Wanting what I cannot have.
The full title of this post should really be “Wanting what I cannot have; a lesson in patience, the fickle real estate market and the suckage that often comes with being an adult.”
I’ve had some interesting developments in my life recently that I’ve kept more or less on the DL, if you will, because I am highly superstitious and believe that I will jinx myself if I talk about it. However, circumstances were such that I had to fill a few people in recently and now that a few weeks have passed and I’ve made zero progress (forward OR backward), I figure I might as well share with the blogosphere. What the hell. Still, the hypochondriac in me tells me I’m screwing myself here. Karmically speaking, that is. Oh well.
So here’s the skinny. If you read this blog you might remember this previous post where I pondered possible painting projects (hey-oh, let’s hear it for alliteration) in my home. The home that I bought by myself. The home that I’ve lived in for just over 2 years. The home that I busted my ass working on for the better part of 2006. But late last year I attended a Homeowners’ Board meeting that changed my life and nearly sent me into cardiac arrest. They announced a 20% increase in our monthly dues, which quite honestly were already redonk. There was much yelling, hostile finger-wagging and threats from other owners but really, nothing I could do about it. I think I was too stunned at the moment to say anything beyond “oh shit.shit.shit.shiiiit.” The property is old, it needs to be taken care of now so that we don’t burden future owners with even more unnecessary dues hikes and major repairs. I totally understand. I feel you Homeowners’ Board. I do. On the real. But I’m just a single girl living on a modest single income. There were only so many options for me to pursue short of selling my organs on the black market or busking at the corner of Lemmon and North Central Expressway. I did get a harmonica for Christmas, and I’m pretty wicked awesome at Mississippi Queen on Guitar Hero after all. But I didn’t think that would cut it. So I called my parents and my realtor. They all told me to calm down, that it would be fine. Fair enough, carrying on at the pitch of a screech owl was not going to solve my problems.
I thought long and hard about it and finally found my answer at the bottom of an Amstel Light or 7. I had to sell the house. It was a difficult decision, but I knew it was the right thing to do. I wasn’t going to ask my parents to bail me out, even though they would have because they inexplicably still love me after 30 years of torture. Plus I’m way too proud to ever ask for money. I’m that person that will loan you money and never even ask for it back, because I feel bad. For wanting my own money back. And I refuse to get a roommate because I already have a four-legged one and she’s a-plenty, thank you. Plus this house is not conducive to a roommate situation. I felt like the world had me pinned up against a wall and was all “stop hitting yourself, stop hitting yourself”, and I hadn’t even done anything stupid or irresponsible to bring it on myself. It wasn’t fair, goddammit. I pay my mortgage on time, I take care of my house, I’m a good neighbor. But there was no other alternative. The house had to go on the market.
Well. As soon as I’d come to grips with the fact that this housing game had kicked me square in the ass, things started looking up. For my bank account, specifically. I don’t feel the need to go into detail, but suddenly I found myself with a bit more of the green due to some favorable changes in my salary and whatnot. Suddenly I felt the pressure of selling my house lifting ever so slightly off my shoulders. But then reality sunk back in. Sure I’d be ok for a year or so, but eventually the higher bills were going to catch up with me. And I wasn’t about to sit around and wait for that to happen.
Stay tuned for Part II. I’m tired of writing and I’m sure you’re tired of reading. I’ll finish up this saga in tomorrow’s installment of “Ah, The Joys of Homeownership. Fuckit.”
Ugh. I feel for you. I had my hot water heater blow out a few hours before I was leaving for California for two weeks. Sure, the house is almost 25 years, and sure it was probably due, but while this house WAS a great investment (on paper) five years ago when I bought it, as bills climb and climb, it’s starting to become more of a burden. I still haven’t done half of the rehabbing items that were on my list when I bought the house. (One bathroom still has seafoam carpet … I refuse to even enter the room anymore.)
I hardly use half of the space in this place. I travel way too much to enjoy it fully.
At this point maybe I should just sell it and buy a Winnebago.
Good luck. Let me know how it turns out.