House hell

Rocco suggested today’s topic be “Why I Love My Cunty Man.”  I do give him props for rapidly realizing he’s a douche when he’s in dick-o mode.  The stress of dealing with all this housing booshit brings out the best in him.  This afternoon he was in such a foul mood I even let him watch the Yankees game with the sound on in the hopes of mellowing him out.  Of course the Yanks got trounced, I had to listen to much crowd noise and that incessant “Day-Oh” they randomly play all game long, and all moods were vastly improved.

It’s pretty amazing how many loops and plummets can get thrown at you in just one day of riding the trying-to-buy-a-house roller coaster.  Just forty-eight hours ago I thought we were sitting pretty.  Now drama abounds.  Not even watching Twilight (yes again!) gave my mind a rest.  So far buying a short sale is almost as pleasant as shoving an ice pick under your toenail.  Not that technically we’re even buying yet…just trying.

Anyway, when we put in the offer earlier this week, we did a little dance of determining the closing date.  Of course we want to close as quickly as possible after our Hoboken sale is final…I am a HUGE fan of eating and sleeping indoors.  The seller wants to wait until the end of June.  Come to find out, that was just a stall tactic as it apparently takes up to four months to close on a short sale.  They are trying to get another offer and a bidding war – in fact they scheduled an open house for this weekend.  There’s gonna be fisticuffs!

We found all this out this morning during a lovely sun dappled spring day stroll down Washington Street.  I tried to absorb all the details while craning to hear on my stellar cell.  Never one to overreact or make rash statements, Rocco held out his hand for my phone and proceeded to initiate smack down.  Basically we issued an ultimatum – take our deal by close of business day or we’re walking.

Would you believe they still stalled all day?  At 4:00 they finally got back to our realtor and asked for the original contracts.  Crikey!  Who does that anymore?  Faxes are better than the real thing!  And so ensued a journey into the wilds of Jersey during rush hour.  While repeatedly listening to the only two decent songs on the Jason Mraz album I foolishly purchased on a Target spree (if only I’d had the Twilight soundtrack with me – does it make it less weird if I realize its an unhealthy obsession?) I stewed and fretted and maybe cursed Rocco a little for picking this drama doused domicile.

After many mad dashes, harassing phone calls, not so veiled threats, and much misplaced aggression, I think we’ll have a signed contract tomorrow.  And what’s the prize?  We have to figure out where to live and store our shit for “up to” four months.  It took us over six months to close the last time we bought a place – and that was just a normal sale!  Somehow I just have a bad feeling.  Here’s hoping my Libra intuition is still out of whack.  If only those Cullens were around to read minds and tell me the future…or just make out with me (sorry Rocco).

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