December 28, 2012
The house inspector lied to the house painter and told him that he might have to set up radon detectors tomorrow, so the house inspector could find out where the spare key is hidden and then tell me. With this information, I plan to break into the house that isnt mine yet so I can set up a lawn chair in the living room and drink some goddamn champagne on New Year’s Eve.
October 17, 2012
So, it looks like I am going to put in an offer on this house tomorrow. It is the second house I looked at and I looked at six. I know that houses are not all chandeliers, claw foot tubs and rose bushes, but this is what I know about the house now. There is nary one cosmetic change I would make to the place — lighting fixtures, floors, window treatments, paint, dog-proof fence, landscaping, appliances — all range from beautiful to serviceable. Now, they just have to accept the offer, then, I hire an inspector and find out about mold and hot water heaters and plumbing and electrical. And the roof. It is, afterall, just a 1912 bungalow, susceptible to the ravages of time, like we all are. If only hot water heaters had dozens of delicate petals with veins like a vulva, maybe I would be more interested. Or informed already. Alas, I am not.
I have talked to my mom and am emailing furiously with upwardly mobile college friends who are telling me to find a good inspector. I had a friend who was a mortgage banker during the bubble, he will also be getting an email from me. And I have my first of two homebuyer’s classes on Friday.
I would like to be more thoughtful and contemplative, talk about my feelings, etc. But, it’s late and my toes and ears are cold. Wish me luck. And insight. To battle love’s blindness.
November 25, 2011
November 25, 2011
November 6, 2011
August 28, 2011
Whenever I get scared about having a kid (or kids) without a wife, whenever I think about how I should pay down debt or get more tattoos, or move to a more queer city or look for a lover, or travel instead, I remember that none of the studies mention these things. No researcher has recorded a dying person saying, “Oh, but, I really wish I had gotten that George Sand quote tattooed on my arm and I always wanted to try the triple P reverse cowgirl and damn I really shouldve paid those San Francisco rents for at least a year of my life and, Doc, is there anything you can do to give me three more months? I really want my Visa balance at zero before I meet my maker.”