Midnight Epiphany and Second House

Quite the roller coaster, this buying a house business. I'd forgotten!

Our second house pleased me more than the first. The view was phenomenal, a great two car garage, little porches for different sun spots during the day, an indoor outdoor entertainment area with fold back louvered doors, and a couple of established garden beds. The best part?

FOUR cat doors. FOUR, people. Each little porch had a cat door, so the pets could laze in the sun in the open air at any time of the day. And a cat door into the garage, where I’d put their litter boxes so the house is less likely to smell. (And, truthfully, I could skip a day of cleaning every now and then.)

If we are looking for a property to make the cats happy, here it is! See the little cat door below? (It’s behind the chair.) Unfortunately, Herr Zen did his own inspection, which is much more thorough and human related.

It didn’t pass inspection. He pointed out what he’d noticed, and I had to agree with his assessment. The clincher? The lower floor, sold as a guest suite with separate bedroom and living space, didn’t have a bath or shower. Just a toilet. (I am now thinking the hot tub on the outside deck of the lower level was a panicked attempt to provide a bathtub for guests.)

He was disappointed. I was disappointed. We so wanted this house, within walking distance of the little town we like, to be the one. Game over. Deliver the furniture and get started with the next phase. Our realtor is a champ, though. She is calm, focused and doesn’t try to sell us either way - she let’s us go through the process ourselves.

We came home crestfallen but ready to take a look at the next house on our list. Herr Zen went upstairs to read for a while, then came running down to me ten minutes later holding his laptop. He’d found a house. It’s not on my short list. He’s fallen in love with it. It has everything - except a garage and a location inside our chosen perimeter. And it’s overbudget. (Hence the failure to jump to the short list. All my hard work for naught.)

And for some reason, I freaked out. After much soul searching at 2 am (the actual time of my epiphany, but not nearly as cool sounding for a title) I boiled it down to two things. One is obvious. The other one was not pleasant to consider, but necessary to face if I really want to change it. And I do.

But let’s take the easy one first.

My role in our marriage has been to be the emotional, happy cheerleader. To see the possibilities, to get excited about the little things. I am the indulged, cossetted wife while Herr Zen is the sensible, practical protector.

I used to joke that I married him because if there’s ever a nuclear apocalypse and we live in caves hoarding our canned food, he will take out any zombie who tries to come in and fool me into feeling sorry for them. Pretty sure it’s actually true. The man is a survivor. He gets things done. I am the procrastinator who paints pretty pictures for the cave walls.

To see my practical husband, who checks for moss in gutters and cracks in driveways, enamored with a property took me aback. Because, by default, that puts me in the negative role, the fault finding role, the BRAKE before DISASTER, as it were. I’ve never been a brake. I mean, I think I'm good at it, at least I was for my legal clients. But your personal life is different and separate.

After realizing that yes, this place DOES suit us down to the ground - a little quirky, great craftmanship, not a lot of upkeep, gorgeous wood tones inside and a brand new shower room, even a separate building for guests - I tried to point out the defects. There are a few - but who cares? It makes him happy!

Looking at defects makes me sad. I’m glad he normally does it. It sucks the joy right out of you. And it’s hard, because I love seeing him this excited. But I also don’t want to jump on something and realize later we jumped wrong. It’s outside of my comfort zone.

In the middle of the night, at 2 am, anxiety hits. As it does. (I hate that darkness, when I know I have hours of worry time before the sun comes up to disinfect my brain.)

And what did I worry about? What happens to the trash. Does it go to the dump? Or are there trucks out in the country? What if I have to take it to the dump if he’s on a motorcycle trip or sick? If they pick it up at the road - it IS a main road, even though it’s a bit out of town - can I roll the trash cans down on my own? Can I be self sufficient if I need to be in the future?

I am happy to relinquish these worries to him. Not that he worries - he researches and figures it out. What a concept.

I have trouble with the planning. The budget. In addition to being a procrastinator, I am also LAZY. I am worrying about a WHAT IF, and that will run you slap crazy. I should know.

ANYWAY. I can change or work around procrastination and laziness. Those are easy to recognize. I just need to kick myself in the butt more. The second epiphany was not as simple.

Here it is. And it’s shameful. I am in grave danger of turning into the Jean Ainslie character in the Best Exotic Marigold Hotel. She’s not the heroine. I should be the heroine of my own life story for gosh sake. Get a grip.

I want to be the Evelyn Greenslade character. Of course. Everybody DOES! Easy enough, right? Especially since I’m in beautiful, friendly Tasmania. I speak the language, everyone is incredibly nice. I just need to keep pulling my head out of the past a la Jean Ainslie and turn it in the other direction, like pragmatic, positive thinker Evelyn.

(Okay, as an aside - what about this haircut on Fraulein Zen for the soft water problem? Hmm. Of course, you’d have to have Judi Dench’s bone structure. Eh. Never mind.)

Ugh. When that Marigold Hotel epiphany hit me at 2 am I sat straight up in bed. Then snuggled back down and hugged my husband. What a git I’ve been, as my Brit husband would say.

We’re looking at the house. We’re throwing away the earlier strictures. We’re starting again. It might be WONDERFUL. And even if the house is not as expected, it has us looking in a new location. A lot of good can come from that. Trust the universe.

On to the second part. One of my readers - and favorite substack writers, A Pebble in My Shoe - asked about the Scorched Peanut chocolate bar from my Pajama Day substack.

It’s fricking DELICIOUS! The best of all, by far. It even beat out the Crunchie, blew it out of the water. The toffee isn’t too hard, but it’s crunchy. Sort of like a Heath bar with peanuts and extra salt. Perfection. And it’s not huge like a Dairy Milk so you can also pretend you’re being virtuous.

If you are in the US and want to try one, here you go.

I looked up a little history on the candy and laughed out loud. OH, this is definitely the place for me. I think I’ll be fine with the Australian sense of humor.

Scorched Peanut Bars were first manufactured in 1928. It was originally manufactured by Mastercraft, then by Nestlé who later discontinued it. In October 2019, the Scorched Peanut Bar was re-launched into the market by Cooks Confectionery in Wollongong, New South Wales.

The product was promoted as "The Hard Bar" and was advertised using sexually suggestive and masculine imagery. One example of this suggestive advertising is a 1980s television commercial involving a rugged looking lumberjack felling and then straddling a tree and unsheathing a Scorched Peanut Bar on his thigh. An attractive female companion arrives and places her hand on the tree he is straddling. The ad attracted criticism and was subsequently replaced with a less controversial one. - Wikipedia

From the comments, it seems the original was even more suggestive! “This is the toned down, wowsered version. In the original, she joins him on the log, straddling it face to face.”

Before political correctness. Good times. ;)

You’ll note I haven’t added any photos of the mystery house. I don’t want to jinx it. That’s how good it looks. SCARY.