When Dan moved here last June, ahead of us by a couple of months, he moved directly into our company-provided villa, and then spent about a month getting it ready for our arrival. We've called it home ever since. Secretly, I occasionally have other names for it, but I try to keep those to myself.
When we lived in Calgary, we used to say things like: "We're a one-vehicle family. We choose to live inner-city. And yes, our house may be smaller than our friends' in the suburbs, but we're willing to make that sacrifice so our kids can walk to school, and Dan can take a short public transit trip to work. We don't want to spend our lives in the car." You should've heard us. We were adorable.
Then we sold our house and moved to Doha. It's amazing what 11,000 kilometres and a couple of weeks will do to help you shrug off your principles and become a two-vehicle, SUV-driving, non-recycling family with an impressive 200 tonne carbon footprint. The distance to school from our house is roughly equivalent to that between Mercury and the sun, except the drive to school is not quite as pleasant. My kids now spend so much time on the bus that just yesterday, when Jacob got home, it looked like he needed a shave.
But other than location, our villa is actually quite nice. If I have one tiny, little complaint about the house itself, it would be the kitchen. In realtor parlance, the description would go something like: "1980's style, uninspired design, with shallow sink, four drawers for storage and a grand total of three square inches of counter space. Dishwasher prone to provoke swearing. Seller motivated!" I'm sometimes seen balancing a baking sheet on one knee while scooping from a bowl of cookie dough precariously perched on the top corner of the microwave. Those yoga classes are starting to pay off.
And then, a few weeks ago, Bob Barker knocked on my door and offered me a brand new house. Metaphorically speaking, of course.
Archaic references to The Price is Right aside (seriously, when was the last time I watched a game show?), the company Housing Committee sent out a note that sounded like a potential windfall. They were looking for volunteers to move into a new compound this summer. Given the choice, I'd rather ram a hot poker into my eye while gargling Tabasco than move, but with the location of our current house, we thought we should at least check it out.
Friends of ours, who just recently moved into the new place, pointed out that the drive to school for them was seven minutes. Right now it takes me about seven minutes just to work up the motivation to get in the car. By the time we went for a tour of the show home, I was sold. I threw myself onto the six-foot granite-topped breakfast nook, weeping. Mr. Housing Committee Chair, you had me at the kitchen.
Last Saturday, the Housing Committee held a lottery for choosing villas in the new compound. We were among the twenty-odd families to draw our new addresses out of a hat. Barring any moving company delays, which is a distinct possibility in this town, we should move into our new house sometime this summer. Or, I should say Dan will be moving us into our new house while the kids and I are in Canada. It seems the more things change, the more they stay the same.
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