as a "cooler" for some beverages my friends and I weren't old enough to drink. Okay, not faintly. I remember the crap out of that. I was cool back then.
I remember hanging out with friends, drinking Mad Dog 20/20 out of a straw.
Don't do it.
Anyway, I got older, went to college, moved out, got married and started a family. Then, it was only my mom and step-dad in the 4-bedroom house.
Then my mom had a stroke.
She never went back to the house.
I have to give my step-dad a little credit. He did what he could with what he had. Okay, maybe he didn't really do a good job of it. Money management is not his thing.
He failed. Foreclosed. The house is being auctioned off on November 1st.
I am struggling with this BIG TIME. I want so much to buy that house, but I can't live in it-it's not conducive to my life now. I also don't have a boatload of money just sitting there (and it would be a boatload of money-not to purchase the house, but to make it what it should be). I don't want someone else buying it, changing it, tearing it down. I couldn't deal with that. That was MY house. I have baby pictures of me laying on the shag carpet in the living room. There's a grape juice stain on the hardwood floor because of me. Santa came down that chimney and delivered MY presents.
It's only a house, right? What matters are the memories, right?
Will I get over this? Sure. Will it be hard. Uh, yup.