We found our house seven years ago this month. It was a mess. Layers of ugly wallpaper, stained carpeting, moldy laundry in the basement, piles of stuff everywhere, tubs and hallways and closets overflowing. (And cabinets - Jon's favorite moment was when he opened a kitchen cabinet and some bullets fell out. For the guns hanging on a rack in the next room.)

When we said we loved the house the realtor visibly stopped herself from talking us out of it. Half an hour after making an offer we sat down for Chinese food at my sister's and I opened this fortune.

We figured it was a good sign.

What made me keep it and frame it, though, was the word 'home'.

My house is making me a bit bonkers. We have what they call a 'pest control problem' - some lovely flying squirrels have moved in. Lots of the projects we thought we'd have done by now haven't even been started. The ones we have started are taking an awfully long time to finish.

But my home is happy.

Probably wouldn't hurt to play those numbers, would it?