"They're going to pick that one, I just know it. Look at the fireplace," she mumbles enthusiastically, slightly to herself, but glances over at me for my approval. The fireplace is stunning, but house number two has a spacious backyard.
"I dunno, Karol." I lift my right hand up, as if to weigh options: "Spacious backyard," I say, raising it slightly in comparison to my left hand holding the words "pretty fireplace." In a satirical way, the conversation is of dire importance at this moment. It's like we're predicting these people's deaths - will they jump off a cliff or have to remodel the kitchen?
They chose the house with the fireplace. I'm never sure if she's right because she's intuitive or because she's seen every episode.
We start dreaming up a kitchen remodel that's long been underway in our own home - bought as a fixer upper nearly twelve years ago when we relocated to Tallahassee. Blue formica countertops, flaky wallpaper, overhead cabinets we have to warn guests about or they'll bump their forehead if they cut a corner... the whole nine yards. And twelve years later, we're still cooking and baking and hoping fresh flowers and open windows distract visitors from the blaring fluorescent overhead lighting. It's home, but it's a mess, much like our lives. We like to think that if we could open up the space a bit, paint crisp walls - just get organized - we could live cleaner, more productive lives.