Clees and I chew up a perfectly good Sunday shopping for a clawfoot bathtub. I hopped into several 5 footers at Omega Salvage- only upright sitting allowed unless you are Napoleon. I pressure C to try sitting in one as well, but he won't budge. He gamely says he knows what it's like. My sister says there are two types of people in the world. The first types, when they find their friend has broken a leg and is forced to wear crutches, will feel sympathy for their friend's pain but immediately and enthusiastically demand to try out the crutches. The second types would never even ask.
She also tells me again there are two types in the world. When you ask them "What do you think about bird diapers?" The first will respond quite seriously "What do you mean - diapers that birds wear or diapers with birds on them????". The second types will just burst out laughing. My sister takes set theory very seriously.
So C and I, after bad unfriendly service at Omega Salvage scooter over to Urban Ore. I again want to try the tubs- now with the real leg room of 5 feet 6. Chris looks at the miscellaneous scraps of trash, brown paper bag, leaves, and an old english beer can in the tub and then looks at me- some tubs are precariously placed on dollies. Such dangers mean nothing to a true tub shopper; I dive right in. I am ready to fork over my cash. While C guards the desired tub(casually claiming with one hand on the rim), I go over to the moustached cashier. As I point to our tub outside, C furiously wave his arms in the international distress signal. I apologize to the moustache and run outside wondering. He tugs at my jacket. "What if for the most minute chance our deal falls through- better to be tubless than tubful." Actually, C said "Don't you think we should wait until the house closes." He also claims he did not put his hand on the tub as it was too low on the ground. One true fact, we headed home no tub the wiser.
Saturday, April 26, 2003
Friday, April 25, 2003
The day of 58x2 signatures. Or the endless Escrow Papers.
Luckily the Title office is situated a few blocks from the best pastry stop in Berkeley- so C and I share macaroons(plain and hazelnut), linzers(apricot and raspberry), and sesame delights while flexing our fingers. Such morsels are more than compensation for having to waste a perfectly good Friday afternoon bent over unreadable papers.
We sign in a room which showcases two of my real estate agent's paintings. It's an incestuous town- Berkeley. C said after the signing that he did not like our title officer Rapunzel- too cold and business like. He could imagine her going to Chevy's after work with a friend. She would say in that exhasperated office lady tone, "You cannot believe the clueless couple I had to deal with today..." Rapunzel suited me fine though. Just a disappointment her hair did not live up to her namesake.
Confusion over the dates produces anxiety. I told e*trade I would close on May 1st- so the documentation reflected that. But my agent set the date for the 7th. So flummoxed I become, I cannot reloop my brain. To relieve this problem, C buys me a straw hat which helps me enormously to type furiously all my 6 blogs.
the banana man is back. the same dude bent over in the driver seat of a toyota corolla, watching a tiny tv hooked up to his lighter. always parked to the left of my door under the tree. he slowly eats bananas all the time. once in a while he'll start up his car again to recharge.
Luckily the Title office is situated a few blocks from the best pastry stop in Berkeley- so C and I share macaroons(plain and hazelnut), linzers(apricot and raspberry), and sesame delights while flexing our fingers. Such morsels are more than compensation for having to waste a perfectly good Friday afternoon bent over unreadable papers.
We sign in a room which showcases two of my real estate agent's paintings. It's an incestuous town- Berkeley. C said after the signing that he did not like our title officer Rapunzel- too cold and business like. He could imagine her going to Chevy's after work with a friend. She would say in that exhasperated office lady tone, "You cannot believe the clueless couple I had to deal with today..." Rapunzel suited me fine though. Just a disappointment her hair did not live up to her namesake.
Confusion over the dates produces anxiety. I told e*trade I would close on May 1st- so the documentation reflected that. But my agent set the date for the 7th. So flummoxed I become, I cannot reloop my brain. To relieve this problem, C buys me a straw hat which helps me enormously to type furiously all my 6 blogs.
the banana man is back. the same dude bent over in the driver seat of a toyota corolla, watching a tiny tv hooked up to his lighter. always parked to the left of my door under the tree. he slowly eats bananas all the time. once in a while he'll start up his car again to recharge.
Tuesday, April 22, 2003
Thoughts past midnight. The itch to move.
More punk kids bang our door and ring our bell last Saturday. Ever since they had sex in our drive way and peed on our door, I just want to live on a street that gets some respect. Our section of Camelia -eventhough located diagonal from a church, it's all about public urinators-drunk mostly, stray dogs, used condoms, smashed bottles, sex in dark alleyways. Lack of street lights always invites trouble.
But this is all irrelevant. Even the squatters parked in front of our door- always some bearded guy bent over watching tv inside a van or some bearded guy smoking out in a van- they don't bother me. It's really "Sculpture Night" and "Anatomy Night" in the adjacent studio that makes us flee. I worry the interminable uninformed chat sessions as well as the bad/mediocre art being produced in the "Talking Hands" studio next door will corrupt Chris's artistic sensibility in some unexpected way.
More punk kids bang our door and ring our bell last Saturday. Ever since they had sex in our drive way and peed on our door, I just want to live on a street that gets some respect. Our section of Camelia -eventhough located diagonal from a church, it's all about public urinators-drunk mostly, stray dogs, used condoms, smashed bottles, sex in dark alleyways. Lack of street lights always invites trouble.
But this is all irrelevant. Even the squatters parked in front of our door- always some bearded guy bent over watching tv inside a van or some bearded guy smoking out in a van- they don't bother me. It's really "Sculpture Night" and "Anatomy Night" in the adjacent studio that makes us flee. I worry the interminable uninformed chat sessions as well as the bad/mediocre art being produced in the "Talking Hands" studio next door will corrupt Chris's artistic sensibility in some unexpected way.
Monday, April 21, 2003
3 weeks since start of escrow.
As tenants still occupy my future home, I have to just satisfy myself looking at digital photos- all crowded with the accumulated life of the tenants. I try to Photoshop their stuff out- but this is too much work, so combination squinting and imagination will have to do. But it's not so easy blanking out a pink Hello Kitty poster over the oven- this is not the first time that mouthless encephalitic cat has haunted me.
Everyday while preening my Netflix account- I still hunt the MLS looking for houses I could have bought. I'm ever grateful for my postage stamp. After officially drawing up the floor plans with MSWord draw tools(even C is impressed by the eighties diagram feel), I am officially upgrading my postage stamp to shoebox.
Am no longer kicking myself for almost being had by the evil she-devil morally repellent mortgage broker as the E*Trade loan appears to be going swimmingly. I have to go sign papers at the Title Company with Rapunzel- our escrow officer. Almost a $12,000 lesson- if anyone is making money off of you- they're mostly not interested in saving you money.
As tenants still occupy my future home, I have to just satisfy myself looking at digital photos- all crowded with the accumulated life of the tenants. I try to Photoshop their stuff out- but this is too much work, so combination squinting and imagination will have to do. But it's not so easy blanking out a pink Hello Kitty poster over the oven- this is not the first time that mouthless encephalitic cat has haunted me.
Everyday while preening my Netflix account- I still hunt the MLS looking for houses I could have bought. I'm ever grateful for my postage stamp. After officially drawing up the floor plans with MSWord draw tools(even C is impressed by the eighties diagram feel), I am officially upgrading my postage stamp to shoebox.
Am no longer kicking myself for almost being had by the evil she-devil morally repellent mortgage broker as the E*Trade loan appears to be going swimmingly. I have to go sign papers at the Title Company with Rapunzel- our escrow officer. Almost a $12,000 lesson- if anyone is making money off of you- they're mostly not interested in saving you money.
Thursday, April 17, 2003
I first made up my mind to find a Berkeley shack, or perhaps a Berkeley shed. But after many an afternoon of house shopping- only the possibility of a Berkeley shoebox remained. In the end, we were only too lucky-enormously lucky- to be able to nab a Berkeley postage stamp.
So Max the Dog teaches me a Chinese proverb: parents must give their children two things- roots and wings. Alas Hugo only gave me wings- but somewhat vestigial wings more like those on a quail as I only barely made it west of the Mississippi. It took four years to overcome the fear of being stuck in one geographic point on the map, and in these four years the East Bay real estate doubled in value. But not too late as my good man and I finally find a tiny plot of a home- a creaky rustic cottage constructed 1920.
the search:
Open homes are for the voyeur. I prefer most the empty house. Staged homes insult the viewer as having no imagination. Two years ago, I went inside an open house of a divorced couple. They had moved their copious debris of a life to the sag of a basement- dirtied ivory carpet everywhere. A whole round steel rack like the ones you find in department stores hung with plastic covered clothes in need of dry cleaning. It was sad. Who can fight bad karma and bad carpet like that.
outbidding the competition:
On the day of open house, C and I in 5 minutes decide we will outbid anyone. After seeing hundreds of houses, it doesn't take long for this decision. The listing agent is in the same office as our agent. It's an internal incestuous frenzy as another lady represented by the same agency also want to make a preemptive bid. There is a rush back to the realty office to write offers. Through the glass doors of our conference room, I scope out our competition. A lady in her early forties, fading blond hair. C refuses even to look that way. How can one tell if a person's wallet is deeper than yours? She's already been outbid 11 times. I feel badly because I know she doesn't have a chance. She doesn't know despite my shoddy drawstring pants and Chris's unkempt appearance, I've got my Enron booty and EJ's war chest behind me.
our offer is accepted:
The first few days after ofwhen I should be studying up my mortgage types, my head swims with fowl possibilities. Ducks of every feather. Of course there is nary space in my postage stamp and so pinty Coturnix Quails might have to do. C champions chickens but truly I am in love with the duck personality- to pat them on the head and have them follow you around quacking their heads off. Some lady in Tokyo has made a ducky diaper- plastic bag taped onto a duck's end.
fools and their money are soon parted:
By middle of the first week, I'm struck with appliance lust. I pine away for the stainless steel non CFC refrigerator like nothing else. The idea of a sub zero refrigerator seems quite sexy to me. Then I snap out of it and realize I'm about to be had by a greedy and incompetent mortgage broker- a truly terrible combination for any profession.
A co-worker asks me how my mortgage is proceeding. I tell him. He who appeared to have some respect for my technical prowess appears disdainfully disappointed in my mortgage know-how. He waves his hands over my computer and types in some mortgage rate sites. Just his one shake of the head convinces me I must do better than just bend over.
I rage about kicking chairs wondering how could I part so foolishly with my hard earned money. My berkeley postage stamp actually costs much money- lots of it. No really I didn't kick any chairs but instead wrote a 2 page list of why she is dangerously incompetent. The list grows every week. I also put my loan through e*trade. I thought of various ways of preventing this type evil in the world. Finally I e-mail Carol Lloyd of the San Francisco Chronicle- to see if she will write about "Mortgage Brokers from Hell" in her Surreal Estate Column. She writes back- she will.
So Max the Dog teaches me a Chinese proverb: parents must give their children two things- roots and wings. Alas Hugo only gave me wings- but somewhat vestigial wings more like those on a quail as I only barely made it west of the Mississippi. It took four years to overcome the fear of being stuck in one geographic point on the map, and in these four years the East Bay real estate doubled in value. But not too late as my good man and I finally find a tiny plot of a home- a creaky rustic cottage constructed 1920.
the search:
Open homes are for the voyeur. I prefer most the empty house. Staged homes insult the viewer as having no imagination. Two years ago, I went inside an open house of a divorced couple. They had moved their copious debris of a life to the sag of a basement- dirtied ivory carpet everywhere. A whole round steel rack like the ones you find in department stores hung with plastic covered clothes in need of dry cleaning. It was sad. Who can fight bad karma and bad carpet like that.
outbidding the competition:
On the day of open house, C and I in 5 minutes decide we will outbid anyone. After seeing hundreds of houses, it doesn't take long for this decision. The listing agent is in the same office as our agent. It's an internal incestuous frenzy as another lady represented by the same agency also want to make a preemptive bid. There is a rush back to the realty office to write offers. Through the glass doors of our conference room, I scope out our competition. A lady in her early forties, fading blond hair. C refuses even to look that way. How can one tell if a person's wallet is deeper than yours? She's already been outbid 11 times. I feel badly because I know she doesn't have a chance. She doesn't know despite my shoddy drawstring pants and Chris's unkempt appearance, I've got my Enron booty and EJ's war chest behind me.
our offer is accepted:
The first few days after ofwhen I should be studying up my mortgage types, my head swims with fowl possibilities. Ducks of every feather. Of course there is nary space in my postage stamp and so pinty Coturnix Quails might have to do. C champions chickens but truly I am in love with the duck personality- to pat them on the head and have them follow you around quacking their heads off. Some lady in Tokyo has made a ducky diaper- plastic bag taped onto a duck's end.
fools and their money are soon parted:
By middle of the first week, I'm struck with appliance lust. I pine away for the stainless steel non CFC refrigerator like nothing else. The idea of a sub zero refrigerator seems quite sexy to me. Then I snap out of it and realize I'm about to be had by a greedy and incompetent mortgage broker- a truly terrible combination for any profession.
A co-worker asks me how my mortgage is proceeding. I tell him. He who appeared to have some respect for my technical prowess appears disdainfully disappointed in my mortgage know-how. He waves his hands over my computer and types in some mortgage rate sites. Just his one shake of the head convinces me I must do better than just bend over.
I rage about kicking chairs wondering how could I part so foolishly with my hard earned money. My berkeley postage stamp actually costs much money- lots of it. No really I didn't kick any chairs but instead wrote a 2 page list of why she is dangerously incompetent. The list grows every week. I also put my loan through e*trade. I thought of various ways of preventing this type evil in the world. Finally I e-mail Carol Lloyd of the San Francisco Chronicle- to see if she will write about "Mortgage Brokers from Hell" in her Surreal Estate Column. She writes back- she will.
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