Well, all the house wrangling is rapidly coming to a close. We're meeting with the mortgage guy this Wednesday to finalize all the paperwork on our loan. The close dates on both the house we're selling and the one we're buying are set for March 11...that makes 18 days until the big move day.

We've started packing. We have a lovely wall of boxes built up in the hallway. I think last count put the packed box total at something close to 20. And this is just stuff that we don't touch on a weekly basis. I didn't think we'd accumulated so much crap in the last nine years, but I guess we have.

I'm trying to get as much house moving stuff taken care of as I can, but I've run into a harsh realty. The embodiment of this reality is the tenant currently living the house we're supposed to move into on March 11. I've called a couple of places trying to get the necessities like electricity, water, and cable transferred to the new house, with no success. It seems I have to wait until the current residence decides to cancel all his services before I can do anything. Apparently the soon-to-be out on the street tenant doesn't care if I have running water and heat on March 11. I suppose I wouldn't care either.

"That looked painful." Not something you want to hear when your Sa Bum Nim is watching you perform a technique. Yet, that is what I heard last night from my instructor as we worked on jumping, spinning, back kick. Yes, it was painful, in oh so many ways.

Physically painful to execute. My lower back just can't handle jumping while tucking one leg under and throwing the other leg straight out behind...oh yeah and turning in mid-air at the same time.

Mentally painful to execute. My brain didn't understand how it was supposed to coordinate the turning,jumping, spinning, kicking, while keeping the hands tucked close to the body. So naturally, it just sent the message to arms and legs to make everything look like crap.

Visually painful to watch, at least for Sa Bum Nim. Although I didn't actually see it myself, I know it looked horrendous. However, the looks of amusement on the faces of people watching class lead me to believe they were seeing something bordering on comical.

Men driving white trucks have it out for me today. In less than 15-minutes my remarkable defensive-driving skills were called upon twice because of morons in excessively large pick-ups.

The first guy was at a complete stop. He let the car a few yards ahead of me pass and then decided he could go ahead and pull out to make his left turn. My being suspicious of all other drivers is the only thing that prevented a crash. I had my eye on him and when he hit the accelerator I swerved over into the other lane which, thankfully, no one happened to be using at the time.

With adrenaline still coursing through my blood stream, I had to avoid my next near collision. There is an insanely narrow and sharp curve leading into the parking lot at work. It's pretty much blind and will only hold one car at a time. This potential for disaster is magnified by the number of idiots who head into it at 30 miles an hour. I was more than halfway through the turn when white truck number two comes barreling toward me. Some stupid frat boy in the truck his daddy bought (and probably pays insurance for) decided he needed to park his vehicle in the driver's seat of someone else's ride. I hit my accelerator and moved as far to the right as I could. I think divine intervention must have prevented us from smacking into each other.

Just so you know, if you're male and you're driving a disgustingly large white pick-up truck. I don't like you. Stay away from me.

Well, we've made an offer on a house. We're calling it the compromise house because its the first one we saw that we were both okay with.

We should find out sometime today whether or not our offer was accepted. I hate all the waiting. My blood pressure has to be through the roof. My head swims and my stomach twists into knots when I think of all the things that need to be done between now and March 11 (which is when we close on the house we're selling). If all goes well with the offer we've made, we'll also close on the house we want to buy on March 11 (which will mean I have even more to do between now and then).

I can't wait for all this house stuff to be over with. Weeks of not being able to follow my normal routine tends to make me cranky or, should I say, extra-cranky.

Friday the 13th I officially became a red belt. Sort of a weird feeling. I remember being a white belt and watching the red belts and just being in awe of their power and technique. At present, I don't think I'm capable of inspiring awe in any white belts.

Anyway, after promotions a few of us headed over to a local "pub" to partake of some beer and greasy food. I'd never really been to this place before, but an establishment immediately shoots to the top of my list when I see "Guinness Draught" on the beer menu. I placed my order of a pint of Guinness and a Gargantuan-Nacho-Supreme Platter. I anxiously waited the nectar of the gods.

My satisfaction in being able to order something other than an American pilsner evaporated when the waitress set my ice-cold pint of Guinness down in front of me. Did you catch the meaning in what I just said? "ice-cold pint of Guinness." The words "ice cold" and "Guinness" should never be used in the same sentence. Unless, of course, it is to say, "it's ice cold outside, bring me a Guinness" or perhaps "I don't drink crappy ice-cold American beer, bring me a Guinness."

Guinness room temperature is a tasty delight; it flows creamily over the palatte. Ice-cold is just plain nasty; it puts an unpleasant edge on the flavor, it rolls off the tongue too quickly instead of lingering in warm, frothiness.

I tried to let the first one warm up to room temperature, but it just wasn't happening. Apparently the pint I was drinking out of had some kick ass insulation. I decide it was better to drink more quickly rather than less slowly. Once the third pint got to the table, I really didn't care it they were serving it to me frozen on a stick. All and all, I have to say even a crappy, ice-cold pint of Guinness is better than anything domestic.

I just found out that my opinion ranks pretty much near the bottom in the house making decision. Let's see who gets more say than me? Well, my husband of course, then his parents, then his co-workers, then his co-workers' spouses, then some casual aquaintences (of my husband of course, not mine), then I guess my opinion comes into play.

However, please don't let that stop you. If you have an opinion about where I should live, please post it in comments. I'll make sure my husband reads it. Because when it comes right down to it, we really want you, the casual web reader, to be happy about where my family will live.

We all know that any of the things I find important to consider when buying a house are all purely emotional and entirely too selfish. I mean, who really who cares about where their house is. Is the drive between home and work really something you should consider? No, because quite honestly you only make that drive twice a day, five days a week.

Please, tell me where I should live, I'm far to irrational to make that decision for myself. Oh yea, and I'm lazy. I never did anything to care for or improve the house we just sold, so quite naturally I shouldn't be expected to do anything in my new house. You'll definitely want to remember that when you're picking something out for me.

Oh, and when you're finished finding me a house, please balance my checkbook.

I believe that searching for the house we can live happily ever after in is actually going to be what ends my marriage. At the very least, the kids are going to need loads of therapy once house hunting is all said and done with.

In my mind, I've found what I want to live in for the next 30 years. The house I don't mind working on and turning into the perfect home for me. Said house is not the perfect house for my husband. You do the math. Somethings going to give and either way it isn't going to be pretty.

I saw the house I want to live in today. It needs some updating, but it doesn't appear to have any major structural damage. It has a pool, which we weren't looking for in a house, but the more I think about it, the more I like the idea of having one. The husband is more cool on it than me. The house isn't perfect, but I can see myself turning it into the perfect house for me.

It looks like we may have sold our house already. We've had two offers. The lady who made the higher offer had a condition that her husband be allowed to see the house today. We agreed to the condition, so if he likes the house than I guess all we have to do is what for inspections and the closing date. It's so weird to think that a month from now, my house may not be my house.

Okay, now for a panic moment, where the hell am I going to live!