Otto and I thought it would be really fun to spend the the last week playing “let’s pretend the housing market makes any sense at all.”
I could tell you the rules, but it’s pretty complicated and involves a lot of invective about Otto’s realtor, who has become—unfairly or not—the main target of all of my angst about our current situation. It doesn’t help that she is very! enthusiastic! all the time! even though half of what she says never actually, you know, HAPPENS.
After spending the week playing our delightful new game (or just, you know, freaking out and crying a lot about how we’re going to be broke and homeless) (yeah, that was me, not Otto), we made an offer on a house. This house, actually.
They turned us down.
Which we expected.
And for the first time in a week (or several months, but who’s counting?), I felt very calm and centered. We’d been watching that house since the beginning of the year, and for various reasons we knew it was probably not where we’d end up, but we kept coming back to it. Going through the process of figuring out an offer and not being accepted allowed me to close that chapter. Not the house for us, clearly. Moving on.
We had a second choice house, which happened to be right next door to that one. We would make an offer there, instead. The universe had spoken.
My zen lasted for approximately twelve hours.
When we looked at this house back in March, it carried an offer of a generous flooring allowance on account of the entire upstairs is swathed in the ugliest carpet known to mankind. They have since removed that clause and upped the price. Which would be a logical thing to do if they’d changed out that carpet, of course.
But they didn’t. They bought new kitchen appliances.
That TOTALLY compensates for the green shag, dude.
So. We basically made an offer that accounts for the cost of replacing the carpet, and they countered in a way that makes it clear they want to recoup the cost of their shiny new kitchen appliances, which is nice, but stainless steel kitchen appliances are not going to keep Sneezy McAllergy Monkeyboy from suffocating in his sleep.
The owners are now taking a day to consider our final offer, and supposedly BOTH realtors have offered to cut into their commissions to make this happen, although—as I told Otto—at this point I believe his realtor would claim to be busy rescuing kittens from burning buildings if she thought it would impress us, so who knows.
Normally I am too superstitious to discuss things like this while they are in process. Don’t want to jinx it, you know. But at this point I am just ALL DONE, and sadly the place I’m in is within spitting distance of hopeless. It’s not THERE, but I can totally wave to it over the fence.
If we get this house, the scramble is on to close before the end of the month, replace the carpet, and get moved as scheduled. And the small matter of selling the two houses we already own that no one wants to buy.
If we don’t get this house, I probably need to delay my move.
You know, when Otto and I got engaged back in October, we thought we’d have to deal with the logistics of a move, the acclimation to a new family, the kids’ adjustment. I don’t think either of us had any idea that we’d be clinging to hopes of ugly carpet as our best shot of actually getting to live together sometime this summer, as planned.
Third mortgage? Hell, I’d take on a FOURTH if it meant I could get a night’s sleep where I don’t wake up in the wee hours convinced that it’s to be the cruelest joke of all, that after all of this we still don’t get our happy ending.