Jinx'd

It's my fault. I should never have let Jeff play around on the Sherman-Williams website. See, it's kinda cool. You can load a jpeg of a room on there and then change the color of the walls and trim to your heart's delight.
And of course, I'd mentally put my hive of bees out back and established my puppet workshop in the basement.
We might as well have hung signs around our necks saying "Kick Us!"
Here's the delio: we were --no, we ARE -- in escrow. The house inspection (400 clams thank you very much) passed with flying colors. We talked with an agent about home owner's insurance. We patted ourselves on the back for getting it done by the end of April so that we'd get the tax credit. We figured out a way around the FHA requirement of mandatory connection to the public sewer system. All that was require was the inspection of the septic tank and we (and Sherwin Williams) would be good to go.
The way is was phrased to us was "The septic tank has reached the end of its life." As if the tank were lying in a dimly lit room, propped up on pillows, surrounded by loved ones.
Now, here's what I just don't get: the connection fee to the local sewer --not the pipes, not the labor, just the privilege of connecting to a service that will then bill you monthly -- is $16,000.
To be this close and have it yanked away. It feels like a taunting.
I feel like I've been run over by a cartoon steam roller and am now an eighth of an inch thick.
Weeks of stress and sleepless nights and it's square one again.
Ah well. I suppose the good thing about being run over by a cartoon steam roller, instead of the real thing, is that all it takes is a bicycle pump to be back in shape.

It will be the death of me!

OK. I'm going to proceed with our real estate saga until you beg me to stop.
So, we are in escrow. Earnest money plunked down. Four hundred clams spent on the inspection.
Went to Jonah's wedding on Thursday, told everyone that it looked like we were getting this house. In fact, it's almost all we talked about.
Friday morning, call from Liz. FHA doesn't like septic tanks when you can be connected to the sewer system. In fact, they would need it done by closing....have I mentioned that we've already put a hefty chunk of earnest money down?
It's tens of thousands of dollars to connect to the sewer system. To make it worse, Liz called while I was reading "Beekeeping for Dummies." She said, there were still some angles to work, and that somehow we would make it work.
I curled up in a ball. Wept.
We could not have one more thing snatched form us. And even if we got out of this deal, we'd never make the April 30th deadline for the big Tax Credit.
Long story short. We (I hope, I think) found a way around it. If you can show the bank that it would be a hardship to put connect to the sewer they can waive the requirement.
So, Liz was having a bid put in to find out how much it would cost. And FHA has a guideline (Which I wish was a rule, but no, it's just a guideline) that if the cost is greater than 3% of the house, it could be a hardship.
So, I think we have dodged that bullet. For now. But, it's caused another night of poor quality sleep. And it has me terrified that there is another bomb lurking to sink our dream.
And, today I'm feeling like I'll never have the head space to write again.
Ohhh! This all must end sooooon!

The State of the day

Me: You know, I'm going to feel so much better if I can get even a little bit of writing done.
Low Level Nagging Stress Headache: Umm. No. Not gonna happen.

Phew

And, just barely in time, it happened. Just as I was about six inches from the end of my rope. Just as I was about to scream "I don't want a house, I want a divorce!" Just as I was about to give homelessness a try. We made an offer on a place and it was accepted and it has passed our inspection.
And (oh, I hope I'm not jinxing myself by saying this before it becomes final) I kinda love this house. It's a wee bit further out than I'd ideally prefer. But it's kinda great. A roomy two bedroom, nice sized kitchen, wood burning stove. A soaker tub! With Jets! Oh, and get this: a phone by the toilet! A semi-finished basement to make puppets in! A deck. An attic for the toys.
And the lot is freakin' enormous. It'll take some work, because it could get a little away from us. (Ivy and blackberries currently at bay, but they never rest). But it's kind of fantastic. You're gonna think I'm crazy, but I might just get me a hive of bees! Or two! Maybe chickens are in our future!
There's still mountains of paper work to plow through and I'll miss Capitol Hill and we'll have to pinch a penny or two. And, of course, there is the hauling of our chattel. But at the end of it all: Chickens, bees, baths.

Quick Note

OK, quick note. We put in an offer yesterday and I think, pending inspection, they accepted it!
I'm going from giddy to hyperventilation. The number are so big and getting the right amount of money in the right place at the right time makes me nervous.
Did I mention that this new place has a telephone by the toilet?

The Rolly Coaster

OK. Here's how the first four days of house hunting went:
Friday we go out with Sarah's sister, Liz. We love her. We see a couple ok places: a very small town home and then a funky little house with an Anne Frank attic and maybe a funny smell in the background.
Then, we go to this... this...I don't know, I don't want to gush, but it was fabulous. Four bedrooms. Two fireplaces. Three bathrooms. Cute yard right up against a greenbelt. We checked the bus lines on Liz's iPhone, quite doable commute. Oh, have I mentioned the hardwood floors? And cheap! Well, not cheap, but within our meager budget. We had Liz call the agent right there. She left a message. I had my doubts right away that we'd get it, so I said we should push on and check out our last house of the day.
Well, we didn't even get down the block before the agent called back to say there were already three offers on the table. (Damn table.) We trudge on, our shoulders sagging a little, to the last place. Which was OK. But after the two fireplace house, it just had no sparkle.
Saturday was just a bad day. I had been looking forward to a Printer's Devil Theater meeting/in-town retreat for weeks and weeks. It was kind of going to be the high light of a difficult month. A whole day where I could feel like a writer again. Long story short, Jeff cut his finger pretty bad slicing potatoes and I had to leave the meeting about twenty minutes after it started. (And then get scolded later in the day because I seemed more upset about the aborted gathering than I did about the injured finger.)
OK, so while Jeff was getting a stitch and a tetanus shot, I wipe away the tears and poked around online and found a nice house. When Jeff got home from the ER, he agree. We got a hold of Liz and she arrainged for us to meet there on Sunday morning before an open house she had.
Oh, this cottage! Smaller than Ms. Two Fireplaces, but cute. On nice lot. Good layout. Closer to where Jeff works. Close to some friends. Straight shot to downtown on the bus. We fell in love all over again.
Liz calls. We part. Jeff and I cruise the neighborhood, take Pullo for a walk in a near by park. We go home. Stupidly we start to mentally plant things in the garden, figure out where the furniture will go.
Liz calls. She says they have another offer, but we could come in strong. We go into her office on Sunday evening, draft up an offer that sweetens the pot a little. Sign and initial the hell out of that offer, Jeff doing so with bandaged hand.)
We cross our finger and go home.
Jeff's exhausted. Nobody has slept well, so he calls into work on Monday.
Liz phones about ten, the seller has gone with the other offer.
Here's where we see how differently Jeff and I react to disappointment. Me? I like an initial overreaction: sky's falling, it's the end of the world. I collapse, but briefly. Soon, often after a good night's sleep, I pick myself up, good as new and am ready to face the world.
Jeff on the other hand, got a little rabid. He sat down at the computer and, with only a couple breaks, started looking at listing after listing until seven that night. It scared me. I kept trying to get him to take a break, to no avail. And, if I voiced doubt about a property (oh, have I mentioned that every ten minutes he'd say, "Honey, come look at this one") I was somehow sabotaging the home search.
Oooooh.
Today is only day five. I'll keep you posted.

Common Sense? Never heard of it.

Reason is like a seventeen year old getting off the Greyhound Bus, first time in the big city. Doesn't stand a chance.
Reason is a dainty violet in a cow pasture.
Reason is a soap bubble in a nail factory.
Why is the irrational so powerful? So resilient?
Sweet, sweet reason, rest in peace.

New Plan

OK, I have got to start letting the chips fall where they may.
'Cause this current system I have involving worrying about the chips, just ain't working!
I worry the falling chips are gonna put somebody's eye out. I worry the falling chips will be loud and wake the neighbors. I worry the chips will distract a driver causing and accident. (Probably a school bus driver. Driving a full bus. On the edge of a ravine.)
And those are things that falling chips could theoretically do. See, I quickly move on to worrying about things chips are incapable of.
I worry that chips are made of plutonium and that they'll land on a pile of other plutonium chips causing said pile to reach critical mass and explode. I worry the falling chips will cause cancer in some mother of four living in Omaha (let's call her Beth.) I worry the chips will waken a vengeful spirit.
Then I go on to worry about the chips themselves. I will worry that the chips will be hurt in the fall. I worry the chips will blame me and judge me harshly. I worry the chips will report me to the government. I worry that the chips only understand French (a language I do not speak) and we won't be able to communicate. I worry that the chips like Beth better than me.
But all that's in the past. From here on out: fall, baby, fall!
(But carefully, please.)

Real Estate

Jeff and I are starting the house search.
We've been looking at listings on line.
There are three main variables: Price, location and the house itself.
Within our price range the closer to the center of things, the smaller the place. Go a little further out and you're not just looking at town homes, but actual share-no-walls houses. With Yard! And Mudrooms! God I love a mudroom. (What does that say about me?) But with the yards and mudrooms and basements, you wonder about bus schedules and how late you can stay after shows.
I feel like the trick now is to try to guess who I will be in five or ten years.
If we pick the smaller city place, will the future me feel cramped and dissatisfied with our digs?
If we pick a roomier place on the outskirts will I feel like an isolated prairie wife and miss the urban hub-bub? (Ooh, that's going to be my band name: Urban Hub-Bub.)
I'll let you know what we decide.

The Count

I recently took the exam to be a census taker (and did very well on it, by the way).
I worked the 1990 census and taking the test last week brought back a swarm of memories. The exam, given in the back room of a coffee shop, had the same taste and texture of the meeting two decades ago. The forms, the pencils, a young woman having to read government language verbatim with out too much eye rolling to a roomful of people who didn't really want to knock on strangers' doors but really needed a job, even a very temporary job.
It felt like just a few months had past since we (me and my census pod) would gather for coffee with Fran, our pot smoking, Buddhist leader to be handed our weekly assignments.
I loved working the census. It was a beautiful Spring and I remember just walking and walking. The vast majority of people were very friendly, apologetic that they'd forgotten to send back the forms. I got to know my neighborhood well.
I had a curious feeling that the last twenty years hadn't taken place at all. Like my life was a piece of string and I'd brought the ends together. I'd been suspended in amber, forever twenty-six.
Walking home from the test, through the very same streets I'd canvased in 1990, I came to the corner of John and 18th. On one side of the street was the apartment of a man I'd dated in 1991, on the other, the apartment of a boyfriend from 1994.
The clock hadn't stopped in '90, it had just started. Time standing still was an illusion.
In the last twenty years I've written and produced dozens of plays (hundreds if you count short ten minute pieces), moved five times, gotten married, been to Portugal, Spain, France, Thailand and Dubai. Friends have had kids (who are now graduating high school), friends have died. The bulk of my life has happened since that census.
Jeff and I are looking for a house now, and there is no way we can afford to buy a place here on Capitol Hill, where I've lived for sixteen of the last twenty years.
So, if I do end up working the 2010 count, there's a good chance it will be a goodbye to this neighborhood.

Oh, Pepper Schwarz

There is a genre of fiction that I have become fascinated with. Those practicing this form of writing have brilliantly created a parallel universe where everything is almost the same. The rules of this alternate world are very clear. There is a breath taking precision to it all. It's clockwork, beautiful clockwork. The only thing that stumps me is that it is never labeled "fiction." It never tips its hand, never winks.
I'm speaking of course of relationship advice, either newspaper columns or helpful books.
It's all so bafflingly rational. Phrases that begin "Honey, you probably weren't aware of this, but it bothers me when you ____" actually produce results! "Dear, it hurts me when you say/do that" is followed by a sustained change in behaviors!
The parties involved sit down (probably at a long wooden table in Geneva) discuss their needs and a lovely compromise is reached.
See, in my world (and hey, I may very well be the one living on Earth 2) I don't even know that I'm in an argument until it's too late. And even then I don't know what it's about.
Example:
Jeff: I've been cutting your hair for years. It's time you cut mine.
Scot: What?
Jeff: It will save us $15 toward the house.
Scot: You're serious?
Jeff: Why wouldn't I be serious?
Scot: Jeff, last time you baked a cake, you didn't trust me to frost it.
Jeff: It's OK. I got a book from the library. "Hair Cutting for Dummies." You just have to follow the diagrams and be able to make a straight line.
Scot: Just?
Jeff: *sigh*
Scot: Are you gonna be mad if it turns out bad?
Jeff: You never really wanted to buy a house! Did you?

To be fair, I am as irrational in my own way. I am conflict avoidant. Which, of course, leads to a host of tiny things building up until I burst forth with something like:
"You left the lid off the peanut butter! You aren't the man I fell in love with!"
I suppose that's why I could never be a relationship adviser. I'd tell people things like "Muddle through!" "Suck it up" "It's not such a big thing" "Don't try to understand it, it's marriage" "Try distracting him when he does that, maybe fake a seizure" "Hey, could be worse" & "Just cut his hair, that'll shut him up."
I'm hoping that house hunting will bring out the best in us. We'll rise above our usual selves. That's another distinguishing feature of the real world: Denial.