Two new frenemies

Please allow me to introduce you to my two latest reasons to stay awake all night.

Miss 17 Proctor Street:

And Miss 17A Proctor Street:

As you may infer from their names, these two are related.  They share a rather generous plot of land, and Miss 17A resides behind Miss 17 somehow or another.  I haven’t seen them with mine own eyes because the listing agent refuses to answer his phone, return voicemails, or respond to pages, from both me and my semi-vigilant buyer’s agent.

Anyhow, let me tell you what I know about these two lovely ladies, the Proctor sisters.  They’re in Natick, and they’ve both been on the market for a year now.  Miss 17A’s listing price has come down 63 thousand dollars, and Miss 17’s has come down 50 thousand dollars… this is when you say “hmm”. 

Somewhere, buried deep, a rational minded person within me is pointing her index finger sternly, as if to say, “prepare thyself for the likelihood of extreme disrepair, you positively moronic child”.  

But “Ohhh” says the wistful dreamish inner-me that’s somehow taken over, “Ohhh how I would love to have my very own tiny precious house in Natick“. 

While I’m sure this is yet another instance in which I could most likely benefit from a hard slap and someone telling me loudly and with unfriendliness NOT TO GET MY HOPES UP, I, unfortunately have been duped by the promise of “move-in condition” in the description, a “nice yard”.  So for some reason I choose to believe that these houses aren’t selling because nobody else (besides me) can fit in them.  (That theory to be explained in the next paragraph.)

Miss 17 Proctor may appear fairly large, but you know how they say the camera adds 10 pounds?  In this case it may be adding about 1000 sq ft.  She’s only 880 sq ft of living space, but manages to contain 3bdrms and 1ba… this is a must-see to fully comprehend situation. 

Miss 17A does have a walkway under those fallen leaves, and does look much prettier in another photo of her where the folliage was full and the sun was brighter, but she too is immensely small at 550 sq ft.  The most hilarious factoid about Miss 17A is she comes with a shed in the rear, so she’s basically a shed, that comes with a shed.  (NOT that I’m making fun of her because she’s so utterly in my price range… and in Natick to boot: a seemingly impossible combination.)  Somehow this manages to have 2bdrms 1ba built into that 500 sq ft… another case of “must view to fully compute”.

If goddamn Patrick Lydon of Lydon Real Estate would kindly call me the fuck back so I could arrange a showing today, I would be a much happier person.  I might even get some sleep tonight.

 

Speaking of tonight, though not of sleeping: At 21 Nichols Ave in Watertown, at “21 Nickels Grill and Tap”, bluesy/rockin/soulful/amazing Jake La Botz is playing his gee-tar and sangin his songs.  No cover.  I expect it to be sensational.  Incase I don’t post anything before then, he’s also playing tomorrow at Brendan Behan’s pub in J.P.  At present, I intend to attend both shows.

 

Please include the Proctor sisters in your prayers for me tonight.  Not to insinuate that you regularly pray for me, or regularly pray at all, but maybe you could, just this once.

 

Book Worm

I finished reading The Godfather — so well written that it trumped the film.  I also liked Kay Adams so much better in the book, and there were such interesting side stories about characters that there wasn’t time for in the movie.  Mike and I watched it the night after I finished the book.  I definitely understood it slightly better having read the book, which goes into detail about all the different families, and better explains different plots.  So good.

Last night I fell asleep at like 6pm reading a new book, Tell No One,  a thriller by Harlan Coben that I borrowed from Mike’s mom.  I slept until around 10:30, then started reading again until midnight.  Communication from the dead, police chases — I was reading by the open sliding glass doors and got totally spooked — had to lock up the house.  I’m about halfway through, and the book’s pretty thick.  It’s funny how fast you can read some books.  I’m not a fast reader, but it’s proof that more complicated writing actually takes longer for the brain to process.

Saw a decent property over the weekend (an attached townhouse in Quincy) that needed a ton of cosmetic work — so much cosmetic work that it actually seemed like a fixer-upper!  It was covered in wood panneling and bad wallpaper, hideous paint, and not a single floor surface that could be left as is.  The place was pretty small for two people to live in, and not cheap enough that I wouldn’t want a roomate, but it did have some advantages, like two floors of living place plus a small basement with laundry and a little plot of outdoors off the EIK. 

A rehabbed version of this is selling for tens of thousands cheaper in Weymouth, tho it lacks the basement and outdoor space.   It does have a fireplace however.  That one I could afford to live alone.  Things to be considered.

Either today or tomorrow, I’m seeing a tiny house in Natick.  Tomorrow there’s an open house at a condo in Norwood.  With as dedicated to the search as I’m being, and it only being mid-August, I’m starting to feel like I have a decent shot at hosting Christmas this year.  We shall see.

 

Thrills

I finally saw two places I really liked, both in Roslindale.  One was a “charming” 2bdrm 1ba (this is real estate code for very nice, but on the small side), and the other was an “insanely enormous” (not code) 2bdrm 1.5ba with a potential 3rd bdrm in the finished attic, and a certain bar/lounge potential in the finished basement.  We’re talking shiny hardwood floors, awesome windows, and recessed lighting throughout.  The second one had a nice outdoor space too.

I’m not moving on either because they both had some downsides, but I’m keeping my eye on both.  They’ve been on the market for a while, so we can take it slow.

Tomorrow, I’m meeting the Bob man at 10am in Quincy to do a 15 house circuit: Quincy, Braintree, Weymouth, ending in Hyde Park.  Wish luck!

 

Up to speed

Sometimes the reality of getting up at 5:30 in the morning doesn’t really hit until 7:45, at which point the entire body gellifies into a warm, rubbery sleepiness… the head heavy, the eyes stinging to be rubbed and begging to close.

I drove to work from Mike’s house in Quincy this morning, left at 5:50 in the morning, because if there’s anything I hate, it’s traffic on 93.  As a result of leaving so early, and taking advantage of my ability to speed on the open road, I got into work at 6:25.  This is very nice because I’ll get to leave at 2:30.

By 11:07, having been here so unnaturally long already,  I’ve already gotten a sensible half day’s worth of work done, so I figured I would bring the blog up to speed on the recent house hunt status.

I was right (and simultaneously wrong) about getting my hopes up for the Natick house.  It was in need of demolition (a gut job) had no appliances, severe water damage, needed new ceilings, floors, probably a new roof, etc.  Again, who knows about the basement because some houses are too scary to want to check out the scene “down there”.

Today will hopefully be more promising.  I’m doing a circuit of Hyde Park and Roslindale — seeing 7 properties in total.  I think only one of them is a single family (Hyde Park foreclosure) and the rest are condos.  Regardless of whether any of this pans out, it will at least be nice to check out the Roslindale area, which I’m pretty unfamiliar with.  Three properties are near the Arnold Arboretum, and I know the JP side of this to some extent (and I like it).  One other is right on the ege of Mt Hope cemetary (hey, at least it’s quiet with trees) and the three others surreound the Stony Brook reservation and George Wright golf course.  I used to think there were only golf courses in really ritzy places…

In other news, there’s been some email exchange about starting a band with some people.  I would be interested in singing again, even though this isn’t the most available time in my life.  I figure a good outlet for unproductive fun could be just what the doctor ordered.  In the words of Debbie Vallante (about me), “you don’t have an irresponsible bone in your body”.  I think she meant it as a compliment, but my inner rock star cringed with rebel-wannabe-ism.

Random thoughts:

• Elephunk is a great game, worth $5 on PS3
• Bob Drake talks a lot, and every time I type his name, I typo “Bob Drank”, then laugh
• I usually spend time with my mom on Thursdays.  I hope she will come see a place/some places with me soon.
• It would be nice if I found the one today.  It would always be nice if I found the one.

 

Mentaldoodles.

The prospect of house-buying, I have come to conclude, is a major distraction from anything and everything else imaginable.  I had thought, when I first got serious, that my days of mental absenteeism would diminish once the excitement wore off, but I’ve found that the closer you feel you are to the actual event of buying property, 1) the more exciting it is and 2) the more there is to frantically research, and mull over in the mind.

I even slept distractedly, waking up the middle of imaginary debates over the design schemes of imaginary houses.  I probably shouldn’t have watched 5 hours of HGTV last night.  I really find that channel addictive these days.

My mind is particularly in left field (if working is home plate) because I have an appointment to look at more houses this evening, one in particular that I’m fixated on.  I got out of bed (exhaustedly) at 7am, got into the office at 8:30, and have to stay here for another 2 hours and 20 minutes…  It feels like an eternity.  I know excitement about seeing this property is unwise, but if this one turned out to be what I want it to be, I would be really happy about it.

It’s in Natick, which would clearly be a great place to buy, and it’s an estate sale (the house was left to someone, and they’re selling it).  It’s apparently zoned as a 2 family, and has been listed as both a single and a multi (weird flip-flopping) so I’m expecting something funky to be going on with regard to this… who knows what.

If this could be refined into a functional 2 family, given that the asking price is low even for a single family in this neighborhood (or any, really) it would pretty much be the smartest thing I could buy.  The ability to fix up one area (unit) and rent it while fixing the other.  And forever more have a second income on the property.

The major question mark and reason for skepticism here, is that this 3bdrm, 2 ba antique house is listed at nearly 200K less than the assessment amount.   So, one must ask the beleagured question “what’s wrong with it?”  I’m mentally prepping myself for a repeat of the Hough’s Neck abomination, since this house is also old, but if this one has things that house didn’t, such as a furnace and a kitchen, perhaps I could consider it.  Natick is, after all, a better investment than Hough’s Neck.

Aaahhh, good brainpurge sesh.  Hopefully I can get back to work now.  =)

 

Somewhere out there, beneath the pale moon light…

I’m utterly distracted today.  Christina’s mom showed me a single family in Weymouth last night, and I didn’t sleep much, thinking about ways to improve it.  It was an old house, cute on the outside, corner lot with a good size yard.  Some aspects of it weren’t ideal, but thankfully, it wasn’t another comically bad property.

Today, I’m not preoccupied by that house specifically, so much as the whole house-finding/house-buying endeavor.  I’m popping out of work for an hour in the early afternoon to meet with a buyer’s agent; I think it would be smart for me to work with one.  Have someone else on Team Angela.

As for considering Weymouth, taking the drive out there last night made me further agree (with myself) that it would behoove me (love that word) to situate (myself) in a more central location within my scope of travel.  The furthest point South I need to access is Quincy, and the furthest points West I need to access are Newton for work and Watertown for Mom.  There’s a lot of expensiveness along that route — 128 — that falls in-between, but who knows — maybe the worst house on the block somewhere will end up being my diamond in the rough.  (I can’t use that expression without thinking of Aladdin.) 

I’ve flip-flopped a lot on the condo vs. single family question.  There’s certainly more in my price range with a condo, and there’s the fact that lenders will give you slightly more mortgage money toward the principal since the master insurance and other maintenance things will be covered in the monthly condo fee. 

I know my heart prefers a single family, but I think that just like with most things in life, you can’t always get what you want right out the gates.  Sometimes you have to put in your dues while gaining the wisdom of life experience, and in this case building ownership equity.

Reasons I’d prefer a condo:

• Less worry about things I don’t know shit about (roofs, freakin boilers, furnaces)
• More affordable (price of property, but also other expenses like water and sewer that it’s easy to forget about)

Reasons I’d prefer a single family:

• Privacy
• Remodeling freedom
• No pet restrictions

Too bad townhouse style condos are as ungodly expensive as they are, because I think that’s what I’d like most.  I really like stairs, that is to say, I really like my living area consising of more than one floor, regardless of how narrow each floor may be.

I’ve been thinking about buying for so long now.  It’s been my plan since I graduated in ‘05 and my dream for just about as long as I can remember.  There’s something so sentimental about having a place to hang your hat, a place to call your own.  Through my experience of having moved to different apartments throughout my childhood, and also worrying about us being able to make rent even as a kid, I’ve come to value two things most: permanence and investment.  Permanence, because I’d like to stay somewhere for a while, really make it mine, and investment, because is there any bigger slap in the face than paying rent every month and ultimately having nothing to show for it?

I’m lucky that at 24, just when my goals of buying have started to become a financial possibility, the market is so turned in my favor.  I feel like it’s a sign to me that this really is the time for me to buy, and that it would be a missed opportunity not to take advantage of it.

Anyway, at this very moment I’m thankfully to WordPress for giving me a forum to get my thoughts out.  I think the biggest thing I need to have as a potential buyer (aside from money) is a solid sense of what the hell I’m looking for.

 

Heybama, Hobaba, We Want Obama?

So, I follow Oprah.  Those of us who truly watch Oprah do not just watch, we follow.  She says a book is good, and we know it is, so we read it once she tells us she has.  She eats the ultimate soft yogurt, tells us about it, and two days later we’re in the grocery store buying massive quantities of Columbo.

Due to my loyalty and love of Oprah Winfrey, I happened to “meet” Barack Obama some time before he announced his presidential candidacy.  She had him on her show to discuss his book, The Audacity of Hope, which I then purchased and tried to read.  Not being too interested in the ins and outs of politics, the book lost me after I had absorbed the chapters on his moral standpoint and opinions about America.  I found his writing to be very intelligent, exceptionally honest and forthcoming about sensitive racial and socioeconomic truths, and I believe he truly loves America and has concrete ideas and plans for this country’s improvement.

That said, I recently recieved one of those mass emails that people who sit at desks all day are all too familiar with.  This one was forwarded to me by my aunt, who is fair and liberal-minded in many ways, but she’s also an old-school type who thinks making meatballs with ground turkey instead of beef is “communist”.

I’m sure she wasn’t particularly attached to the contents of the email she forwarded to me and 6 other people, especially since she then forwarded two more — a dirty joke about an Irishmen and a set of golf clubs, and another joke featuring a husband and his wife’s fat ass.  Either way, I was irritated that she chose to foward this particular email to me, since I couldn’t have disagreed more.

Here is the content of that email, followed by the enraged reply that I promptly sent her:

Subject: Sincere “Thank You” note

 

 THANK YOU

 

                                      My fellow Americans:
  
 As your future President I want to thank my supporters, for your mindless support of me, despite my complete lack of any legislative achievement, my pastor’s relations with Louis Farrakhan and Libyan dictator Moamar Quadafi, or my blatantly leftist voting record while I present myself as some sort of bi-partisan agent of change.
  
 I also like how my supporters claim my youthful drug use and criminal behavior somehow qualifies me for the Presidency after 8 years of claiming Bush’s youthful drinking disqualifies him. Your hypocrisy is a beacon of hope shining over a sea of political posing.
  
 I would also like to thank the Kennedy’s for coming out in support of me. There’s a lot of glamour behind the Kennedy name, even though JFK started the Vietnam War, his brother Robert illegally wiretapped Martin Luther King, Jr. and Teddy killed a female employee with whom he was having an extra marital affair and who was pregnant with his child. And I’m not going anywhere near the cousins, both literally and figuratively.
 And I’d like to thank Oprah Winfrey for her support.  Her love of meaningless empty platitudes will be the force that propels me to the White House.
  
 Americans should vote for me, not because of my lack of experience or achievement, but because I make people feel good. Voting for me causes some white folk to feel relieved of their imagined, racist guilt.
 I say things that sound meaningful, but don’t really mean anything because Americans are tired of things having meaning. If things have meaning, then that means you have to think about them.
  Americans are tired of thinking. It’s time to shut down the brain, and open up the heart. So when you go to vote in the election, remember don’t think, just do. And do it for me 
  
  Thank You.
 Barack Hussein Obama, Jr.

 

 

 

 

 

 To this, I immediately sent the following rant:

From: Angela  
Sent: Monday, July 28, 2008 2:19 PM
To: Laurie
Subject: RE: Sincere “Thank You” note

 

Um, I think this is completely ridiculous.  “Americans are tired of things having meaning. If things have meaning, then that means you have to think about them.”  Meaningless talk basically describes the ridiculous flow of nonsense that defines our current Republican president.  I think if there’s one thing Americans are tired of, it’s meaningless talk.  In fact, I think this country has been somewhat unified by how fed up they are with talk that lack of meaning. 

This almost sounds like it was written by George Dubbleyah, too – it’s just that stupid! 

 The cherry on the sundae of ignorance here would have to be the signature, “Barack Hussein Obama”, as if not wanting to support this candidate means it’s okay to associate him with a tyrant who flagrantly executed people.  Obama is half black, half white, was born in Hawaii, is not Iraqi, and has studied and done political work in LA, NYC, and Chicago.  I’m not sure how he could possibly be related to Saddam Hussein.

The campaign’s not over, and I’m not entirely sure who I’m voting for.  However, I do not see Obama, or Oprah, as lovers of “meaningless empty platitudes”, and frankly, I’m more compelled to vote for Obama if it means I’m less akin to the author of this crap.  Whoever wrote this should spend more time thinking and less time spouting out slander.

 

 </end rant>

 

Now, I’m not one to get heated about politics, particularly.  This is because I typically choose not to discuss politics (especially not while drinking, but that’s a side note).  But when I am targeted via my email with this attack on both Obama AND Oprah, shit’s apt to get hectic.

To my rant, my aunt replied, “so I take it you don’t agree?”

To which I simply replied, “no”.

I have to say, I am disturbed by some of the anti-American connections Obama has been said to have had.  But honestly, these claims have come off to me as rather “Fox 25″.  You know, inflammatory, and designed deliberately to incite “terror”.  I read Obama’s response to the statements made by the candidate’s former pastor, Rev. Wright, regarding his violently anti-American sermons.  Obama totally disowned Wright, and very honestly discussed the fact that conversations and opinions go on behind closed doors within every different racial group.  His point in saying so was that these issues, stereotypes, and false beliefs should be discussed more openly, so that they don’t lead to more division in this country.  (I won’t go into too much detail else I’ll feel compelled to cite the actual transcripts.) 

Anyway, I might not have felt so strongly if it wasn’t for the incredibly dumb “Barack Hussein Obama” line, or the unneccessary slander of my beloved Oprah.  I’ve been known to call the candidate “Osama bin Barack”, but I was kidding!!

 

House-Hunt Horrors

I’m directing this to anyone who knows the horrors of house-hunting.

Let me preface my telling of this experience by saying, this isn’t my first go-round on the tilt-a-whirl… I’ve seen places with 6 layers of cat-piss saturated carpeting; I’ve seen places with linoleum on the walls; I’ve seen blocks of foreclosed condos in Dorchester with pimps in couches on the front lawn; I’ve seen places just slightly bigger than some dorm rooms; I’ve seen basements and attics and bathrooms that would make your metaphorical dick fall off.  I know that hundreds of gross and weird places are out there, previously inhabited by gross and weird people, and I know that in the Boston area, you still have to borrow hundreds of thousands of hard-earned dollars to have the luxury of owning them.
 
Yet today, putting all I know and all I’ve seen aside, I went to look at a 3brdm/3ba single family on Hough’s Neck in a whirl of excitement.  It was listed at 197,000, built in 1920, and I — like a fool and knowing better all the while — got my stupid hopes up, thinking I would be planting a tree in the front yard of 133 Darrow Street in the very near future.
 
First, let me share with you the pictures that lured me into this unfounded and cruel sense of hopefulness:
 
Ooooh…..

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Aaah….

 
OoOOooh….

 
(Wood panelling and an ugly leather chair, but) Aaaahhh…

 
So, when I approached the place, it seemed to be about a third of the size I assumed it was from the picture.  But no matter, I pressed on.
 
We walked in, and the first thing I noticed were the holes.  There were holes everywhere.  I said to the agent, “what up with these holes?” and she said, “well, look at the walls”.  I use the word walls here in quotation only, and for lack of a better word.  There was not an inch of sheetrock in the entire house, rather, the walls were made of some sort of cardboard a la 1920.  They were sort of textured, and literally crumbling. 
 
Instead of the sunlit entryway I had been lead to expect, there was a dark and penetrating gloom about the place.  I was soon told that the house was currently inhabited by the 40 year old son of the previous owner, who died there.  I walked into the living room, turned my head into the dining room, and I swear somebody stuck a cattle-prod to my chest.  There was the old man’s wheelchair, standing straight and at attention, as if to say, “get the fuck out of my hovel”.  My heart literally stopped, and I would have to say this could have been my first encounter with a potentially evil spirit.
 
The kitchen, if you can call it that, had no cabinets or counters.  A free-standing stove on one wall, a sink, a washing machine and dryer (that was a plus), and many dirty plates were scattered about the room.  The linoleum flooring was ripped everywhere, and though there were hardwood floors underneath, it was more just like, wood.  The pantry, whose walls were exposed brick, had this odd glass window, and it looked into the hallway.
 
Speaking of windows, there was a stained glass window at the bottom of the stairs, and this might have been lovely.  But in the center of this was a picture of a woman in a fancy Victorian frock, with a little white dog on a leash, both of them staring straight forward, unsmiling as if they too, had seen a ghost.  It was sort of interesting, yet truly creepy.
 
I was hesitant to ascend the stairwell, thinking I’d probably fall in, but I have to say the old house was pretty level, I’ll give it that.  The stairs seemed rather sturdy, and were even.  As I alighted, I first noticed the “walls” were oddly black.  I now see this in the picture of the entryway, but hadn’t noticed it before.  The agent then told me that the house had no furnace, and that the old furnace, upon its death, had experienced a “blow out” — wherein black smoke fills the entire place.  This would explain why 3 hours later, my hair still smells like soot.
 
Upstairs, where the 40 year old son of the ghost was “living”, squalor prevailed.  He seemed to be staying in the room with the matress on the floor, surrounded by loose change, sneakers, magazines, and wire hangers.  I think I may have noticed a cup o’ soup.  There were two other small bedrooms, one painted lime green wherein a fleece blanket and pillow made a sort of bed on the floor and there was a tiny floral wallpapered closet that an 8 year old could’ve barely fit in for hide and seek, and the other I was too discouraged to look in. 
 
The bathtub held the most evidence of grime any bathtub could possibly hold — approximately a tubful.  It looked like the soot explosion had eminated from the tub itself, but since that’s unlikely, I guess it was just dirt.  From the looks of the place, I doubt the resident(s) was/were showering regularly.
 
I think that pretty much covers it.  I was way too scared of spooks and black mold to look in the basement.  I left feeling so utterly disappointed and victimized by the agent that had described these repairs as a matter of “sweat equity”.  I think what she ought to have written was “contractors only please”. 
 
I require emotional consolation.  I’m at the end of my pitiful house-hunting rope.  I want to buy, but how many more of these horrorshows do I have to see?  Where is the Prettyhouse Fairy, and why doth she withhold her gifts from me?  So, a question for you…  How long did you actively house-hunt before you found your place, and, did you know it was “the one” when you saw it?  I wouldn’t call myself very actively looking.  I get the MLA listings from about 3 sites every day, and I look through them all, but only when I see something that seems really good do I bother to schedule an appointment. 
 
Sigh.  I’m going to take a rinse… the smell of exploded furnace is starting to get to me. 

Thanks in advance for your reply.

 

Curse of the Cow

Hello, I have a serious problem. 
I think I may be in extreme denial of my physical appearance.
 
You all know me well enough… you’ve seen me.  Would you tell me if I was clinically obese?  I mean, if I asked?  Well, I’m asking…
 
…because…
 
I JUST GOT HAMBURGER IN MY EYE.
 
You know, it really doesn’t even matter how it happened.  I flicked it off a fork into my left EYE, but at this point it’s irrelevant.  The thing that I think matters is that nobody who’s not an extremely fat kid could possibly manage to get BEEF in their own eye.  It stung and I think there’s still some in there.  My vision’s slightly blurry and the eye is producing tears like it’s on the payroll of a third-world sweatshop.
 
Anyway, there are mirrors in the world; I’ve seen pictures of myself; my neck is capable of craning downward, but I fear I might suffer from some sort of reverse-anorexic dysmorphia.  Like, I look in the mirror and I don’t see a 500 pound person, but maybe it’s just because my eyes are too filled with BEEF to see properly.
 
Please let me know, okay?  I promise I won’t hold your honesty against you.  I need to know, it’s for my own good — I should probably find some sort of program, or support group, so that this kind of thing doesn’t recur.
 
Thanks a lot,
Angela