For Sale.

A damn cold rain and some cold-footed buyers to go with it: we lost our deal. They apparently wanted brand-new everything in our not-so-brand new house. Fuckers. Sorry for the language, kids, but sometimes, when mommies and daddies get a wee bit frustrated, they use outside words in their inside voices. Fuckers, fuckers, fuckers. May the roof of whatever house they land in fall in on them in the very first week. Whoever ends up buying this little house, though, with its brand new perfect rainproof roof, will be warm and dry. They'll be in a house built in 1949, but they'll be warm and dry.

I think it rained more than the fancies thought it would—we picked up a second and then a third little burst of energy this afternoon and this evening, and this gigantic winter storm may even wrap something around the backside of itself and rain on us overnight and tomorrow morning. By the time we're said and done we'll be close to an inch, I think, and we might continue the odd 2008 tradition of making up our monthly deficit on the last day of the month. At last check, we were only about a third of an inch shy for November, and it was coming down hard again. More on this, of course, tomorrow.

So. 3BR 2BA charmer. Guest house. Rain gauge. A few tiny things in need of eventual attention. Persons having opposable thumbs and willing to use them encouraged to come on by and take a look. We've lived in it several years without anything collapsing or shocking us to death. You can, too.