A key word in my day job may well be money. Green, cabbage, filthy lucre. But, like for a good cause and all.
So, unlike some other places I’ve toiled, including one where they brought a hay bale into the parking lot and tossed around some red and white checked tablecloths on rented tables, they don’t have to go searching for festive venues. They got keys to an historic ranch now donated conservation spread of land.
For me the highlight of the day was the gentleman rancher, heir and scion at home at the 28,359-acre spread (i.e. huge) even though his main home is in the local college town, admiring M.’s Durangos and comparing cowboy boots in general.
I have to admit anxiety over the house buying with M. Sure, I’ve known him a while now. We’ve cohabited for years and all. You never can really know another human being, though. What goes on deep inside.
Tonight, he tells me that he needs to confess something. Between leaving work this evening and getting home, he had embarked on a life of crime.
Well, the mortgage guy is doing what he does. The escrow folks are doing what they do (holding our money?) And, we presume the current owners are finishing their remodeling.
Sunday, Monday and Wednesday the unveiling should proceed from open house to appraisal to inspection. The appointments have been made. In prep last weekend we walked along the beach to the next beach.
For those folks reading along home from the coast on the right of the map, I checked a few distances on Google maps. The house of our current efforts is roughly the same walk as from the doorstep of our Scituate cottage at 17 Spaulding Ave. to the Quarterdeck. On the way, maybe I can buy a popsicle at the market and weep myself into a nostalgic froth.
Next August 15, then, we’ll be in good shape to find out if the cure is in the water. Unless the cure is only in the Atlantic. Or maybe Lourdes.
We have a dream. In M.’s version it has a white picket fence.
We’ve offered, been countered and signed on the bottom line. If all goes according to Hoyle and plan, we might be living in this very kind of white-picket-fence, Ward and June Cleaver, c. 1954 California ranch style.
I was going to embed Google’s street view. But, too much information really. If you know me, email me. If you don’t after this weekend, we should have some photographic evidence of where our money is going. Including the apple tree, from which will spring the culinary embodiment of the dream.
My post title should refer to John McCain and the candidate’s campaign suspending. But, I still haven’t processed the inner meeting of that tactic.
Tactic it must be, ‘cuz I’m just not feeling sincerity from that man.
Nope, the title is related to my mundane existence. With a headache, possibly of the migraine variety, I took off out of work, and I headed home. When I got there, I realized M. was not home, and a quick call verified he had jogged on toward the work place from which I had just rolled away. Back in my car I got and found him in the mean streets of MP to go find food for dinner.
Since my head was throbbing, I tossed him the keys and rode along. He first headed to the gas station to fill up the tank above the fumes currently powering it.
My car it was, so pumping I did. I washed the very pollen and dust-coated glass of the windshield, while he got a refreshing beverage inside. Normal, boring, uneventful, and my head throbbed along. Finishing my squeegee action on the glass, I slouched back into the passenger seat, and M. drove away.
Did you know those hoses on gas pumps detach when you yank on them by driving away with the nozzle still penetrating your car?
A kid in the gas station shouted after us as we got into position to pull out into traffic. M. didn’t know what was happening, until I jumped out of the car and pulled out the nozzle and held it up to him. We were a good 6 to 12 feet from the pump.
I learned that not only does the hose detach itself, but they ask for you to come inside to provide your name, address and phone number just in case you jammed it all up and they need a check for repairs. It’s wonderful that even at this age I can still learn.
My two regrets: We didn’t take a picture, especially sad since we were at an intersection of a busy street during commute time, and a whole lot of folks seemed to be enjoying our show. The second is with a pounding headache, I didn’t let loose the laughter my stupid stunt deserved. M. did.
Well, one offer down and maybe onto another. I guess the cliche for those with faith is something about shutting doors but opening a window, but you’d need some kind of divine actor to keep the right sentence structure.
in simpler, perhaps less hackneyed, words, the owner of the house on which we made an offer did us a huge fucking favor by being a dick. We heard the classic chestnut (sorry more cliches) that our offer was “insulting.” Yeah, fucking right, if “insult” equates with market pricing.
We pitched low, because the square footage was less than we wanted and the flood insurance would have blown (mentally and budget wise). The cherry on that cake was that there would be no refrigerator or washer or dryer in the deal. Didn’t expect the second really, but some has them, and almost everywhere we’ve looked we’ve seen a ‘frig or a discount. The icing would be the gopher holes on visit two.
(Of course, like any Caddy Shack fan, I can see the benefit of the critters for old time fine. They sure can dance.)
The cool part is about two streets away from that overpriced but in sweet shape abode was a similar model. Just a bit more down the road from the mighty purty and cool beach, plus the conveniently located, walking distance grocery store.
Only this puppy has got your extra family room for our family puppet shows or what not. Really, define family before you go condemning us on our need for American, excessive elbow room. Family room it shall be, because “couple room” sounds stupid and kind of sad in a porno way, and “den” is too fucking “Ward, don’t you think you were a little hard on the Beaver.”
(Always go for the extra square footage afterall. Else you are living in one of good, old Pat’s memorable quotes about coupledom and home ownership — “Rats’ll kill each other in a small enough cage.” I think that’s the line.)
Better than the extra square footage , sweeter than sweet extra feet, there’s the lower fucking price. Not so much lower that I’m doing a jig, but at least $200 lower by square foot. Not to mention all new appliances. On top, the flippers doing up the construction are sympatico on the aesthetics front–hardwood floors, ceramic tiles, crown molding and a slate fireplace.
Bringing it on home — Not one, not two but three, count ’em folks, I saw them with my own eyeses fruit bearing trees. Who knew fruit grew on trees? I’m not sure why two lemon, but combine them with the apple and what you got is kickass pie. (If it turns out the not yet installed stove is gas, I just might cream something.)
Worse yet, the fucking homeowner of the place on which we put an offer hasn’t quite sorted out her house was listed too high for the market and the coming fiscal Armageddon. Maybe she’ll realize our offer, coming as it is from two employed, loan-qualified worker bees with actual cash money in the bank, is fine and dandy and come back to us.
But for now, the search, still down by the beach, goes on.
On HBO’s “Real Time with Bill Maher,”Andrew Sullivan, for whom normally I have no great love, at all, made a great point. We ALL every last one of us need to vote, and we HAVE TO CONVINCE five friends to also vote. We have to NOT LET THIS WOMAN BE VICE PRESIDENT.
Pretty much my readership of three here features two voters and a foreigner. But, if there is anyone unsure, vote early and often against Sarah Palin. I won’t say you gotta vote Obama, but my womb, strangers’ wombs, polar bears, the Russians outside her kitchen window, and anyone ever who thought “What a fucking idiot” should all be considered, and the right thing must be done.
Old Sarah and I are the same age. At 44 years young, she’s actually about two weeks older than me. You know how many people I still talk with from BHS class of 1981 at all, let alone with frequency? Two. (Not including my immediate family.) You know how many I would give cush, appointed government jobs without any relevant experience apart from a love of cows? Yeah.
I come from small-town, middle-class white America. (Although, my small town is ginormous compared to Wasilla, AK.) I’m pretty sure most of my high school graduating class have gone on to do a few other things. I’m certain not many of them are still boosting their championship ball handling over a quarter of a century ago as a resume highlight.
Fucking, GAH. Seriously. If you met someone at a party or cookout or bar or a prayer service or grocery store who was over 40 and talked about the lessons they learned as the “Barracuda” in the high school gym, you’d think “What a fucking loser,” and you’d move on. Hell, by college, I remember going on two dates with a guy who kept talking about his disappointment at prom (only a couple years before) and I thought it was a bad sign. Insert 20+ more years, and I’d be running to the door.
My resume goes back 10 years, because I’ve had, you know, jobs and experiences and shit in the last 27 years. My high school isn’t on it. (Maybe the discrepancy is I graduated in 1981, and she graduated in 1982. That could be the essential cutoff year.)
You know what a local, inexperienced, talkative, charasmatic hockey mom with a vague interest in politics and aspirations beyond her town would be great at? Community organizer.
Worse yet, we were waiting for the little puffs of white smoke or distant drumming or email or cell phone buzz to signify that our real estate agent had talked with their real estate agent and the papers were delivered and the dance had begun. M. and I made an offer on a tiny 1950s tract house, a mere 7 minute walk from PacificaStateBeach aka Linda Mar Beach. (Click on Linda Mar for the webcam of the real deal.)
If all goes well we will be watching gray whales migrating south while the sun drops west into the Pacific this winter before heading back to dinner in our gourmet kitchen.
Otherwise, I suppose we’ll keep on slogging through in search of other affordable digs. It’s terrible when imagination takes over as you wait to discover if the owners find you worthy to discuss and hammer out some kind of agreeable deal. While the mortgagees determine your value per pound.
From Baratunde by way of Twitter, I got this link. Rock on Alaska chicks, rock on with your bad protesting selves. Turns out Palin may not be every woman’s favorite candidate. I kind of like the sign that asks about abstinence only education, “How’s that working out for you, Sarah?”
