From Kate:

Today is the day. We’re putting down a formal offer on a townhome. We’ve had our eye on this community since before we really began looking at homes. It’s an HOA-simple little collection of attached homes, usually 1200-1500 square feet, each a bit different from the next. The homes were built in 1983 and true to form, they wave next to each other in 80s pastel glory, conjuring up images of my Barbie Ice Cream Shoppe playset. The tables turned into real-life ice cream sundae cups, and it was amazing. But I digress.

We have a friend who lives in the complex, and we can walk to a very tasty arepa joint, our favorite thrift store, and even a MARTA station to catch the train to work. Note: I will walk to MARTA much less than Indigo, who is a better person than I am. You’ll notice that as the blog develops. I married up.

Our future home (fingers crossed) is an end unit—that was important to us—but it also has a garage and a bit of basement space that fills up the part of the lower floor past the garage. This all means that we only touch another home on one side, our tiny fenced yard is a bit larger, and we have s.t.o.r.a.g.e. Holy holy holy.

It has some limitations as well. It lacks that antique charm we really value, and as a fat woman who is pretty sure she’ll be diagnosed with arthritis soon, I am a bit nervous about all the stairs. From the garage to our bedroom, it’s at least 25 steps, and they’re narrow and steep. The bathrooms are profoundly uninspired, and the kitchen has new appliances but laminate countertops and floors. And the carpet. It’s so lumpy and discolored, it’s like what northerners think grits are (y’all are wrong, by the way, and grits are really dreamy when you make them right).

Despite my snobbery above, I really want this place. *We* really want this place. It’s a perfect first home for us, and waiting to see if our offer is accepted is going to be hard.

Tick tock.