Queasy gets you nowhere but in line for a Jack and Ginger

So, I've pretty much wanted to throw up for the past few days. No, not because of bulimia. I've never been a puker and we all know starving is truly the only way to get skinny. Basically because actually buying a home is the scariest thing I've ever done (other than dating Crazy Von Youneedtogototherapywithme, but that was more scary in an I might end up in pieces in a freezer way than in an I might end up in bankruptcy way). It represents things I've never really had to come up against before.. responsibility to someone besides myself, money management, and living with R's dirty man panties, for examples. And in the past few days, the knowns and the unknowns have converged and transformed me from happy-go-lucky, let's get a house! and paint it! and a dog! and love it! and an outdoor screened-in-bed, like gypsies! and use it! to this sort of blubbering mess of fear and stress and apprehension. What if I lose my job? What if "normal settling" really means "quicksand"? What if the pearl-bedecked Sally Field lookalike next door burns down our house because we are the loudest people on earth, even sober, and I already know she is going to hate us as only a Catholic soccer mom could? What if what if what if...

The answer to all of these questions, as R so eloquently put it earlier today, is:

SACK UP.

Basically, I can sit here and worryworryworry myself to the point of grinding my teeth down to tiny Gollum-esque stubs or I can take this risk and live somewhere where we can make a life and a family and a future that will be what we want to make it: ours. So I am gonna sign those papers on Monday and I am going to stop worrying about the What Ifs and focus on the What Nexts.

And then we are gonna get shit-canned and celebrate being in more debt than a small African nation because THAT is the American way.