Sometimes, I almost feel bad for Mack because he’ll call me up for some reason and it’ll set me off on some tangent and the next thing I know I’m off on a course of action that seems eminently sensible and obviously suggested by his comments and he’s all “What the fuck?”
Such was the case today, when he started teasing me about a house fit for my woo-woo crap.
I had already noticed that, when telling people about my grand house hunting adventure yesterday that I was having more fun telling them about the house we saw after the house in the flood plain–the one with the little bridges and the old greenhouse in disrepair and the fireplace and the huge yard and the… well, you can see.
And then Mack’s all like “something something maybe even a little room for your Wiccan/witchy/woo woo crap” and rather than fighting with him about how I am not a Wiccan, I suddenly am like “What if…?”
What if I were to choose a place to live based on how well it could be adapted to the woo-woo shit?
What would I need? Well, land, obviously. A hearth. Space to grow things. Space to sit out. Maybe a source of running water. Room for bookshelves. Space from neighbors. But space for the work. If we had a dining room table, there’d be a table to do readings at.
And when I start to think about it like that, what would I need to live as weirdly as I’d happily live, the last house we looked at starts to look like our best choice.
We’re going to take a closer look at it Thursday afternoon.
Edited to Add: You’re going to tell me that this doesn’t intrigue the shit out of you? Imagine, my friends, it full of bones and drying herbs and bottles and candles and… I’m just saying, how’s a girl supposed to resist this?