There are moments when the fact that I’m buying a house completely slips out of my mind. These are peaceful times, pleasant, relaxing. These moments are also few and far between. Most of my time has been spent on the phone: I get a spastic call from my lawyer (who reminds me of Estelle, Joey’s agent on Friends), which means I then need to call my mortgage lender to doublecheck some small issue, which leads me to call my realtor, and then the lawyer again to reassure her that all my paperwork is in order and moving along. So, it feels like a kind of juggling–but with invisible sticks of fire. Did I mention that I was also teaching a new summer course?
Imagine my surprise when my mortgage broker tells me that I need to take an online course in homebuyer education as part of the spanking sweet SONYMA deal I’m just barely elegible for. A class? Well, okay. So yesterday I logon and–like the good student I am–take out my notebook and pen for, umm, taking notes. As I read through the instructions, I can’t help but freak out when I see that this test will take 6-8 hours. That’s right. HOURS. Jesus Wept.
20 minutes later I click on “submit” and nervously await my test results, Bingo! I’m in like flynn. Thank God for that Ph.D.
Let’s just say that if you have questions about PITI or the risks of predatory mortgage brokers or what foreclosure means, feel free to ask me. I’ve got my notes right here.
It feels like I’m undergoing some kind of secret rite of passage in preparing to buy this house. And, with any ritual, there’s some fear and maybe even some blood. Let’s begin with fear. The fear has now gone far beyond the merely financial. What I’m beginning to confront is my life-long fear of basements and all things having to fuses, wiring, electrical, and circuits. It’s the skanky underbelly of every house and the one area that I have spent my life avoiding. It’s becoming clear to me that I will need to embrace and know this part of my house. And that scares me.
But the greater fear hidden below the basement fear is my fear of the truth: That I would clearly prefer to live in blissful ignorance of things that are dank and dark and covered in cobwebs. If the laundry were not in the basement, there’s a good chance that it could be years before I willingly ventured down there. Let’s face it–I’m more of an attic kind of girl than a basement dweller.
And now I will try to show you some pictures of my future abode!