House-ing (jamais deux sans trois...quatre...cinq)

(I'm going to spoil the punch from the start and tell you that this blurb has no determined end, because, well, the end is to be determined.)

I feel it's time to inventory recent house-hunting developments, beit because we are on the cusp of saga no.5 (is it even the cusp? what is the cusp when the apexes are multiplied), or just because at this point, adventure borders on ridiculous, and plain bad luck or bad judgment has made it as such that we are where we are now. Don't understand? Let's rehash:

September 2009
Joy, bf and I start actually looking to buy something more impressive than 400$ worth of food at Costco! We start looking online, MLS, and realize quickly enough that Montréal is an island limited in size, surrounded by water and bound by crumbling bridges, and that living on said island involves funds we do not have. Proximate Suburbia becomes our utopia and the South-Shore our new MECca.

A few Googles and discussions with home-owning pals later, and we have an appointment at the bank in order to litter the conference table with all the rolls of pennies we have, including the odd dime we found between the sofa cushions that morning. We dress to impress, try and look rich and professional, but mostly try and follow what the quick-talking bank man is saying. We dream of mansions, and he offers to open his coffers... hmm, but of course. In our minds, his money is already ours and we are having drinks in our hot tub.

Taking initiative, we charter the unchartered shore with a couple of visits. We quickly discover that shopping in an area you don't know leads to nasty surprises. We start getting cosy with Google maps in order to attempt to avoid disaster. Or at least cement factories as neighbors.

We also quickly realize that once listing are public, the good ones are already spoken for and all that is left for grabs are the dented cans at the supermarket everyone is a bit iffy about (15 cents cheaper... the can is dented.... but it's 15 cents cheaper... yeah, but the can is dented... hmmm *ponder*). We hear of a fabled land called 'Matrix'. I push to get an agent, any agent... we need the inside scoop, 2-3 days before, this Matrix thing they describe, it seems incredible, we need an agent, any agent. Point in case, we get any agent. Let's call her Angie (her real name).

Angie is younger than us, has bad taste in cars, her coat never closes, and she has as many kids as we have computers in our household. Oy. What training does an agent have to follow again? Didn't Sally Struthers used to sell correspondence courses for this on tv (a choice among many in the esteemed professions scrolling up your tv screen that were just a phone call and a bulky envelope away)?

OFFER no.1 : South Shore, drafted in an office with no printer, 45 minutes late
Without going into third-party situations, nor the details of "The Night The Offer Was Drafted and Angie Went Home To Her Husband in Tears", our first offer was very reasonable. Probably the most reasonable first offer we ever made. The seller came back, insulted (?), with a 'FIRM' selling price very little under his list price, eliminating all possibility of negotiation which is, um, inherent to a sale of the likes, no? We decided to refuse Hitler's counter at a Starbucks on Taschereau. KAPLUNK

We never called Angie back. She still emails me to this day.


October 2009
Our new referred agent, let's call her X, kicks ass. I have seen and explored the fabled Matrix. What they say is true, and moreso! I am one with the Matrix. Mr. Anderson, your ass is grass. Grass of a nice 5000 sf lot on a decent street with a decent house that needs a bit of loving, but for that price, hell, I've got loads to give. We discover Google Street View... the world is mine, mouhahaha!!!! POUNCE. First visit ever for the listing. Ya baby.

OFFER no.2: South Shore, drafted over a chicken leg at St-Hubert
Without going into third-party situations, we found ourselves refusing the counter in our very own living room, intentionally seated a seat apart, while X was strategically on a bathroom break. KAPLUNK

November 2009
I think it is obvious, yet important to mention that the sequential stages of grief apply to a tee to a purchase offer that has fallen through. Exponentially so when, like ET, you can point a lit finger at the 'why' and say 'No Home'.

I think it is also ironic to mention that, frustrated, and surely still distraught by grief, I chose to suggest we explore other lands, ie: other shores. This was against my better-half's will. I was therefore punished by God almost instantly, through the intermediary of a torn ligament (which is still to this day healing). It was our one and only trip to Laval. We returned immediately to mecca.

OFFER no. 3: South Shore, drafted over 6 inches at Subway
Without going into third-party situations (you will find me redundant), X marked the spot, peed on it, and went gaga like a cat with an olive. We learned what pressure tactic were. We were two, normal, insignificant humans, against a band of three 'agents'. We got a financial approval on a civic holiday. We thus learned that the people who end up working that day are incompetent losers.

We decided to withdraw during the inspection, our first inspection. We subsequently, and quickly, learned what a bailiff does, how much he costs, where the only public photocopier is in Old Montréal, and I put l'ACAIQ (pronounced 'AH-KA-IK', like an aboriginal complaint chant of sorts) on my speed dial. KAPLUNK

Bf fired X twice. I was expulsed from the Matrix faster than a phone can ring in a subway station. My grief was exponential, as my addiction, fed over a month, had grown beyond proportion.


December 2009
Ah, yes, as encouraging as it was to find 'something' once a month, it was an odd pattern, and scary to say the least. Sans agent, I pounced via MLS, a poor-woman's Matrix, and what seemed to finally, after so much rotten luck, go smoothly and exemplify a typical home-buying transaction. This turned into...

OFFER no.4: Montréal, drafted on a kitchen table in a ground floor condo.
We learned that not having an agent has advantages, despite my Matrix withdrawal shakes, in the form of a more cut-to-the-chase negotiation process. We cut to the chase, had placed the furniture and were choosing paint colors...hurray, finally! I dared Facebook about it. Without going into third-party situations, Fate or sheer coincidence saved our ass. We were flabbergasted by the absurdity of a home that is knowingly and literally falling apart. We discovered we better withdraw in the basement of the house itself, 3 and a half feet away from a 45 foot brick wall threatening to fall.

We met the co-owner a few days later, with a cyborg in lieu of the agent, and in an incredible tour-de-force, I ended up cheering like Meg Ryan in her striped shirt in Nice but on Sherbrooke street that night. Budgets, research, hair-pulling and number crunching later, we nonetheless countered a very low number. We then received the joke counter-offer on boxing day. We decided to pack it in while he was pacing in the hallway and I was lying on the bed. KAPLUNK


January 2010
We always learned from our experiences and I firmly believe this trajectory has it's course to run, and that I should not attempt to understand it. Offer no.4 showed us that we really do want to live on this darn island. Maybe we should think bigger. Or smaller. Or density. We could be landlords (me a landlady, ha!). Funny thing is, when you are a landlord in the city, you rarely have land.

I figure we have visited over 60 houses, condos, duplexes and triplexes within a 35km radius. And through all these previous experiences (and I spared many a detail, including the man in the wheelchair with a parrot on his shoulder and his legs in the closet), we always learned what would prepare us for the next experience. Two 'home-buyer' scenarios had not been experienced.

This is where the saga becomes To Be Continued. Sorry.

Cycles

Last early summer, I was ecstatic. I had a new job because HE finally called back, my foot in the door, grass was greener, smelled cleaner, I was going to have money, a house...I had PLANS!

The year passed and I chucked my job (and the a-hole who called back), but not before it slammed the door on my foot, I spent two weeks pulling firmly-rooted grass out of my garden, the only fresh smell are those annoyingly strong-smelling fabric softener sheets we bought at Costco (if the cupboard door is left open, my life is a Febreeze ad), and the money I eagerly receive now is my U.I. cheque, that lets me pay the rent. Worse thing, I realize today, is that I have no plan. I can't have a plan, it's not up to me. I can apply to every job under the sun, I'm still not in the driver's seat.
Annoying...to say the least.

The Way I See It #26

Rare is it that I pay attention to the quotes printed on a Starbuck's cup (quotes that are, according to Starbuck's, "a collection of thoughts, opinions and expressions provided by notable figures that now appear on our widely shared cups"). But today, my latte spoke to me. It said:

"Failure’s hard, but success is far more dangerous. If you’re successful at the wrong thing, the mix of praise and money and opportunity can lock you in forever." - Po Bronson

The cup moved me to the point where after having thrown it into a garbage can before entering the book store, and after 20 minutes and three floors of superficial browsing (the kind of purposeless yet innocent perusing that merits a store detective's stalking), I realized that I should have kept it, cleaned out the cup and cut out the quote. No wonder it had been so hard to find a garbage can (none outside the coffee shop - none outside the bookstore) - the cup wanted to stick around. And I even walked an extra block to throw it away.

In the bookstore, I pretended to browse while I was actually thinking that to clean out the cup and cut the quote, I would have to pillage through the garbage. Do I just walk up to the can, and reach in? I should have at least written down the quote. Bah, maybe I could just Google 'the way I see it #26'? Hmm, not the same. So the alternative was to dig for the gold. In the midst of Parc avenue, nonetheless. Lovely. My jobless state has got me to new lows.

*Deep breath, stealth mode*
*Coast semi-clear, the target is within range*
*lean, pluck, and BINGO!*

Po would be proud...this, by the way, is Po.

"Look at you, Bike!"

No special day, no special event some would say, some would think. But for some reason, a time for me (and a whole lot of other people, so there!) to reflect on past, present, future - bed, bath, and beyond.
And as my latte is pouring into my new mug (thanks mom), they start streaming out. The Resolutions (not 'Revolution') that is. Resolutions with a big Rrrr.

1) Less and more. Actually, this is not a rejected Miesian theorem. It means quality, not quantity. Could apply to food, crappy filter coffee (*frisson* - I'm just going 'spresso or bust now). This could apply to clothes, outings out to the resto, things for the house. No more 'stuff', just the few nice things (I've been watching too much of that 'Til Debt Do Us Part' cheesy Canadian show. If that Super Nanny ripoff has to come repo something and make me lug is around with me everywhere I go, it's gonna be an HDTV and not my crappy circa 1997 VCR. And she will not get to totalize my spending on STUFF!)

2) BUT that Irish-Hindi Super Nanny ripoff will NOT ring my bell since I will continue what I started before I bought a gift 120MB Ipod (that will not even be used, I fear) and set aside 500$ a month in my savings. And with this, I will get a house, a car to get to the house, a babyseat to put in the car and a baby to put into the seat. There.

3) I will not be bored at my job. I can be confused, tired. I can wander. I must find the pleasure in it and make that my challenge. I will remember that this is all part of the master plan and that I need work and money or the Super Nanny bitch will have me work at the only remaining Krispy Kreme on the island (because the ring shape symbolizes renewal?) in order to earn 400$ more a week. I have superseeded my job title, in that it is, despite being impressive, quite modest for what I do and know, whereas some have (self-attributed) job titles that mean nothing - because they know nothing. (oh, and by the way, you might want to look up the definition of your 'newfound' title before you give yourself the promotion, eh?)

4) Make time for exercise, exercise in more way to keep it fun.

5) Take more pictures, read more, write more (yeah, bike), invest in personal projects and aim for their realization, even if in small ways. Rediscover my artist.

6) Cleanse the soul (and my apartment) of crap.

7) Friend. Re-evaluate my definition of that word and the people who all under that heading.

8) Be selfish. We are surrounded by selfish, immodest, bullshiters who would sooner spend huge amounts on themselves instead of repaying, or trying to repay, a debt to a real-life 'friend' (and not an anonymous bank). Everyone is ruthless. Be kind, but selfish. What do I want?

9) Be selfless. What do others need and what can I offer them?

10) There are certain things I can't be or do, just by the sheer magnitude of my being me-ness. Try nonetheless, when it's important.

11) There are certain things I should not be or do or even accept, despite the sheer magnitude of my being me-ness. Don't when it's important.

12) Stop being cryptic ;) And stop at 12 because 13 is an unlucky number...

I feel better already.

its a date!

So after much wait, debate, waking up late, and a bit of fate, it's a date. This morning, I showed up at work and they were mowing the pristine front lawn (pray tell, only this institution could have a pristine front lawn in the downtown core). The smell was intoxicating. A first whiff at summer, happiness, relief, change, EXHILARATION! (Girly insert: Green grass inspired the purchase of a funky new green bag, now dubbed 'the frog', later in the day)

I'll miss smiling faces left behind for sure (and the tiny gift bugs). But for now, no sadness, I just want to bask in the here and now, in the joy of balanced mutuality: me wanting something and it wanting me back. To smell the bliss of being what I have wanted to be for the past three years, if not my whole life.

Second date?

I don't know what is worse. Not knowing when important news will come (yet expecting it), or knowing EXACTLY when the blow, good or bad, will hit. Exhilaration. Relief. Grief. Joy. Sadness. Which one of these will I be allowed to fête on said date.

Yes, after the unexpected Out-of-the-office Friday (screwing me into a THIRD painfully stretched-out weekend, argh!), the Finally-the-end-of-my-torture-today Monday arrives. Monday is TODAY.

Youpi. Well, whatever, at this point. The wait has made me indifferent. It has made me forget. I have to remind myself that I want this, what this even is. Oh, yeah, that. What did he look like again? Oh, yeah.

Today, it is final. I shall know (I don't want to know, why can't it be tomorrow?). Today = Relief. Mixed with exhilaration? Grief? Joy? Sadness? Take your pick, ladies and gents. A cocktail laced with all of the above, yet watered down, since it seems, finally, the dream opportunity is not mine for the taking... AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW! Sadness on the rocks.

BUT wait...WAIT (yes, 'wait' is the key word here), because surprise, surprise, a second dream exists on the same cloud. But no one knows of this second dream, not even my date. He has to find out more before he can promise me the moon (yet he promises it to me anyways, in the shape of a definite proposal). But I have to wait. I have to wait for Put-it-in-my-agenda-to-call-you-and-let-you-know-if-you-are-hired Wednesday. Ha.

There will be no second date, there will be no 'when, oh, when will he call, maybe today'. It's all or nothing, and at the same time, it's not all, nor is it nothing, but most of all, it's not bloody today, it's Wednesday!

My great (?) first date

Recent discovery: Going through the interview process for a job (and this not for just any old job but rather THE Job, capital THE, capital J) is exactly like a great first date. You get all fidgety, dress to impress, and hope you don't have anything stuck in your teeth while you laugh nervously. You try to remember everything during the actual moment, but are sweating bullets and concentrating on not sounding like a dork, all the while being captivating, yet secretly making sure your palms are not too sweaty by wiping them on your skirt.

Then comes the post-date. The minute you part company, you feel exhilarated, you call all your friends, rehash everything that happened, imagine your happy future together, then you start analyzing the entire meeting, over-analyzing it, re-over-analyzing it, reminding yourself of the magic moments, that great chemistry (Wait, was it just you who felt it? Was he bored...no, nono, it was GREAT. Well, it was ok. It was good), wince a bit at the not-so-hot moments, but remain convinced that THIS it THE ONE. Then you realize: you have to wait for the guy to call.

Totally powerless, yet wanting to make a small move to show your keen interest without letting yourself be too vulnerable during your wait for 'the call', you write 'the thank-you letter'. It's light, intelligent, articulate, perfect, and sent the very next day. Hey, within 24 hours is the norm, I googled it. I am not rushing things, window of opportunity baby, just making sure the guillotine don't slam shut. I am perfectly by the book. Classy. Yeah...*pat on back*

Everything is even more askew since you had your interview on a Friday; the promised (but was it sincere? It was...wasn't...was...you replay the handshake over and over) "call next week" encompassed a weekend that would drag on and on as you do laundry with a passion and dream of the happy union to come (dum-dum-dee-dum, dum-dum-dee-dum). Only after that does the 'it's-quick-but-could-happen-Monday' come, then a 'should-be-anytime-now-Tuesday', until the excrutiating 'it's-going-to-be-today-for-sure-Wednesday', which, at this point is becoming the 'it's-only-Thursday-and-this-week-goes-until-Friday'. You check your phones and email hourly, morning, noon, and night. Paranoia sets in. Shit, another 23 year-old skank has stolen YOUR job!

And you don't want to look elsewhere, THIS is what you want, nothing else compares, and just thinking of looking elsewhere could jinx it, that would be giving up, it would be like a BETRAYAL, how could you? Tsk tsk...and what about the magic? Remember how great it was (I can't remember a thing, it's bloody 5 days and 9 hours ago!) Wasn't it great for him? Then why, WHY won't he call?

My desperation is an obvious sign of how much I really want this job.