Every week for the past two months, we've been just about to close on the sale of our old house. This Friday for sure! No, um, maybe next Friday. First the buyer's bank dragged its heels on their mortgage, and then the polar vortex knocked out the furnace and froze the pipes, which took a while to clean up after. I became certain that, when David Byrne wrote the lyrics to "Burning Down the House," he was on the selling end of a residential real estate transaction.
I miss that quirky old house, and I'm so glad it's now someone else's problem.
Now there's a real possibility that I might live somewhere other than limbo by the end of February. I could have a study of my own in which to open all those boxes of books.