By nature I'm a nester. And my nesting impulses have, as of late, swung into overdrive. These days I'm often found in the park, hopping quietly with twigs hanging from my beak, my feathers ruffling in the wind. Or up in a tree, regurgitating vole bones and fur into little pellets.
Or I'm just looking for houses. And thinking about houses. All. The. Time. I'm obsessed. It all started when HombreLibre regained full employment after a four month stint of spending even more time at the corner coffee shop. The second he got work a little light flipped on in my head and a little voice started providing non-stop fantasy scenes of glossy technicolor homeownership, with all the good bits and none of the hassle.
It isn't a space issue. Our apartment is huge. It isn't where we live, because I can biasedly say we're in the best neighborhood in the city right now. And we love our neighbors, despite their tendency to play Rock Band above our heads for hours at a time. It's just....some intangible desire to own a place, to have it as your very own, your preciousssssssss. And i've also found that I cannot sleep with anyone walking above my head, a lesson I have been fortunately spared until this, my first first-floor apartment.
I think it's a natural human impulse, or at least I'm telling myself that. I bet even cro-magnon man fell prey to such an emotional pull. He probably wanted a cave in a nice neighborhood with good access to tool shops and fire pits. Or some shit.
My issue with the house hunt, of course, is that Seattle is so bloody expensive it's hard to not get jaded and give up, or as I'm wont to do-throw fits. We went out on Saturday to poke around and the hunt devolved, as usual into me going quiet and sullen followed by a little hysterical rant about how "impossible this is and how are we going to do this and where do these people get all their money, the fuckers!" At one point I was shaking my fist at a row of Craftsman bungalows screaming "Give me your house! Give me your houuuuuuuuse!"
Shortly after the feeling sorry for myself bit, I also typically sink into a deeper pit of sorrow where I extrapolate into the greater unfairness of the economic system, the plight of the middle class, the yoke on the necks of the poor and how I am actually so priveleged and should just shut up, give away everything I have and dedicate my life to helping others.
Then I nap. And usually wake feeling better.
Rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat. I'm a veritable barrel of laughs, I am.
This will undoubtedly go on for several months, until such time as we actually put an offer on a house. And then I'll find something else to obsess and fret over. But in the meantime, if you catch me with a glazed look, I'm probably looking at house porn.
Or I'm just looking for houses. And thinking about houses. All. The. Time. I'm obsessed. It all started when HombreLibre regained full employment after a four month stint of spending even more time at the corner coffee shop. The second he got work a little light flipped on in my head and a little voice started providing non-stop fantasy scenes of glossy technicolor homeownership, with all the good bits and none of the hassle.
It isn't a space issue. Our apartment is huge. It isn't where we live, because I can biasedly say we're in the best neighborhood in the city right now. And we love our neighbors, despite their tendency to play Rock Band above our heads for hours at a time. It's just....some intangible desire to own a place, to have it as your very own, your preciousssssssss. And i've also found that I cannot sleep with anyone walking above my head, a lesson I have been fortunately spared until this, my first first-floor apartment.
I think it's a natural human impulse, or at least I'm telling myself that. I bet even cro-magnon man fell prey to such an emotional pull. He probably wanted a cave in a nice neighborhood with good access to tool shops and fire pits. Or some shit.
My issue with the house hunt, of course, is that Seattle is so bloody expensive it's hard to not get jaded and give up, or as I'm wont to do-throw fits. We went out on Saturday to poke around and the hunt devolved, as usual into me going quiet and sullen followed by a little hysterical rant about how "impossible this is and how are we going to do this and where do these people get all their money, the fuckers!" At one point I was shaking my fist at a row of Craftsman bungalows screaming "Give me your house! Give me your houuuuuuuuse!"
Shortly after the feeling sorry for myself bit, I also typically sink into a deeper pit of sorrow where I extrapolate into the greater unfairness of the economic system, the plight of the middle class, the yoke on the necks of the poor and how I am actually so priveleged and should just shut up, give away everything I have and dedicate my life to helping others.
Then I nap. And usually wake feeling better.
Rinse, repeat, rinse, repeat. I'm a veritable barrel of laughs, I am.
This will undoubtedly go on for several months, until such time as we actually put an offer on a house. And then I'll find something else to obsess and fret over. But in the meantime, if you catch me with a glazed look, I'm probably looking at house porn.
3 comments:
Huh. I'm sure if you just walked up on someone's porch and asked them nicely, they'd let you have their house. You just have to let them know you're sincere, you know? Smile. Point the gun directly into their abdomen. Speak slow and clearly through gritted teeth. It works every time.
We call her "Horse Hoof".
She comes home, like clockwork, at 11:30 every night. Gets on the phone and paces back an forth in her room, or (as we like to call it) our ceiling.
Just re-read this post, and feel the same. The lady and I are in dire need of a change.
Looking at the prices, I wonder what all of these people do. I add up the amount their mortgage would most likely bee and marvel at the funds needed to secure said mortgage.
You're right, where do these people get their money? Inheritance seems to be the Most acceptable idea, but amazing salaries is probably more often the reason. Jerks.
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