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I am in love with my husband, and he me. We have a happy, healthy, and cute-as-hell 2 year old son. In addition to supportive and loving families, we have generous parents helping us with a down payment on a house. And friends. Good ones. Lots of them. I have my dream job. My husband is getting closer to his (and it happens to be a couple of doors down from mine). We live in one of the most desirable small cities in the country. All this is to say that it’s high time I started paying more attention to all that I have, not all that I want but currently am without. I know this is serious cheese. But I just have to let it be known that I, the ultimate Debbie Downer , have decided to throw up my hands, let the stress go, and trust that, as my students say, “it’s all good.” We’re 0-for-2 and we may actually go 0-for-6, but who really cares. I am tired of stressing out about four walls, interest rates, and competitive bidding. I guess you could say I have a case of the “fuck its” (Dana Carvey, 2008).
Funny how while we may not have control over what happens to us, we have total control over how we interpret it. Damn. I sound so much like my mother. And this is a good thing.
I guess I really am sensitive to circumstances. And I’m not (just) talking about things like hate-crimes, genocide, world hunger and climate change. I’m talking about the petty little issues that make up my so-called “first world problems.” Like being unable to find the right house in these first few weeks of our search. I really thought we’d find a house in a week or less. Mainstream media keeps talking about all of the houses left unsold, the nosediving housing prices, the buyer’s market phenom. But this doesn’t seem to apply as much to Crunchyville. And we are now well into our second month on the market.
And I’m not sleeping. Three hours last night. Yep. Three. Today I’m actually going to dole out some extra cash to drop Bump off at his daycare. We don’t normally do daycare on Thursdays because of our work schedules, but I can’t imagine being able to run on empty until six tonight. Plus we have a dinner engagement, so I definitely need to sleep if only to be able to talk coherently for the evening.
Our new dilemma: do we downsize and move into a house that is under 1200 sqft. so we can live closer to work (we both work on campus, which is also where Bump’s preschool will be for the next three years), and so we can avoid spending so much money on a mortgage? Or do we find a home within the 1200-1500sqft range that is a bit further out (but still a 10-15 minute commute) and a bit pricier (but still theoretically within our range)? Part of me thinks we should opt for the latter because we’ll want to leg room and the space and it will be worth the price. The other, Virgoan part of me thinks that would be foolish in today’s uncertain times (stagflation, energy, yadda yadda yadda). These are the questions keeping me up at night. Somebody please: throw me a house or a soporific. This gal needs to chill.
Still recovering from house-buying heartbreak (see previous post), Mr. G. and I have decided to be a bit more creative in our search. That is, we are now considering houses that haven’t been remodeled since the seventies. Not quite fixer-uppers (piping, electrical, roof are all fine), but you might call them houses in need of a face-lift. Or a carpet lift? Still, though, I kinda like the earthy colors and feel of rooms like this:
I can so imagine hosting a cheese and chocolate fondue party in this room.
We made an offer, yes we did.
Peace,
Mrs. G
Dear Reader:
May you never, ever ever have to look for a house to buy in Crunchyville, USA (where I live, of course). Why? Because unlike the rest of our dear nation, the housing market is alive and well (and on its way up from a little case of the sniffles, if that). For homeowners and potential sellers, this is good news. For first time home-buyers making a modest living? Not so good. Prices are “soft,” but not that soft.
How do I know this? Yesterday Mr. G and I made an offer on a beautiful home. Our offer was solid: we offered the asking price. We thought about offering less — because of the so-called soft market — but we didn’t want to risk getting outbid.
We got out bid. Somebody offered above the asking price. No, you haven’t entered the twilight zone. Just Crunchyville. This is a place where all the homes worth caring about are not only selling, but being bid on by multiple desperate home buyers.
What’s with houses like the one below? Anybody want a garage with a house attached to it? We don’t!
Just looking at it is making me queasy. It’s houses like this that have us convinced that our options are limited. And if we can’t live in a cute Craftsman, Rambler, or Bungalow (you know, something built before the McMansion Era) we will resign ourselves to another long year of renting bliss. I just can’t do it, folks.
I grew up in L.A. Really, I did. My mother being the huge sports fan that she still is, Vin Scully and Chick Hearn made up the soundtrack of my life for a good ten years. I grew up going to Dodger games in the summer, Bruin games in the winter, and Laker games in the spring. My mother even has pictures of my preadolescent brother and I hugging Kareem Abdul Jabbar’s knees before a game in the L.A. Forum. Magic Johnson once called me “baby” (“scuze me, baby” were his exact words to me as I stood slightly in his way upon entering the post-game private club house. How my mom scored those tickets I will never know). Once I even sat a few rows behind Michael Jackson during a Laker game. (This was during the Thriller era, so needless to say MJ was the man then). All this is to say that during the 1980s the L.A. Lakers meant as much, if not more to me than MTV, Atari, and John Hughes films.
Then I met my husband. He grew up on the East Coast. He spent his formative years in Boston. His childhood hero is Yaz from the Red Sox, a team rivaled only by the Celtics in his heart of sporting goodness. We met in 2001 just after the Lakers won the Championship, and just before they did it again the next year. We fell in love talking about hoops. I’ll never forget what the cable guy said to me when I told him about our divided NBA loyalties. “There’s no love in this house,” he said while installing our NBA League Pass.
Fast forward six years and you’ll find Mr. G and I carefully holding our tongues (and shouts of utter joy) as our teams face off in the finals. Those of you in the know understand that this rivalry is bigger than us. Yes folks, we be making history. And this year the sweetness of victory and the sting of defeat are especially strong as Mr. G and I are firmly on opposite sides of the fence (or actually, couch). I even flew the fam to California a week ago so that I could surround myself with Laker Love. Seriously, it is so cool to hate L.A. where I live; I swear that Laker fans are on some sort of endangered species list up here.
So where do we stand at the moment? Well, from my end of the couch, things do not look good. The Celtics are up 3-2 and the last two games are in Boston. What is an adoring wife to do? Ever the pessimist, I’m 99% certain my boys in the purple and gold will go down in Bean Town. So do I swallow my California pride and stand by my man, content in the memory of the now famous Laker “three-peat” of the very recent past? That seems the honorable thing to do here. I was prepared to do just that, but then the Lakers went and won Game Five in L.A. and it revved up my competitive engine. I know there are more important things in the world to think about these days, but this rivalry has me all tied up inside.
It doesn’t help that my one and only Celeb Crush had to show up in L.A. basking in his Celtic pride.
Now. I’m. Really. Torn.
