Third time isn’t the charm; seeing stars and I don’t want the walls to talk

We just got f*cked on house #3.

My wall words

It was a late Victorian, it had enough space, it had more than one toilet, it had old doors and knobs, it had gas instead of heating oil, it was in good shape but still needed some sprucing up, it was light and bright and airy. The sellers accepted our offer, and everything was going swimmingly.  I started researching the house history, I had a warm paint palette in mind, and visions of hex tile designs dancing in my head.  We even picked out new vanity license plates* since we’d also be moving to a new state.

The night before the inspection, the seller told us they got another offer for $5,000 more.  Just $5,000…  We are in an area with a disgustingly inflated cost of living and obnoxious salaries – $5,000 is probably less than the price of one of the seller’s wife’s purses.  The seller was already going to profit hundreds of thousands of dollars.

What happened to civility and honoring your word?

A bigger profit of $10,000 or more?  Yes, I understand that and would possibly do the same.  The asshole who offered slightly more money?  Well, shame on you.  In the past, we have chosen not to bid on houses that already have offers on them – but perhaps we must become a bit more unethical ourselves.

So now, we have no house, again.

Everyone says it is for a reason.  It is a sign.  But there are no signs pointing in the right direction nor do I have any reasoning left.

I can’t find a job and we can’t find a house.

Now I have to clean the scummy sh*t off the shower that I thought I’d be leaving behind.  I went to the big-box hardware store.  I nearly broke down in sobs.  I used to cry a little when I had to go there again and again and again all in the same day just to buy the right screw when we were remodeling our old house.  This place isn’t for the unmoored shitbox apartment dweller.  I wanted to buy the non-native invasive pesticide laden flowers to liven up my window boxes.  I wanted to browse for new vintage-inspired sink handles.  I wanted to buy cement for N to fix the goddamn back step again.  Instead all I needed was some caulk for our frighteningly moldy tub since the management does a terrible job with such things here.

Last night we found a slug slimeing its way up the living room wall.

I know this post breaks my rules of telling tales of personal woe and rants as outlined in my manifesto/mission statement.  To bring it back somewhat on topic, at least on the topic of home decor which does include fiber arts (but not this time) allow me to bitch about the aesthetics of many of the residents in our area. (And yes, I am channeling my inner curmudgeony old man with canned corn stuck in his teeth right now).

So many houses we’ve looked at have these goddamn stars all over them:

  stars4  stars3  stars5 stars6 stars7

Are they supposed to be quaint and country?  (Didn’t country thankfully die in the 1980s?).

Are they supposed to attract celestial dwellers?

Are they patriotic?

I guess I am not patriotic, from outer space, or own a denim shirt with embroidered hearts because these little bitches set my teeth to grind.

Another thing?  I don’t want my walls to tell me to live, love, laugh or describe the room’s obvious function even if it is in a European romance language – I don’t want the walls to say anything.

wallwords2  wallwords3   wallwords6**

I can almost accept putting your child’s name on the wall of her bedroom – I’m all for literacy.  But one house we viewed had “Laundry” in cheery script over the washing machine – really?  And the ubiquitous “Live, love, laugh” in the bedroom – it was the home of a divorcing couple.  I guess they didn’t love or laugh – the living one is hard not to do as matter of routine.  Does anyone’s house say f*ck, cry, die?  I might buy that in vinyl script…

*Our attempted new state is known for its asshole drivers and we thought we’d look a little more like friendly drivers having plates with old buildings or woodpeckers or trees or smiling puppies on them.

**All pics yanked from real estate sites.  It’s likely I’m violating copyright.  Realtors aren’t my favorite people at the moment.  My apologies if I made fun of your house, but really, if you want to sell it, take that sh*t down.



Filed under home, home decor, unemployment

4 responses to “Third time isn’t the charm; seeing stars and I don’t want the walls to talk

  1. i had just read about this trend in the nytimes, though it was about houses in brooklyn (of course). pretty shitty way of doing business. the stars are a hallmark of the PA Dutch and it’s only a matter of time before folks start painting/stenciling “live, laugh, love” or “keep calm and carry on” on the outside of their houses. kill me now.

  2. Sorry the house fell through. The house hunt is so stressful and I don’t get the sellers who do so little to improve their odds in a terrible market. Around here, the sellers can’t be bothered to do little things like clean mildew off of walls or put laundry away before they photograph the property.

    • Yeah, that’s bad. I also get depressed when it’s an estate sale and still has remnants of final years full of illness and infirmity – sometimes the house is cleared out and then the garage has the adult portable potty and wheelchairs and stuff crammed in there…

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