The Way Things Are






Welp, we got an offer
2005-11-17, 12:27 p.m.

Welp, we got an offer on the house. The old house,

not the new house.

The old houseís purpose is to be sold and let us pay back all of our construction debt to my in-laws, as well as buy us some more furniture beyond the dining table, pay off a second mortgage on the new house, fund up some investment accounts, and perhaps assist in putting a new car in our garage to replace DWís 10-year-old piece-of-shit-car Saturn.

Oh, did I mention DW bought the old house back in the late 80s for $20,000 and paid it off entirely within 4 or 5 years, and that real estate in our neighborhood has appreciated considerably, and that we stand to clear quite a bit of cash that will make all of our wildest dreams come true?

Well, it will at least pay back a lot of accumulated debt and even things out financially a bit.

As we lay in bed this morning, after DOING IT with our withered, middle-aged bodies, the sun peeking up over the hill, I said dreamily to DW, ďDo you think if we sell the house, we can afford blinds on our windows?Ē THAT, my friends, is dreaming and dreaming BIG.

Let me brag about my husband a bit, and perhaps reveal too much about our finances here, but Iím just so damn proud of him and his stingy, money-pinching ways. He may be a bit, um, narrow in his life experience and oh Iíll go ahead and say it simple, not to mention going deaf and bald, but he can manage some money.

First, there is the aforementioned $20,000 mortgage on the old house that he paid off in 4 or 5 years.

Second, there is the second mortgage on our new house. It was $25,000, and we closed that deal in April of 2003. And I think it was a 15 year note. At this point, we should still be paying largely interest, but my man DW has got that principal paid down to less than $5,000. Sure, Iím wearing raggedy shoes, and we canít afford blinds on our windows, but shit man. He is one loan-paying-down motherfucker. And heís my motherfucker.

Part of the deal with the house sale is that the buyers want the old greens mower that lurks in the garage, specifically for cutting the putting green that comprises the front yard. I know Iíve told you about the putting green. DW=Golf NUT. So we are begrudgingly throwing in a 10-year-old greens mower. Suckers.

No, not really. The buyers are not suckers, nor are we. This is a deal, that should it close, will be to the mutual benefit of all parties, to put it in my best fake-lawyer vernacular. They can use it as a weekend/vacation home, get a zoning variance and lease it out for resort rentals, fix it up and flip it, slap it up flip it rub it down, whatever. They will get their moneyís worth out of it, and we are getting its market value as it stands now: a 60-year-old boxy post-war 2-bedroom with green asbestos shingle siding and no freaking dishwasher, save the short, bald, middle-aged DishWasher that I married, in a real estate market that is ROCKING AND ROLLING.

And to think that I brokered this deal. Well, no I did not really, but I feel like I did. We didnít have it listed Ė we just had a For Sale By Owner sign in the front yard with some specifics about the house and our phone number. I got a call from an agent on Tuesday night, saying he had a very strong buyer, and would we be interested in a one-time showing that should it close, we would pay him a 3% commission?

Why yes, yes we would.

This goes against the grain of every fiber of my stingy, money-pinching husbandís being. But I made an executive decision. I want that house sold, I want our construction debt paid off, and I donít want that house sitting there empty and running itself down into the ground. Because an empty house is a big fat liability. We stand to lose a lot more than the piddling 3% commission.

When DW got home from football practice (yes, heís 15, why do you ask?) that evening, I told him what I had done. And he kind of agreed with me. We agreed upon that magic number that we would take, and lo and behold, thatís what those people offered. That, plus the 10-year-old raggedy mower.


On an entirely different note, today is the 21st birthday of the receptionist in the front office. She technically works for another company, but itís the company that MY company owns, and Iím the biggest boss of them all around here, so she works for all of our asses. Yes, literally all of our ASSES. Be that as it may, this morning, upon remembering that itís her 21st birthday, and having not bought her a present or a card, I thought about running down to the gas station to get her a 12-pack. Then I realized that the fun of being 21 is that you can go out and buy your own damn beer.

Iím really glad I didnít get her anything, because apparently her parent company is not invited to the festivities today. The whole other side of the office, the child company, went to lunch together, leaving me here to eat my sandwich, and having consigned my SuperAminWoman into catching the phones while they are gone.

Iím thinking thatís mighty freaking rude, arenít you? I think she can just forget about that 12-pack.

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