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[Give 'em hell, Stanley]
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I still have yet to make an offer on "my" house. The current owner is asking 119k, but the highest I am willing to go is 105k. This Saturday, I will -- again -- look over the house, and, hopefully, by Monday my appraisal hook-up will have a good estimate of the home's worth and I will be armed with enough concrete evidence to talk down the seller with some sort of informed intelligence.
In the particular suburb (though, it's not -really- a suburb in which I am interested in buying; the vicinity is actually very central, and, in fact, considered its own city), a 119k home is easily a 4-bedroom. "My" house is, however, only a 2-bedroom, a large one with a huge unfinished third floor, which my dad plans on finishing, which will increase the home's square footage as well as its value.
Part of me wouldn't -mind- paying 110k, so I can be rid of this apartment-existence once and for all. However, I know the house isn't worth that right now. The current owner purchased the property for 79k in 1996; in 2002, 87k was the appraisal amount according to the Auditor's Web site. The huge back and front yards, as well as the detached two-car garage, create an illusion, yes, of increased value at first glance. As does the new wiring and plumbing, a rarity in old-Victorian houses (this one is 100!). However, home-buyers with children aren't actively looking for 2-bedroom homes (and the area seems to draw families, as it is affordable and safe, with a decent public school system -- not in the Cincinnati Public School District!), and the seller will need to come to terms with this.
If there is no compromising, initially, I will sit back and watch and wait for the price to drop.
I was hoping to give my landlord the 30-day notice by Friday. But, it looks like I'll be paying rent for both November and December, though there's a chance I'll be in the house -- if all goes according to my plans -- by mid-December, in plenty of time to get a Christmas tree! Oh, dear, I'm afraid I'm becoming an adult. |
[Wednesday is for the wayward warranty]
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I was planning on working at home for five hours or so tonight, but with my car's muffler falling off and everything last night, I had to hang out at the Galbraith Midas for a couple hours, which left me with little productive time left in the day.
I did, however, do a "drive by" of the house I am strongly considering purchasing. Which was productive.If I can get the owner to knock 10k off her asking price, I will be-a-movin' in amd gettin' the hell out of this shithole.
I'm so sick of doing the apartment thing. The upstairs neighbors storming down the steps to let in their friends, the delivery boys and Bible salesmen banging on the front door, the apartment manager just being his annoying-ass self, the inconsiderate assholes who don't lock the front door, who park behind my car stall, who can't seem to get their shit out of the washer and dryer in a reasonable amount of time.
I look forward to living in a grown-up house with grown-up neighbors with whom I can share recipes, play cards, and bullshit about weather-treated windows, property taxes, and the best lawn fertilizers. I might even play cornhole. But I wouldn't count on it. Though, that house does have quite the back (and front) yard, fit for fixin' cars, grillin' out, and playin' some cornhole.
My wishful thinking has motivated me to do a bit of cleaning. A couple weeks ago, I cleaned out the largest drawer in my glass-top desk and threw out papers and old bills and notes that I knew, for sure, would no longer needed. I am also going to rummage through the closets and take items to Good Will. Every week, on that dreaded Sunday that I reserve for work and chores, I notice that I am washing the same bundle of clothes. I've narrowed my "working" wardrobe down considerably over the last few months. Whatever I don't have in the wash this weekend will, most likely, get bagged -- with the exception of some of my weekend-type skirts and slacks and sweaters I have yet to bust out of hibernation. |
[Thursday, done.]
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I worked thirteen hours today. Go me. Please, eyeballs, when you decide to shrivel up and die, fall outward, not inward. I can't imagine the type of rot you will inflict on my inner organs. |
[Visibly Even in Just Two Weeks]
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I hope tomorrow, after work, that I have absolutely nothing to do.
No running out after walking in the door to take care of that "I'm-hungry-what's-for-dinner" that greets me every day. No sitting in rush hour traffic, when there is -really- no need for me to be in it. No dealing with an understaffed Wal-Mart to test and exchange car batteries. No excessive gum chewing to prevent my mouth from spewing fire at the most minute of distractions and dissatisfactions. No preparing lists of open houses and new listings to be visited this weekend. No hearing, "well that kitchen is ugly" when it's ME--the person who doesn't mind ugly, who can deal with ugly, who sometimes enjoys ugly--that's paying the mortgage.
I'm not irritable. I'm just tired of people. So, where can a gal find a small country to conquer, to empty of its inhabitants, and to live in alone (in time I would allow a few to enter)?
[[Perhaps, I will start a village of my own. Those wanting to be admitted will need to have high IQs, all their teeth (no wisdom teeth, no problem), and ability to take care of their own goddamn problems.]]
It is now 9:30 at night, and I have not had a moment of peace today. Perhaps tomorrow. |
[Mazel Tov]
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Now that Sunday is nearing its close, I'm ready for the weekend. I was hoarded Friday, Saturday, and part of today by family during Bar Mitzvah festivities and dinners and drinks. I finally settled in at home this afternoon, only to be greeted by dishes galore. In the sink, on the counter, on the stove. And laundry. Two loads remain downstairs. Perhaps all will be finished by the time Six Feet Under is on. Perhaps not. There are still several pots soaking in the sink from steak and a failed pasta dish last week (the deli steered Sean and I in the wrong direction, suggesting some shrimp that, from what we could tell when eating it, was harvested before its prime time. My bellyache the next day had its own opinions concerning the matter, as well.)
"September 11" was spent not watching the television. With Republicans using this Great American Tragedy to tug on the hearts of voters, I cannot bear to recall the event with reverence, only anger. Rather, Saturday was a combination of synagoging (not a word, yes), eating, napping, and drinking copious amounts of free Merlot while taking pictures of family-fun in Box 13 at the Reds-Brewers game. My uncle will be pleased to note that I took good pictures of the home-run fireworks, Mr. Red and the hoards of children, Norm while he was interviewed live on the scoreboard screen (that was, actually, pretty neato), and, of course, close-up pictures of baseball players' rear ends (Mark's camera had quite a zoom feature!).
My aunt dropped $7500 for the private box at the game, so I made sure to drink my fair share plus. It's only right. In fact, my father tried to sneak bottles of beer out of the private box after the game. What an influence! Every time I think I was the mailman's child -- or even an adopted "broken condom" -- something my dad does screams that I am, indeed, related to these people who normally drive me batty.
I wouldn't mind having a drink or two now, but I'm waiting for Sean to call. He'll need picked up tonight. When, I do not know. We'll need to get around to fixing his car, soon. We suspect that the problem is with the starter.
It seems as if Chateau Amanda is haven for broken stuff lately. The monitor for my pretty VAIO is busted. A power surge -- I think -- fucked it up royally. It had been exhibiting slow starts and a bit o' flickering over the last couple weeks. But it's dead now. Dead. Dead. Dead. Also, the DVD/CD player on my laptop (which I am using now) does not work. I can take care of the laptop with the Best Buy warranty. Chances are, it will be replaced under Best Buy's "No-Lemon Policy" as it has had to undergo repairs before (the network card fried). However, the Sony monitor will need to be packed up and sent to Sony, and whether or not the limited warranty will cover the damage is beyond me. I ought to blame my landlord. The electricity in this place is so bad (the wiring is ancient and hardly any of the outlets are grounded), and I'm sure this is the problem's root cause.
Dear God, I'd like it very much if Sean, somehow, could get a ride home. Please. Please. Please.
::sigh:: |
[What exactly is due at 7a.m.?]
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Last night, I had a nightmare that I was back in graduate school. I'll take rapists, monsters, gunfights, collapsing buildings in my head any night, but not research papers, deadlines, and computer malfunctions! Oh woe! |
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