I recently had a discussion via email with a friend who ever-so-gently pointed out that when I don’t either blog about things or communicate them to friends in another (more direct) manner, they don’t know what’s going on with me.
I scoffed, because I’ve long made it a habit to only befriend people who are PSYCHIC. It cuts down on the effort I have to make, you know.
Well, okay, not really. What I HAVE done, actually, is put my head down and stuffed my fingers in my ears and loudly “LA LA LA LA LA LA”ed my way through some things happening around here because there comes a times when my wee little brain simply cannot process some facets of my life in a way that is at all productive. That is, after all, why I married Otto—so that at least ONE of us would be sane. Most of the time.
Anyway. A friend dropped by yesterday ever-so-briefly, and I had seen her the day before when I’d brought her some cookies I’d baked. When she came by yesterday, I was busy baking bread. And she commented (for not the first time) on how I must be this sort of Ultimate Baking Woman, and she finds it so amazing because she NEVER bakes, and I must really love it to work it into my schedule.
“Oh, no,” I demurred, “it’s not that at all. You know that movie… um… the one with Keri Russell and the pies? I’m like that. Except not pregnant. And I don’t do pie.” She looked at me as if I wasn’t making any sense, which, I suppose, I wasn’t. “I MEAN,” I hurried on, “that I bake to cope with stress. I’m not even a particularly GOOD baker, I just find it therapeutic to knead bread or eat cookies. Now, if I could figure out how to get hooked on exercising, instead, THAT’d be something.”
She seemed unconvinced. But it’s true. And then when my bread doesn’t rise the way I want it to (yesterday’s buttermilk wheat bread mocked me with its staunch refusal to crest the loaf pans, no matter how long I left it atop a warm oven), I find myself offended. How DARE my delicious, carby coping mechanisms let me down this way??
And all of this is just a bit of background—a preface, if you will—to saying that some things I am probably never going to be able to talk about here, for various reasons, no matter how stressful they become. Other things, I’m probably holding back for reasons that don’t really matter.
So I thought I’d put down the bread for a minute and share something.
We’re coming up on a full year since my old house went on the market, and over seven months since we moved. The whys and the wherefores of what’s happened in that time period aren’t important (although I will say this to anyone who is mid-divorce: NEVER continue owning property jointly unless you are a masochist), but this is: A very nice family would like to buy the house. They would like to buy it for tens of thousands less than we’d planned on selling it for, because that’s the way the market is, right now, and they would also like to just rent it for a while, first, while they wait for the closing on their house to free up their down payment money.
There are a hundred things that could go wrong here before all is said and done, but I choose to believe that they won’t. I choose to believe that everything has played out exactly the way it was meant to—that our failure to sell had everything to do with this family being the right family for our old house. I choose to believe that this summer, this particular nightmare will FINALLY go away.
I just thought you might like to know.
(Also, the fact that the bread is a mite too dense is easily covered up with a little extra butter. That’s also important information.)