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Welcome to the BOMB.

The Blog Of the "Mother" of Bandit.
Bandit is my Hairless Chinese Crested--he's the "normal" one. I, on the other hand, am unrepentantly "pet-crazy." You know the type--the spinster who lives in the haunted house three blocks over with 72 cats...okay, so I don't have 72 cats, and my house isn't haunted--but my dogs wardrobe is better than mine! Need I say more? :~)
I've never been consistant at journaling, so the timing of my blogs will be sporadic at best. I just hope they are as entertaining to you as they are to me; however, be forewarned: Most of my blogs will be about The BaldOne. In spite of his Don King "do," I think he's just as cute as any of the Brothers B!
Now, if I can just remember not to get him wet--or feed him after midnight...

About Me

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My bags are packed and I'm always ready to seek out an adventure with Bandit and Moggy in tow. Bandit is my thirteen year old Chinese Crested, who I frequently call The Bald One or The BaldOne Boy (like he was one of the Baldwin Brothers). Moggy’s full name is Pip-Moggy. He’s my two year old gansta-resuce kitty. I couldn’t decide between Pip (which are the spots on die and domino tiles) and Moggy (or Moggie when I mistakenly thought he was a she), so I combined the two. Moggy refers to the British term for "cat of unknown parentage .” So in essence, I have an almost bald dog, and I’ve named my cat “Spot.”

Fun Stuff (I'm doing now or have done)

  • Artistic Attempts weekly (alternating between Painting With A Twist, That Art Place, and Peniot's Palette).
  • Bunko with the Belton Bunko Babes monthly.
  • Participating in the A to Z Blogging Challenge.
  • Spades and Liverpool Rummy with the Spadetts weekly.
  • The Mighty Texas Dog Walk, Austin (fund raiser for Service Dogs, Inc--they train shelter dogs to be Service Dogs, then give them free of charge to people with disabilities.)

Wednesday, June 22, 2016

Dream Home

I recently found my dream home quite by accident. From time to time I google homes for sale in a couple of areas I'd like to live, or better yet, retire. Sometimes I find interesting homes. Sometimes the homes are less than stellar. This time my dream home popped onto the screen—almost unbidden.  Online it appeared perfect: cottage sized, well under my maximum price range,  secluded and surrounded by fields.  My heart raced and my breathing became shallow.  Can this be? I mused. Have I finally found my dream home?

Then I noticed something odd—it was nowhere near the area I wanted to live.  I’m not really in the market for a new house. I’ve been working killer hours to pay down debt, before I retire. But what if  its appearance is a sign… Since it appeared to be perfect, and I like to drive, I thought I’d go see it in person.  Just in case.

The drive took a little over 45 minutes. I imagined my daily commute. In the mornings I would be stressed because I am a procrastinator with a tolerate-hate relationship with my alarm clock—I hate the alarm and tolerate the snooze. However, the drive home would allow me to decompress after a hectic shift at the hospital.  I thoroughly enjoyed the country drive. And once they finish construction on I-35, the alternate highway drive would be fast. So the longer commute didn’t pose an obstacle.

I turned off the county road at the mailbox, and drove about 1,000 yards down a dirt road edging the neighboring fields. At the end was a circular driveway in front of my dream home.  It sat beneath the shelter of 7 or 8 shade trees—great for cooling off the Texas summers (and springs…and falls…and winters). Looking at the house, I saw a  huge picture window that overlooked the drive which circled a quaint, long defunct water well. A field of wild flowers provided  the mid-view, and past them grazed a faraway herd of cows and goats. A deeply shaded front porch faced the setting sun. I could envision enjoying morning cups of coffee overseeing the fields while listening to the morning song of various birds, and relaxing with evening glasses of wine, from my front row-center vantage spot for viewing spectacular country sunsets—even though I don’t normally drink coffee or wine. 

I climbed the porch stairs and tried the front door—on the off chance the last person there forgot to lock up. No such luck.  So I peeked in the picture window and saw wooden floors, a ceiling fan in the open concept dining/living room that flowed off the kitchen on the right.  An opening behind the kitchen led to the bathroom and two bedrooms in the back. The occasional bleating of a goat, or mooing of a cow, and wind rustled leaves broke the quiet. I had found it:  Heaven on earth. My Eden. My  Dream Home.

Then I removed my rose colored shades for a survey. With my eyes wide open, I noticed a few things about Eden:  the rusty and crumbling shed appeared to be too far off in the distance to belong to the house (it sits on an acre of land), the six non-running pick-ups by the fence-line (none of which were vintage or interesting) would need to be removed—and in fact may also belong to the neighbor, the sunken area of ground in the backyard could possibly be a collapsed septic tank, and  peeling paint, rotted wood, and doors off hinges would all need to be replaced. Inside, the wooden floors were actually stained plywood—not hard wood, and what wasn’t gutted in the kitchen needed to be. There was no telling what condition the bathroom and two bedrooms were in. 

So when I say I found my perfect dream home I’m not even close—it’s actually more of a fixer-upper than I am willing or capable of completing. Think:  Total Gut Job

But the location is perfect.
And by perfect I mean, it’s not even close since it’s in a county I’ve never even considered before.  

But the setting is a different matter. A cottage, cabin, or small home nestled beneath shade trees, on a secluded acre on the backside of a field, actually is just about perfect.

Except for the lack of reliable cell phone, internet, water, sewage, and cable services.

And so, my search for my perfect dream home continues…

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