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.