Tuesday, August 16, 2011

Like A Virgin

Now that we have a set-in-stone date for the closing, I'm still in baffle-mode that it's all happening.  Eight months ago, when we started the process of buying a short-sale house, it was like practice purchasing.  We went through all the motions of attempted home acquisition:  offer a price, sign some purchase and sale paperwork, and dazzle them with some earnest money.  Oh, and attend a first time homebuyer's class put on by a man WHO RENTS AN APARTMENT.  Because homebuying "isn't his thing."  But apparently, having a comfy little racket is.

No one told us that trying to buy a short-sale home is worse than high school.  Ok, well maybe Real Estate Man said something to that effect, but he's seven feet tall, there was an echo, and I thought he was complimenting me on my outfit that day.

So when we ditched that first house and fell head-over-heels for the "Double A Ranch" (I'd type it out "AA Ranch" but with our hobby of Homebrew, that just seems...fitting?), things came together so much faster.  Too fast, actually, for my experience.  The other house was ok with going slow, but this one wants to go all the way.  Where is an afterschool special on thirty-year mortgages when you need one?

And now we're being handed off to The Attorneys.  I've had no dry-run for this part of the show.  Everything in me wants to push Beloved out of the way next week, sign all the forms for both us, grab the keys to the house, and cart him away to our new zip code.  Because sometimes love means never having to sign your initials yourself.  This will not be the case, though.  We will sit across from the very nice sellers and ping pong paperwork back and forth (I assume; this is all secondhand information gleaned from HGTV shows like Property Virgins who have budgets of $200,000.  We probably get some sort of value-meal closing in a greasy brown paper bag.) 

I do envision some tears (him) and some cursing (me) as soon as the last Ford is signed.  And then more cursing (him) and tears (me) as we try to move my 31-gallon tote of cookbooks into our upstairs kitchen.  I'll be sure to have 10cc's The Things We Do For Love blaring.  Note to self:  move the boombox in first.

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