It’s still raining. It’s obviously never going to stop raining. Much like I’m obviously never going to find a frickin house!
Ohm. Totally zen. Sipping more beer. Today while my marriage counselor (a.k.a. cleaning person) was doing his thing in the apartment, I decided to hit a bar. That’s just what you do when you’re losing your mind from the never ending drama of trying to buy a house GODDAMNIT!
Everyone said the selling would be the hard part. Buying would be a piece of cake. Well, I got news for you. Bull shit. Bull. Shit. BULLSHIT!
Hold please, I need a moment to wipe the foaming spit from my mouth. Sigh.
So as I sip my cold brewed beverage and watch some strong man contest on Versus, I’m struck by the thought…what the hell is Versus. Is that a TV show or is that the name of the network. Googling minds want to know. Yikes. After a quick view of the site it’s safe to say I’m not the target demographic. They actually have a program entitled “HOLY @#%*!” and it’s so not as cool as this greeting card I once received.
So to channel my best Carrie Bradshaw…I couldn’t help but wonder…was my quest for a house as stupid and pointless as this strong man bullshit? BRING ME ANOTHER ROUND!
Before you throw your hands up in disgust and head to your nearest bridge with the intent of hurling yourself over the side in solidarity for my plight – all is not yet lost. I’m just an angst queen with a flair for the dramatic. My mom didn’t call me Loretta for nothing.
Let’s review the history of housing attempts: house A – out bid (holy hennapin I loved that house and would probably trade Rocco in still today if I thought it would help – that’s me exaggerating again, baby), house B – leaking oil tanks and foreclosure, house C – out bid (after a week on the hook), house D – lord god that was a nightmare but essentially walked away after they wanted to close in August at best.
Now on to house E – first house I’ve loved since house A, but it remains to be seen if she will be mine. E as in Elly, as in Elephants, as in Emancipation, Elation, End-of-my-fucking-rope-tion. Seriously. Why do they hate me? It’s probably Rocco they don’t like him. If we have to wait till house R, I may just stab myself in the head.
So after talking to my lawyer for the seventeenth time today there might be hope. I just don’t understand why I can’t close before 2010. Is that really so much to ask? I’d resolved myself to not having a garden this year and living off of the produce from farmers’ markets…but I had planned on eating and sleeping indoors primarily. I was hoping to trick the Lonon clan into trekking to NJ for Thanksgiving. In actuality, me and the gatos will still be camping by then.
Before we even saw the place, our agent called and said “My peeps want a 3o day close, do-able?” They said, “Hells yes!” (Note to reader: as per my earlier comment, I have been known to exaggerate and take artistic license.) Then it’s all, “Well, can we close on June 15th?” Then it’s all, “Ya know, June 22nd would just be perfect.” As I may have said earlier, I’ve got mad love for this house. I was willing to do damn near anything to get it – so I said yes to all their requests, despite the power this alleged “buyers market” affords me. Then the letter today from the seller’s attorney this morning with a closing date of July 6th. Really? Want to just pee right in my Wheaties? Would you like to rape my cats, too?
Fuckers.
My most adorable German in the history of the world is coming to visit and be damned if I won’t have a house by then. So, to the owners of the house I hope to buy and then inhabit – suck it. Gimme my damn house! I licked the frickin’ door knob already!! Admit defeat, take your shit ton of money, and give me my damn keys!!!!
Oh good, more foam to wipe off. Rabid foam + no hair = femininity incarnate. I’ll just put on some lipstick and I’ll totally look like a girl again. If I drank an entire 2-liter bottle of Hennepin it still counts as one beer as it was only one bottle, right? ‘Cause I think it might be time for a third beer. Sorry DrewL. I’ll go buy you more birthday beer, old man.
The moral of the story is – it’s at the closing of another business day and I don’t have my house. In sixteen days I don’t have an apartment either. This is me totally zen. Oh-mother fucking- hmmm.