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But It’s Just a House…

by Nancy McDaniel

It wasn’t something I planned to do. I just happened to go to a board meeting in a new (to me) and magical neighborhood. I saw the house with a For Sale sign and that’s how it all started. My life was turned upside-down and became a “looking-at-a-new-house episode” of the past three weeks. It was an emotionally turbulent and extremely thought-provoking time for me.

“I Will Never Sell My House. Not EVER”
Despite what some people think (and I might wish), I am not a person who embraces change easily. I worked at the same company for over 28 years, have lived in the same house for over 26 years and stayed married to the same (wrong) man for nearly 10 years (well, so I figured that one out sooner. Maybe I just liked the job and house more. In fact, I once took a six-month leave of absence from my job because I was very stressed out. Finally I realized, when the time off wasn’t making me feel any better, that it wasn’t the job that was stressing me out; it was my marriage. Duh!)

My ex and I bought a house in an up-and-coming neighborhood (it wasn’t even listed as a “fixer upper;” it was already “fixed up”… sort of) in 1975. There was still some gang activity in the area, mostly just graffiti (oh, and the shooting at Uncle Frank’s, the hot dog stand a couple of blocks away. But they had THE best hot dogs and Polish sausage, so we went anyway, but just during the day).

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Giant Yellow Memory-Eating Beast

by Nancy McDaniel

The man from Omega (“The Last Word in Demolition”) told me it was called a “track hoe with a grappler.” He said it was a small one, only about 50,000 pounds. But to me it looks like a giant yellow beast. A very hungry one. First it bashes and crashes, then it munches and crunches, knocking down the house next door and eating it. Along with 18 years of memories of my next door neighbor, George.

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Dust Bunnies

by Joyce Kohl

There’s a sign in my computer room that says: “WARNING: This house protected by Dust Bunnies.” The sign has been Xeroxed for friends and relatives who, like me, wish to explain the existence of the strange balls in their own households . Our dust bunnies are given names; they have favorite locations, and they wear identifying collars. The prolific little “creatures” are so brave these days that we have attached jingle bells to the larger ones to prevent accidental death by vacuuming. They’re in no danger whatsoever from me or my husband, but my mother endangers their survival on an average of twice a week.

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