Almost a Homo
Ner. I’m almost a homeowner. Holy crap. I am swiftly entering the pantheon of yuppie hell, and I’m not so sure I feel good about it.
Two weeks ago, Adam and I went to check out an open house I spotted in the NY Times real estate section. A two bedroom condo for less than the price of a firstborn child. WHAT???
So Adam and I meandered a bit south of where I live now, to the soothingly named Greenwood Heights. Unscrupulous realtors might describe this area as ‘South Slope.’ I call it, ‘next to the giant cemetery.’
But, whatever you call it, I can afford it. Or at least I think I can afford it. Several large banks also think I can afford it, or are, alternately, assuming I can’t afford it, but are hesitant to tell me so, so I’ll default on my mortgage, fall into a debt death spiral, and have to get knocked up just to sell off that firstborn child.
I can see it all so clearly now! It’s a conspiracy involving Citibank, Ben Bernanke, and the Federal Treasury, cunningly designed solely to publicly bankrupt and humiliate me.
Clearly, I’m going through the Major Cold Feet phase of homebuying. And I’m not even officially in contract yet, though the realtor representing the condo’s sponsor assures me the papers will be sent to my attorney today. Once my signature and a few thousand dollars are removed from my account, I assume the panic will truly begin.
I’ve been saving for this since I was 16, though, and despite the fact I’ll have to severely curtail my bad habit of buying expensive shoes in bulk, I hope to Jebus that ultimately this will be better for me than flushing money down the rent toilet every month.
My head now spins with fixed-rates, and ARMs, and points, and all other manner of crap I’d much rather have someone else think about. Also, I must add, that scene in Sex and the City in which Miranda buys an apartment is completely accurate. Every mortgage company I’ve spoken with has asked, “It’s just you? No husband? No help from your parents?” And each time, with decreasing patience, I’ve answered, “Yep. It’s just me.” My subtext, for those of you who need to know such things, is, “bite me, asshole. This is 2006, and I am neither chattel or valued on a goat stock exchange. I am a working woman and I’m doing this for and by myself.”
Empowerment aside, I’m scared shitless, and must admit to worrying who’s going to help me drag heavy items around and drill holes in walls. Then again, I’m freaking out about everything related to this whole process, so let me not go borrowing trouble any sooner than I have to!
Two weeks ago, Adam and I went to check out an open house I spotted in the NY Times real estate section. A two bedroom condo for less than the price of a firstborn child. WHAT???
So Adam and I meandered a bit south of where I live now, to the soothingly named Greenwood Heights. Unscrupulous realtors might describe this area as ‘South Slope.’ I call it, ‘next to the giant cemetery.’
But, whatever you call it, I can afford it. Or at least I think I can afford it. Several large banks also think I can afford it, or are, alternately, assuming I can’t afford it, but are hesitant to tell me so, so I’ll default on my mortgage, fall into a debt death spiral, and have to get knocked up just to sell off that firstborn child.
I can see it all so clearly now! It’s a conspiracy involving Citibank, Ben Bernanke, and the Federal Treasury, cunningly designed solely to publicly bankrupt and humiliate me.
Clearly, I’m going through the Major Cold Feet phase of homebuying. And I’m not even officially in contract yet, though the realtor representing the condo’s sponsor assures me the papers will be sent to my attorney today. Once my signature and a few thousand dollars are removed from my account, I assume the panic will truly begin.
I’ve been saving for this since I was 16, though, and despite the fact I’ll have to severely curtail my bad habit of buying expensive shoes in bulk, I hope to Jebus that ultimately this will be better for me than flushing money down the rent toilet every month.
My head now spins with fixed-rates, and ARMs, and points, and all other manner of crap I’d much rather have someone else think about. Also, I must add, that scene in Sex and the City in which Miranda buys an apartment is completely accurate. Every mortgage company I’ve spoken with has asked, “It’s just you? No husband? No help from your parents?” And each time, with decreasing patience, I’ve answered, “Yep. It’s just me.” My subtext, for those of you who need to know such things, is, “bite me, asshole. This is 2006, and I am neither chattel or valued on a goat stock exchange. I am a working woman and I’m doing this for and by myself.”
Empowerment aside, I’m scared shitless, and must admit to worrying who’s going to help me drag heavy items around and drill holes in walls. Then again, I’m freaking out about everything related to this whole process, so let me not go borrowing trouble any sooner than I have to!
posted by Liz at 10:27 AM
4 Comments:
shite! i didn't think home ownership was even remotely possible on either coast. thanks for restoring the dream! goodluck :)
Don't be scared, it's exciting. And remember, complete morons buy houses regularly. If they can do it, you can do it!!!
By the way, the title threw me. I read to find out how you were almost gay. Funny.
The only way to buy a home is by yourself. That way some asshole can't decide he wants half when you decide you're finished with him. Get the mortgage and adjust your life to make the payments for the next how ever many years you decide to make the loan. And never ever let anyone get their name on the deed. It will always be yours and only yours. There's no shortage of suckers with drills who will hang pictures and do handyman work so don't worry. As long as you are a female, the possibility of getting into your pants will always get them to do work for you even with no encouragement. As a man and an ex-husband, I know these things.
Post a Comment
<< Home