During the next two weeks, Mike and I will be meeting with our mortgage broker and real estate agent to figure out what kind of hovel we can afford. I’ve mentioned in the past that our breadbox home can barely contain our family and that we. need. to. move. This has been a huge source of anxiety for me because I keep thinking, crap, why didn’t I buy a house ten years ago? Oh yeah, that’s right. I was 14. What was I going to do? Use our golden Toyota Previa as collateral? Would it be worth more if the license plate didn’t say, “MO”? (Thanks Mom. What a gift! A tanned phallic-shaped automobile that’s personalized for me!)
We have some simple criterion: hardwood floors, West Seattle location, and enough room for me to host a festive sweater party. I have so many awesome party ideas, but who wants to go to a party where it’s standing-room only? Where are people going to make out and do jello shots? Plus, Mike doesn’t want that big of a yard. He had a yard (along with a house, which went to his first wife. Yes, I’m wife number two. I don’t feel bad, two’s a bigger number) and he doesn’t want to do any yard work. I don’t either. The closest thing to gardening I’ve ever done was cover a gnawed mango seed with a little dirt, which only attracted red ants and the ire of my mother.
It has been great embarrassment that we rent. Even more so when I admit that half of Nathan’s room is our office, so when I tell you that his nursery theme is Microsoft Word, I’m not kidding.
But we’re doing it, the big American dream IT and if you have any tips, please please please send them my way. It feels like I’ve stuck my finger into an faulty electrical socket, one that jolts when I think that maybe we’ll have to move so close to the airport that our address will be Gate B12.