I’m Jess. I’m in Tacoma, WA. and have been here since 1974. Like an evergreen tree, my roots like it here. With my significant other, generally referred to as The Man for our intents and purposes, and our seven year-old, I have lived happily in our little architecturally-impaired tract house in a northwest-of-most-things neighborhood. It’s been a great 11 years, but we’ve gradually accumulated more and more stuff. And even as we’ve accumulated, there have been subtle shifts in the nature of our ‘hood: loud kids screeching and howling like primates, annoying neighbors with mullet and mini-mullet offspring, and a dude across the alley who is, apparently, engaging in a very loud love affair with Assorted Items Possessing Bone-jarringly Reverberating Motors.
We need a change, but have been reticent. Change sucks, after all.
On a whim, we began a house hunt. S (The Man) considered the mere act of calling out sainted agent, Rita Edling of Coldwell-Banker Bain, to be signing on the dotted line to a bigger mortgage. I said, nuh-uh, honey. We’re just seeing what’s out there.
Two weeks later, I was in near-tears, hoping fervently that our offer would go through on a house that had fallen on tough times. The rebound-house from The Perfect One (that we lost to a cash offer) ended up, I sniveled, More Perfect. He wasn’t convinced: the mortgage will be triple the amount, the house can be euphemistically referred to as “a fixer” with the smell of cat pee pervading the downstairs and a yard which is, at best, a forgotten element and, at worst, a hazard. The plumbing is sketchy, the furnace ancient, and the carpets and kitchens are best left to a dumpster (the former will be dumpstered, the latter will be salvaged.)
And still, the house? It has a soul that glitters and gleams. Built in 1962 as a gift from a banker to his wife, it carries the aura of its era like a fine (non cat-pee smelling) perfume. Walking into the random ashlar slate entry, viewing the twenty-six foot slate-clad fireplace wall, standing on the deck overlooking Commencement Bay, you swear to God you can hear strains of Brazilian Jazz as cocktails shake. You overlook the room spray-painted by some drug-addled “artist”, you overlook the cobwebs and stained carpet, you overlook the looming shadow of the Money Pit, and you fervently yearn for the house; you ache to make that house your home. Alleviating your doubts: location, location, location. The house is, after all, Up The Hill, in the neighborhood you’ve always longed to live in. The price is right (as the show says) and it seems like a perfect marriage of logic and longing.
And so, with that magically romantic magnet guiding me –us– we forged onward, offering on the bank-owned house. Our credit is good, and our VA loans should serve us well, saving us down-payment money which we can put into un-smelly carpet and a few appliances, plus paint and cleaning supplies. Labor will be cheap –me (and him) — and everything should be cast in a warm, sunset gold and pink glow.
Screeeeeech.
Va Loans can be rough going. Bank-owned home-buying can be a tricky process to maneuver around. With us, Murphy rules. Random things that shouldn’t go wrong, have, and a closing date that should have been early next week will most likely be postponed.
Postponement isn’t the worst of all things, though. We have to get this home ready for renters (to include painting and deep, deep, painfully deeeeeeeeep cleaning), we have to box all our crap and be at the ready for Moving Day (whenever that may be), and we –I– have to figure out how to juggle the other stuff, like parenting, cooking, keeping dogs happy, keeping the house (whichever one we might be in) livable and decent… and I suspect there’ll be more, too.
This blog will serve as my place to vent, to gush about tools/products/colors/stores I love, to drop various and sundry bits of cultural reference, to jot down exercise and healthy food struggles, to post the odd picture, to share random before and after shots, to brainstorm project and to-do lists, and occasionally, to laugh at myself as I try to stay sane.
