Below The Fold

I own a house now. I own a driveway. And grass. And trees. Apparently, I don’t own water or mineral rights. So if I strike oil in my backyard, someone else gets to load up the truck and move to Beverly. Hills, that is.

It’s positively, absolutely, the most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes on. Except for Amy on our wedding day (or any day when she does her no-rhythm dance). It’s a brick-and-mortar sculpture of a dream. It’s where everything happy is. I spent Saturday ripping up carpet and stuffing sacks full of wallpaper (it came off in perfect strips. All of it. The glue was ancient. It was awesome) and fixing gates and hedging juniper bushes. Juniper bushes are the landscaping equivalent to the sock-stealing dryer. There’s hoses and sawhorses and 7 strange golden plates piled under there… maybe even Hoffa himself.

Okay, I wasn’t alone. Amy did lots, and I suckered Debbie in, too. But the drives to the dump were filled with rousing choruses of the WKRP theme. The dump is a place of sad. But the guy there on our second trip let me in after they closed, so that was nice.

Amy finally… FINALLY has a place to paint to her heart’s delight.

Right now, at this moment, I feel utterly and completely blessed. I don’t give a damn how clichéd it is.

It’s my American Dream.

Gotta go buy a roof now. Later.