…but sometimes a girl just needs to savor a win.

:-)

Go ‘Dogs.

Alex and his daddy have gone downstairs to watch “Gideon,” the new Veggie Tales movie.

They’ve been down there about 25 minutes.

So why in the sam hill am I still watching “The Wiggles”?

Monday I was convinced that no one would ever buy our house, and even if they did, we’d never find a place to move.

Tuesday afternoon we found a house that we love.

Wednesday night we got an offer for our current house.

Thursday we were alternately excited and terrified.

Friday we signed two contracts: one to sell this house, one to buy the other house…pending inspections, of course.

Today we are tickled to death.

And God’s hand has been so evident in it all.

More later….

Here’s Addie‘s response to my post from Wednesday about my Total Absence Of TV Watching this week:

Yet another reason why I heart blogging.

:-)

So to answer your questions about what Alex saw in our dining room when he ran downstairs screaming in the middle of the night:

Absolutely Nothing.

He said the next morning that he had a dream about monster cows and puppy dogs eating grass, and I don’t know if that’s what had him so spooked or not…but he’s been a little weirded out by the whole “monster thing” lately, and I have a feeling that he saw my shadow when I walked around the corner from our bedroom and immediately went into monster freak-out mode.

The twisted side of me couldn’t help but think of the old “Simpsons” episode where Bart spent the night with the Flanders children and had to sleep in the big clown beds, then was so disturbed by the whole situation that he crawled to the end of the bed and said, “Can’t sleep, clown’ll eat me” over and over again.

Needless to say, I’ve opted not to share the Scary Clown Bed story with Alex just yet.

The grass-eating monsters and cows are wreaking enough havoc on his sleep as it is.

In a completely unrelated item, we ate supper at a Mexican place tonight, and in addition to regular salsa they serve some sort of black bean salsa that is quite possibly the most delicious thing I have ever eaten in my whole life ever, and that includes fried chicken.

I can tell that there are black beans (run through the food processor), onions, garlic, and lots of vinegar in the delicious alterna-salsa, as I like to call it…but I don’t have any idea what the actual recipe is. Do any of you interweb people have a recipe that you think is similar? Because I would LOVE to make this stuff at home.

Also, we haven’t watched TV all week, and even though “all week” is at this point only about four days, I feel that it’s some form of record for me and perhaps someone should issue me a Certificate of Achievement.

Anyway, I have several Paula Deen shows, “The Bachelor,” “Dancing With The Stars,” and three days’ worth of “Oprah” waiting for me on TiVo, and while I would love to write more, I think if I don’t park myself in front of the television here in the next five minutes I’m going to go into full-blown withdrawal.

With the shakes and everything.

See y’all tomorrow.

Just an hour ago I was sleeping peacefully, dreaming about basements or carpet or windows or some other housing-related topic (oh, don’t roll your eyes – it only makes good sense that my OCD would carry over into my dreamlife since I am unable to quit thinking about basements and carpet and windows in my awake life, and really, it shouldn’t even surprise you anymore when I tell you how weird I am. Because I am BONA FIDE weird, my friends).

But then I heard Alex crying.

And I guess what I mean by ‘crying’ is that he was shrieking with the force of all nature.

So I jumped out from under the covers and ran to the stairs, which, as best my drowsy brain could deduce, was the general vicinity of All The Noise.

The little man was standing about four steps from the bottom landing, pointing wildly in the direction of the dining room while he perfected his high-pitched screaming techniques. I’m still not sure what 1) prompted him to come downstairs or 2) caused him to reach a whole new level of decibel heights, but the bottom line is that he’s now sleeping soundly in our bed, and his daddy and I are wide awake.

I feel that something is wrong with this equation.

But since I’m awake, I will take this opportunity to fill you in on what’s going on in our little neck of the woods, and while it’s probably a bit presumptuous of me to assume that you, you know, care, I really can’t think of anything else to do at 2:53 in the morning except for watching infomercials, and if I do that then I’ll never get back to sleep because I’ll start obsessing about food dehydrators and the Murad skin care system. And Flowbees.

So let’s see.

Alex has started calling one of his buddies from Mother’s Day Out his “brother friend,” and when he says it my heart skips a beat (or nine) because I often pray that if he is our only child, he will have friends who are like family to him. So in that respect, hearing a three year old say “brother friend” is like God reaching down, patting me on the shoulder, and reassuring me that All Is Well.

It makes me smile. And it melts my heart.

In casting news, D was a bit upset that I chose Andrew Shue to play him in the Lifetime movie I created in my head when we were trapped in the car for two days this past weekend when people were showing our house. Frankly I think that D is still carrying around the stereotype of Billy from “Melrose Place,” picturing the guy who stood around shirtless the majority of the time and uttered memorable dialogue like, “UHHHH, Alison!”

I assured my husband that the casting was based solely on people who I thought might be available or willing to make a Lifetime movie – not because they bore any physical or intellectual resemblance to us – but as soon as I finished making my point I realized the insanity, the total insanity, that we were having a discussion – and a lively one, at that – about who we would cast in a Lifetime movie about our real estate misadventures, and clearly it was time to back away from the hypothetical casting ledge.

Also.

I have written before about my annoying tendency to completely overlook the obvious.

And so in that tradition, I feel compelled to tell you that yesterday, for the first time in my life, I realized that the phrase “Civil War” is an oxymoron.

Please don’t tell my professors from graduate school. They would be mortified.

Not to mention that when I shared my sudden clarity about this phrase with D, he said, “I don’t think I would tell anyone that.”

But I just did.

You can thank Alex for my exhaustion-induced confession.