Once again, a bum is right.

I won't bury the lead here, or wait until the end to mention that we got the house.

And as always with me, the day I was told our final offer was accepted, I kind of already knew.

While walking my pug Thursday morning, a man on a bicycle called out to me, "Excuse me m'am."

Noticing his body was buckling under backpacks and a bed roll, I paid special attention, as homeless men and I share a kinship.

"Yes?"I asked.

"What is your name?" The man on the bicycle asked.

So I told him mine and the pug told him his.

"You're blessed today," he said. "You are beautiful and today is beautiful. Good things come to you today."

And I said, thanks. And he said, good day.

Now. Had I not mentioned this story to Joe upon immediately entering the apartment, I fear he would have outright said I was lying, when later that afternoon, after a lunch interview in Sarasota, my phone rang and Joe said, "We got the house."

And like I said, I kind of already knew, so after squealing, "WHAT? WE GOT IT?" I lowered my voice and said, "Well, I suppose the bum already knew, right?"

And Joe agreed. He's used to things like this by now. We all have guardian angels. I have bum angels and if you ask me, Joe is damn lucky to have a girlfriend with bum angels. Especially in St. Pete, where bums abound.

And so our conversation took a turn, not in the direction of bum premonitions, but in the direction of total baffled shocked. After back-and-forth negotiations this week, we never expected the homeowner to accept our final offer. We were still $18,000 apart. Sure Realtor Randy gave us hope, what with his positive percentages and all. But $18,000 is still a pretty big unflushable turd, if you know what I mean ... or at least it's a turd to be reckoned with.

Cynical journalists. We were still not convinced. Even me, the hopeful one, the dreamy one, the one with bum angels at her fingertips. Even I was not convinced.

So after work we met up with Realtor Randy at The Ale House in St. Pete, where he said he'd be sitting in full Philly Eagles regalia watching a preseason game at the bar.

When we got there we were still so unconvinced that neither one of us felt compelled to order a beer.

"C'mon! Order a round," Randy insisted.

"Nah," Joe said and I shrugged.

"You guys just bought a house. Get yourselves a beer!" He cheered, throwing his own giant stein in the air.

"We'll celebrate when we're at our kitchen table," we replied.

Randy shot Joe a look. The kind of look that said, dude I carted your ass all over St. Pete for two months looking at houses. We find one. The guy accepts your crappy offer and now we're at a bar, signing the final offer and you disrespect me, your devoted Realtor, by denying one celebratory beer?

We could not get past the fact that no one runs away with Florida real estate, not even in 2008. Begrudgingly we each ordered a brewski, and by the time the last line was signed in Randy's stack of Keller Williams paperwork, we were both feeling good and celebratory.

Later that night while grocery shopping at Publix, I noticed that Joe reached for the cheapest, smallest can of bread crumbs.

"You never buy that little can," I said.

"We're homeowners now. We're going to be poor for awhile." He said.

I smiled and clicked my heels. In my head of hopeful girly bubble thoughts, I catalogued this moment under The Most Rousing Line Of The Night and proceeded to the check-out.

--

PS. The illustration above is by New York City artist Kelly Mudge. To purchase this hauntingly excellent painting click here.

Ready for his money shot.

Lance, meet Heath. Heath, meet Lance. You guys have not been officially introduced. But today I think is perhaps a good day for you two to meet.

A little background on Heath ...

Joe conceived Heath one January afternoon in a fit of obsessive compulsion. Heath is a composition/compulsion notebook filled with my boyfriend's daily budget. In it he accounts for every receipt, every deposit, every bill (cell phone, electric, rent, car, fancy expensive haircuts, etc.) And over the last several months Heath has become such a thing of beauty that just opening its pages is like discovering the DaVinci code or an ancient Dead Sea scroll.

Heath is omnipresent. He is the Buddha of our budget.

If we go to CVS and buy two pints of ice cream, Heath knows. If I skimp on groceries resulting in a rash of Carrabba's takeout, Heath knows. If the price of gas goes up today, Heath knows by tomorrow. If Heath could talk he would sound like Rain Main. "Ten minutes to Wapner. Gotta get my boxer shorts at K-Mart. Gotta keep a receipt. Definitely gotta keep a receipt."

When Joe created this thing he scribbled 2008 Financial Ledger on the notebook's cover and when Heath Ledger died I crossed out "Financial" and wrote "Heath" in it's place. I'm a morose celebriholic I know. (For more on Heath see the April post Dreamy for broken down ferris wheels.)

Today was a big day for Heath. Today was like Heath's first day of kindergarten. Joe and I got approved for two mortgages and looked at four grownup houses in our St. Pete neighborhood ... but more on that later as I'm tired, ready for bed and filled with pizza. Adventures in Real Estate: Take One.

Dreamy for broken-down ferris wheels.

Hi.

I'm getting ready for bed, which is ironic given I'm starting this thing to devote my clear-headed awakened-ness to writing again in the wee morning hours before Joe wakes up. (9 a.m. - 11 a.m.) And though this is a weekend blog and not a Thursday night blog, tonight is a test. Tonight I introduce myself.

I'm not a fan of the word blog by the way. I think it's one of the more annoying words we say. Right up there with caucus and David Petraeus. So lets call this something else. Something a little more lyrical or sarcastic or poetic or plucky. Joe has a composition book he keeps track of all his finances in. A true composition notebook - the white and black kind teachers made us buy in elementary school. Joe has one of these that he's outlined all his finances in. He drew a calendar inside with the months of the year broken into boxes big enough to log his daily expenditures and incomes. And in each day he's alloted himself money for various things according to his budget. In the space where a student might write his name. ("This book belongs to ...") Joe wrote "2008 Financial Ledger."

After Heath Ledger died I crossed out the word financial and scribbled in Heath's name. So now we call the composition notebook The Heath. As in: "Do you want to do Chinese take-out tonight?" "I don't know. Will The Heath allow it?" Or: "We can go to Radiohead next month! I'm $200 over in The Heath."

I think it's a loving tribute to Ledger.

I tried to make a Heath. It didn't work. I lost interest in the organization. But I really want one. So in honor of Heath, Joe and my unborn novel I'm going to call this my Lance. Here's why:

I have a good friend named Sarah who still lives in my hometown in Western New York. When we were in high school Sarah used to fantasize about running away with a cowboy named Lance as many country girls are inclined to do. (Except me. Cowboys are fine, I just like nerdy writer types better.) I, unlike Sarah, fantasized about running away with a book. Camping out in the woods Thoreau-style and writing from sunup to sundown, oblivious to mosquito bites and societal norms.

So this my Lance.

And I've got to go. I'm reading the best book. It's called "The God of Animals" by Aryn Kyle. And it's amazing.

PS. The picture above is of a ferris wheel I waited too long to ride. Let this be a warning to those of you who wait to ride ferris wheels. ("Oh lets go get cotton candy first." Or: "The Whack-A-Mole line is shorter.") Ferris wheels break down. Sad but true. So ride them before they do. And if you happen to be on one when it does go kaput, count yourself the limelight-loving storyteller of the evening when you tell your friends and family how your life (and several carnies) flashed before your eyes as you waited to come down. I can only imagine the kind of creative brainstorming that comes on like a nausea when you're stuck on a broken-down ferris wheel.