The Secret

My mother is saying a 57-day Novena. We planted St. Joseph head down in the dirt in our gorgeous brick planting boxes that line our Porte-Cochere. We've even lowered the price. Still our home back in the Evergreen state hasn't sold. (side rant: It's a gorgeous house, and I'm picky, so I'm just shocked it hasn't sold. It's been on about 65 days, which I know given the market in most places isn't bad, but for us it is. Every agent that tours it says, "Oh it's a great house, priced well, it's going to sell in no time." and then it doesn't!)

Anyway, I've been pretty laid back about all this so far (very uncharacteristic for my Type A self). We've had paid corporate housing for a couple months; PB has adjusted well to our "hotel" as we call it. There was no rush.

NOW THERE IS! I want a house. I'm sick of living in an apartment; and I want my stuff. I want space. I want my white fluffy robe from the Mercer in New York. I want my cupcake tins and my Kitchenaid mixer. I want my garlic press and my recipe books. I want more of my shoes (I only brought four out of an embarassingly large collection); and I want my pillow. More improtantly, I don't want to dig into savings to pay to months of rent on top of a mortgage.

So instead of sitting idly by I'm invoking the famous Secret. (I'm sure you all know the Oprah-endorsed, positive thinking, book, CD, video, empire). I'm going to visualize my house selling THIS weekend--just like that kid did when he wanted a bike. I'm even putting it out here in the blogosphere that I'm envisioning the call coming this weekend. I see it; I hear it; I believe it.

And I hope to God that I can come back here and tell you that the Secret is really all it cracked up to be--that our offer will come in, just like that little kid's bicycle did. I'll be their freakin' spokesmodel for free.

I'm off to visualize our offer...