Breakthrough

We got notice that our landlord selling our place last August, so it's been nearly a year. In that time I haven't been able to think about 2214 Grant Street in any sort of positive way, though (or perhaps because) we'd been there so long.

Then last night I pictured myself out on the small porch, the one facing the ivy with the peeling black paint on the railings. In the memory, I was on the phone with my insurance company, who had just doubled the premium on my policy. "Well," the customer-service rep said, "it's due to Mr. Sandler's driving record."

"Really," I said, amused. I was always the fuckup in the relationship. "Why don't you tell me about Mr. Sandler's record?"

Turns out it was something that wasn't his fault, but that's not the point. The point was the memory was good, powerful, and positive. And welcome.

I did just make the mistake of looking through the pictures on the listing again. Man. They managed to erase any facet of charm in the Farm, which was our cottage in the back. I guess you can slap on a coat of white paint and put up some stupid sign saying "Cherries" in the backyard and draw out all the individual quirkiness that made it what it was and ask nearly $1.3 mil for the whole shebang-a-bang, right? Fuck.