My hopes have been dashed. My heart, broken. The house I want so badly doesn't want me.
We submitted a low-ball offer and, though we still haven't gotten a formal response, our Realtor gleaned from a talk with the seller's agent that he is unlikely to come down as low as we'd need him to go. It's no shock, really. Our offer was $100k below asking price. The problem is that my imagination went ahead and moved in anyway, throwing open the shutters and slapping down a dog-paw Welcome mat in the brick entryway.
My imagination is a sucker.
We're going to look at two more houses over the next couple of days, and there's one we've already seen that we may very well bid on. The latter is a perfectly lovely; it's solid and unique and full of amenities. It's just that it doesn't inspire any new feelings in me and it doesn't remind me of old ones.
I think the problem is that I'm spoiled. By The Partner. You see, he was the first person I fell in love with, and I got him. I never had to settle for anything less than the perfect man for me.
He totally skewed my perspective.
But he reminds me, too, that the perfect house for me is not necessarily the perfect house for our family. And what's perfect for us may not be all that evident, either. As a new mother/father/daughter combo, we're collectively clueless.
So we'll continue to do what we've been doing: trying to figure it all out. And hoping that when we fail miserably, we can have fun doing it.