A few weeks ago, my wife Julie and I made an offer to buy a house. For those of you not familiar with this process, making an offer on a house is a act that sounds simple enough, but when you actually attempt it, proves to be painfully grueling — much like watching one of those movies that takes place in 1800s Victorian England where wealthy characters in fluffy costumes drink tea and complain about their lives, which by the way, is the ONLY thing that happens for three long hours, leaving you wondering:
a) why you allowed your wife to drag you to this movie and
b) if you would’ve enjoyed the film more had the characters not sounded like their mouths were stuffed with crumpets.
So you see, making an offer on a house is a difficult process. Mainly because you’re asked to sign your name on no less than 300 pieces of paper that, despite containing words that look like English and sound like English, are written in another language altogether and can only be decoded with a special pair of X-ray spy bifocals, which as Murphy’s Luck would have it, you don’t have…but your realtor does.
“Sign here, here, and here,” our realtor Sandy instructed.
“I don’t understand this part,” I asked.
“Trust me. It’s a standard agreement,” Sandy said. “Oh, and make sure you check that box on the bottom that gives me 20% of your income for the next ten years.”
So after several hours of going through the contract, in a room about the size of a department store dressing room, Julie and I made it to the end of the pile and we left Sandy’s office feeling good about out offer. In fact, as we drove back to our apartment, one thought kept racing through my mind: “I really hope we get it!” It wasn’t until later that night, when I was trying to fall asleep, that I had an entirely different thought: “Crap. What IF we get it?!?”
You see, it’s one thing to be a homeowner-offerer (main responsibilities: waiting impatiently for the realtor to call, biting your fingernails, making regular trips to CVS to pick up more acid reducer pills), but it’s a completely different animal to be a first-time homeowner (main responsibility: figuring out how the hell you’re going to pay the mortgage).
Looking back, most of that night is a blur. The only things I remember are fading in and out of sleep, counting the cracks on the ceiling, and wrestling violently with my pillow. It’s the kind with the special “foam memory somethingorother” that’s supposed to mold itself to your form but instead looks and feels like you’re sleeping on a bowling ball.
The next day, I went to work and stared at the phone on my desk. Now maybe it was from lack of sleep or maybe it was the four energy drinks I chugged that morning, but my brain was performing in a way that psychologists refer to as, to use a technical term, being friggin’ nutty. No kidding, at one point, I had an entire conversation with the phone.
ME: C’mon! Ring already! Why aren’t you ringing?!?
PHONE:
ME: Don’t get smart with me.
PHONE:
ME: Look, if you’ve got something to say, then say it.
PHONE:
ME: Fine! If you ring, I promise to take you out dancing.
Finally, around 11:30, Sandy called. Questions were flying through my mind. “Would we get the house?” “Would I be happy if we did?” “Do I need to buy the phone dinner first?” I listened intently, tuning out the noise of my pounding heart, as Sandy delivered the big news: we DIDN’T get the house. I asked her why.
“You offered them what they were asking.”
Huh? Apparently, in the Northeast real estate market, which evidently is located directly in the heart of the Twilight Zone, you must offer a seller MORE than they’re asking. Silly me. Oh well, life moves on. Actually, so will we — right into a new apartment. Yep, Julie and I have decided to put off our dreams of homeownership for the moment (read: we prefer NOT to hemorrhage money) and we’ll continue renting instead.
So these days, we’re pretty busy hunting for a new apartment. This is a good thing because, not only does it give us an excuse to explore Philadelphia but, we’re meeting some mighty colorful characters along the way. Like the landlord we met this past Saturday. A kind woman in her 50s, Dora was impeccably dressed, wearing the latest designer clothes and a perfume that smelled like Purell hand sanitizer. She was also wearing a pair of surgical gloves.
“You’re really going to like this apartment,” she said, snapping her gloves like a surgeon. “I’ve lived in this building for years. It just feels like home.”
Well, Dora was right; we really liked the apartment. In fact, I’m going to set up a time for us to see it again. It’ll probably be sometime this weekend — just as long as it doesn’t interfere with my dinner date with the phone. Hey, a promise is a promise.
© 2006 robbloom.com.
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