I’m sort of embarrassed to admit this: when I was little–like, from the time I was nine or ten til, um, thirty-three–I drew house plans.
Tons of them. On graph paper.
No twelve-year-old was happier than me when my mom bought me a Southern Living House Plans Magazine to look at for fun. I designed houses, neighborhoods. 18-bedroom mansions, teeny tiny gingerbread cottages–all on the same street. Notebooks upon notebooks of floor plans straight from my melon. The only reason I never wanted to do it for a living was because I am no geometrist. (I’m pretty sure that’s a thing.)
But now, my weird hobby is paying off, because I just designed us the most kick-ash house. This week, Caleb took our ideas to a brilliant seventy-year-old cowboy/architect, and in no less than 24 hours he got back to us with a masterpiece:
And so the ball is rolling. Things are coming together. It won’t be long before we have to pack up and relocate to this dirt:
Squeeeee! You guys. I’m like Jessie Spano–I’m so excited.