I saw a shiny and I want it. I WANT IT…

Mornin’ all.

Any of you have a cat?

I’m sure there are a few hands raised and nodding heads, so some of you can commiserate. Last night my cat decided she would get in touch with her inner kitten and pounce on everything. This was fine, albeit slightly annoying, when she wanted to pounce on things like a book, or an empty water bottle, or my bathrobe. This was not so fine when she noticed my toes peeking out of the blanket at two a.m.

It got less fine when the gnawing and pawing woke me up, and the jerking motion of me yanking my toes from the grip of claws scared her. Thinking the tables had turned in a bad direction, she decided play time was over and that she should most definitely attack for real.

I’d like to say I was awake and coherent enough to assess the situation and calmly draw my feet back under the covers, thus eliminating the threat. I’d like to say that, but alas, ’twas not so.

Now I have scratched tootsies and my cat has trust issues. We keep shooting each other wary glances. It’s awkward.

When I was in the first grade, my teacher decided that for the class Halloween party it would be fun to shut the classroom lights off and read us scary stories.

One of the stories she told has stuck with me to this day. It was about a weird, psychotic little creature that got its tail chopped off by a farmer. In fairness, the farmer didn’t mean to cut off the tail. He was trying to ax the whole creature. The farmer, seeing he didn’t kill the whole animal, decided to keep the tail as a souvenir, ‘cus that’s how the farmer rolled. Of course the satanic little critter couldn’t leave things well enough alone. He decided the farmer would pay, and began to haunt the man, demanding his tail back. When the farmer wouldn’t give it up, the hellcat rose up from under the bed and gnawed off the farmer’s feet before burning the whole place down around them both.

And there were pictures.

Maybe I’m just getting old and forgetful, but I don’t remember this one on Reading Rainbow.

Did I mention that said teacher was also wearing a witch hat? And using scary voices as she read??

Poor kitty. It’s not her fault that my childhood was tortured by a first grade teacher who, in hindsight, probably should never have been a first grade teacher. Yelping and flinging her was the visceral reaction of my foggy mind that honestly believed in the moment that the hellcat demon creature from another dimension was back for it’s “tally pole”.

…did I mention the critter in the story had red, glowing eyes? What the hell, Mrs. F? What. The. Hell.

Today my eldest turns 16. I asked if he wanted a Sweet 16 party and even offered to buy him a ball gown and tiara. He just gave me a look, so I canceled the hall and ice sculptures. Sheesh. You’d think he never watched Pretty in Pink or something.

…oh. Wait.

I grew up in a household with four girls. Now I have a household of four boys. I am constantly struck by all the differences between raising boys and girls, even after sixteen years. He’s got no demands for his birthday. I was an easy teen, by a lot of standards, and even I had certain things I wanted for my sixteenth birthday. He doesn’t. He wants to hang out with friends after school. And…

That’s it! How easy is that? Done and done! In that respect, boys are so much easier.

Their feet still stink, though. And if they don’t clean their room, the funky miasma that wafts from the pile of dirty laundry is nasty. They also pick their noses and scratch their asses and say “balls” and “fart” a lot. But, they’re easy about their birthdays.

He’s going to be at his dad’s after school. While initially bummed that I wouldn’t get to pester him with intentionally obnoxious and annoying baby stories, I came up with a good surprise for when he comes back on Sunday.

…which will also be another birthday in this household, his younger brother. Yes, they will share a cake. Yes, they are used to it by now. No, they don’t mind. There. That covers the standard questions I get when I tell people I have two kids whose birthdays are two days apart. I don’t know why that’s so fascinating for some, or why it elicits a barrage of questions. If they had giant horns growing out of their heads, yeah, okay, I can see why people would be interested in peppering me with questions. But it’s just two close birthdays, people. I doubt Barnum & Bailey will be knocking on the door offering them a spot in the sideshow. Let it go.

They’re growing up so fast and getting so big.

Which will be great if we get the house we saw last night. It’s a scientific fact that moving becomes easier the bigger your kids get. Not only will they stay out of the way when you tell them to, but they are amazingly adept pack animals who can haul things your aged back simply can’t. And they rarely spit on you like alpacas or llamas.

“Bethie! Children are NOT pack animals!”

If you think that, then you’re doing it wrong. Didn’t you read the instruction manual?

KIDDING.

…it’s not in the instruction manual. You’ve got to purchase the supplemental insert, “101 Other Handy Things Your Child Can Do”. You should be able to pick it up on ebay.

Yes, the house hunt is officially on! We’ve seen two this week, and we think we’ve actually seen enough. The one last night is perfect. It’s broken enough to put it in our price range, but not so broken we can’t fix it. It’s the right size, in a good location, with a yard and a garage and a workshop. And it just felt good walking in there.

I’ve just told you as much as I know about the real estate process. You look for a home, find one you want, and…and then…next you…hm. I don’t really know. I’ve never done this before. I suppose we’ll find out.

I wish I had a Real Estate Guru. The realtor is great, but she peppers us with so much info so fast that it’s overwhelming. I think I should stop paying my life coach for the time being and shift those funds to a real estate coach. The job pays cookies if you live near me and digital high fives if you don’t, with Facebook smiley faces posted on your wall as a bonus for anything above and beyond the call of duty.

Think about it. You don’t get perks like that in any other job.

I want this house, and I’m trying very hard not to get too excited too soon. I don’t know much about the process, but I do know the deal can fall through at pretty much every turn. Our credit might not be good enough for the bank to take a chance, the house might not pass muster, the buyer may get cold feet and decide she simply can’t sell it after all. I know this, so I’m really trying hard to temper my excitement.

But it’s got a garage. With an attached carport. AND a separate workshop just for me!

The best parts, though, are the huge rooms upstairs for the boys. Right now we’re crammed into what I’m really starting to understand is a very tiny house. I’ve always known it was small. However, I moved into this one from a trailer. In comparison…

Ah, that’s the problem. I felt like the house we saw last night was enormous. My guy laughed and said, “No, this is a normal sized house. We just live in a matchbox.” It’s all relative.

The boys will get elbow room. They’ll have space for all their stuff without tripping over it every day. I really think they’ll get a kick out of the funky and bizarrely shaped closets, too. There’s one that’s got a door that is as tall as a regular door, but is only one foot wide. It’s the weirdest thing. Why bother with a one foot wide door? What am I going to put in there? Cue sticks. Yard sticks. Anything in the “stick” category, really. Golf clubs, as long as they aren’t in a bag. Baseball bats. Um… swords?

There’s another little closet, a cubby really, that’s about two square feet. It’s got a door and all, and it’s about six inches deep with three shelves. If it was in the kitchen, I’d say it was a spice cabinet and find it incredibly useful. But, it’s not in the kitchen. It’s just there, in the middle of the den wall, saying, “Yep. I’m completely unnecessary. WHATCHOO GOT TO SAY ABOUT THAT?” Another one is a weird domed doorway under the staircase that looks like someone tried to get fancy and failed. It’s lumpy and lopsided, like a bad boob job. It’s fantastic.

In the upstairs, there are two huge bedrooms and weird closets. But there was also another door. I asked the realtor if it was another closet, but she didn’t know, so I made my man open it while the realtor and I stood a safe distance back.

Hey, I love my guy, but if a rotting corpse is going to fall on anyone, I think between the two of us he’s the one who’s better equipped to handle it.

Eerie music began to play as he stepped forward. A board squeaked underfoot when he shifted his weight towards the door, extending his hand to the cold brass knob. The realtor and I stood closer to each other, breaths held in terrified anticipation. Slowly he turned his hand, the squeal of the old knob’s age echoing through the empty room. With one final deep breath, he gave the old door a tug and the realtor and I screamed as the door burst open to reveal…

Another room! A huge one, with high, attic ceilings. I think it was an attic, in fact, but with a few new floor boards and some drywall, it could easily be another large bedroom. None of the info provided about the house even mentioned there was a whole extra room up there. It was so cool!

…wait. You’re disappointed? You actually WANTED a rotting body to fall on us?

You have issues, my friend.

There are no neighbors. That’s perhaps one of the greatest bonuses about the place. It’s not in a Desirable Neighborhood because it’s not really in any neighborhood. It’s a house right on the main highway tucked into a little alcove cut into the forest. Nice and private and secluded. Which is weird, since it’s on the highway. But somehow, it feels all by itself.

No neighbors. Ah.

Did I mention the workshop? It’s attached to the house, and also was not mentioned in any of the realtor’s information. It’s huge and goes down into the ground a fair bit. In fact, if we do get this place, the first thing I’d probably build in the workshop is a set of stairs. It’s got one cinder block to step down on, and even that is a scary distance from the floor.

It needs the old ucky wall paper pulled and the walls plastered and painted. There’s some wiring upstairs that’s from the 40’s and probably should be addressed *cough* Grandpa *cough*. The roof has a few places where it needs new flashing, and there are some clapboards on one side of the house that need to be replaced. It’s not perfect. But it IS perfect for US. I told you, I’m shooting for a piece of crap we can own to get out of the piece of crap we rent. Trust me, it’s a significant upgrade.

Now, we just have to figure out how to get it.

I tell you what. I’ll sweeten the pot for any potential Real Estate Gurus out there willing to guide me on this journey. I’ll also pen an ode in your honor. A ballad, a legacy to be sung by bards through the ages. Does any other employer offer to immortalize your name in song?

I didn’t think so.

Thus concludes a rambly Muse for Friday, September 5, 2014. Since I expect a veritable influx of job applications for the Real Estate Guru position, please allow up to five business days for a reply…

All I need is a tractor and an empty septic tank…

Mornin’ all.

Summer is having one last blast.

…scratch that. This year, summer never really kicked on. You can’t really have a “last” blast if you never had a “blast” at all. We had only a handful of days over 90 degrees, and when it didn’t rain, the air was dry, not humid like it normally is in the summer. In short, we were pampered in comparison to an ordinary year.

Mother Nature decided to smack us upside the head with actual summer. It’s hot. And sticky. And feels ucky and gross. I’ve already turned on the air conditioner. It’s supposed to be near 90 today and as humid as a sumo wrestler’s armpit. Doesn’t that sound pleasant.

Ah well. It’s got to break soon. Hell, in a couple months when the snow’s falling and the wind howls with icy terror, I’ll be remembering the time I complained to you all about a late season heat wave and kicking myself for forgetting that it can always be worse.

We drove around yesterday and looked at some houses that are on the market. In my little town, that would be about half of them. You drive up almost any street here and you’re guaranteed to see at least a couple houses for sale.

“Bethie, you exaggerate.”

Often, yes, but not about this. There’s a street here in town that leads up to the school. It is a Desirable Neighborhood, close to “downtown”, close to the school, with the Community Center’s enormous open fields that taper off into forest as a back yard. The houses are Victorian styled, they almost all have fantastically huge garages, and their views of the rolling fields are gorgeous.

Picture this… You wake up in your large, Victorian home, to see the autumn sunshine over a frost covered New England field, with the patchwork colors of the autumn quilt covering the trees of the forest that lines the clearing. You sip your coffee as you lean against the antique woodwork of the open door frame, and watch the light twinkle on the frost, the heat of the morning sun beginning to make wisps of steam curl up into the crisp air when all of a sudden, a majestic buck regally parades into view. And not a single neighbor takes a shot at it off their back porch. Not one.

That’s a Desirable Neighborhood in this town, my friends.

There are seven houses for sale in this particular Desirable Neighborhood. There are less than 20 houses total on that street.

“Wow.”

Well said. Wow indeed.

“Okay, so why the mass exodus?”

Taxes. See, in NH we don’t have silly things like income tax and sales tax. However, would you believe we still have state expenses? And that we need to pay for them? As such, we have property taxes. While everywhere has property tax, in NH, the lack of other taxes means that we pay out the wazoo for the privilege of owning property. Our rate here in town has a base of $28 per $1000 of assessed value. I don’t know why the town does it like this. Why don’t they just say 2.8%? Because…math? Who knows.

So that’s the base. However, depending on where you are, the property will, of course, be assigned a different value.

We looked into one of the Victorian houses for sale in the Desirable Neighborhood just to see. We knew it would totally be out of our price range, but we just wanted to know what they were going for. It was a 4 bedroom jobby with a garage on 1/2 acre of land. A good sized house, to be sure, with the added bonus of a nice garage. They are asking only $167,000 for the house. It’s a steal!!!

…until you read the tax information. The 2014 property tax is just over $7,800/year.

“Wait Bethie. Your math is off.”

No, it’s actually not. See, the tax counts the house value AND the assessed land value. So for just that little half acre of land, they charge an additional $3,000ish/year. For half an acre.

To give you an idea, there’s another neighborhood in town that goes back into the hills. The road sucks getting there and you can’t get cable, so don’t even try. However, because it is not a Desirable Neighborhood, the home was in the same ballpark as far as size, but comes on 4 enormous acres of land. It’s yearly tax is only around $5,000.

See, even in a tiny redneck town, it’s all about the neighborhood.

I did not know this until we started looking for houses. Actually, I suppose I did sort of. I never really gave it much thought, though. If we want to live in the Desirable Neighborhood, we need to plan an additional $680/month tacked on to the mortgage JUST for tax. We are not shooting for the Desirable Neighborhood. That’s like paying two mortgages just to be able to watch deer frolic in the field. I don’t even like deer.

While toolin’ around, we accidentally ended up going around the lake. Tiny little lake homes that just look expensive let us know we were SO not in the right neighborhood, but the road was narrow and filled with people who paid way too much to look that stupid in their coordinated velour jogging suits. We couldn’t find a place to turn around, so we just had to press on. I said, “Oh, no. I think we’ve ended up in a cul de sac.” To which my man said, “We can’t afford to live in a cul de sac!”

No. We can’t. No Desirable Neighborhood, no lake properties, no cul de sacs.

We got turned around and lived through the condescending looks leveled at us as we passed by the town’s hidden wealthy. Took a turn off that street, saw a trailer, and instantly felt better. Then we got up into the hills.

I’ve lived in NH my whole life, and one thing I can say for certain is that if the town has back hills, which most will no matter how large the center of the town may be, then the properties you will find in these hills vary about as much as anything can. In the Desirable Neighborhood, the houses and properties fit a rough pattern. Victorian style home, large garage, same sized lot, same majestic view of unmolested woodland creatures. Around the lake, there is a property protocol, too. Tiny house, but meticulously maintained. Not a blade of grass longer than the rest, white picket fence an absolute must, and I believe in the purchase agreements the velour suit thing must be a requirement since everyone has them.

EVERYONE.

Driving through there was like ending up in Children of the Corn. Only with rich people.

Neighborhoods tend to take on personas, certain vibes, whether they were built to be intentionally conformist by one development firm, or sprang up in dribs and drabs over the years as people bought and developed individual lots. The need to fit in with the neighbors is evident.

But, in the back hills of any decent NH town, all rules are broken. The only “vibe” is, “Mind your own damn business.” One property might contain a thousand dollar trailer left over from the 60’s, with old tv dinner tins patching up the siding, while just up the road, you’ll find a couple million dollar estate. It’s a mix of everything up in the hills, and that makes for an interesting holiday Monday drive.

Those developed hill properties rarely come up for sale. You can buy untouched land up there, but the kind of people who intentionally build their homes in the most hard to reach places do so because that’s where they fully intend to nestle in and be kings of their empires, whatever form those empires may take. I don’t blame them a bit. If I ever get rich enough to not have to do silly things like go anywhere, I’d do the same.

Among all the fantastic, sprawling estates, and the cozy, hoopdie little trailers, I saw a property that I just loved. It’s got a little stream through it, hills, forest, and a large clearing. Someone had set up a work shop, one of those huge prefab steel tubes that just look like they’d be fun to shout into to hear the echo, and they had a few tractors parked outside their home. What was the “home”? Two campers strung together with a little tin roof. Like old 70’s Winnebagos.

What a life, huh? Get a huge piece of gorgeous property tucked back where no one will bother you and play around on tractors all day. Tell society to eff off, get a couple campers to skirt around building codes…

I’m not being sarcastic. That sounds awesome. And if we didn’t have kids, that’s exactly what we’d do. I told my man that. He said, “I’m game if you empty the bathroom holding tanks.”

…perhaps there are some drawbacks to this idea I did not initially consider.

We turned down a road that lead up to an enormous spread with a little pull-over spot in front of a stone wall and a sign that read, “Turn around in this spot. Do not come through this wall.” There was no gate, just an old fashioned stone wall that had probably been there for a couple hundred years. There were no obvious signs of any security measures. No cameras. No guards. Just a small, open stone wall and a sign.

In the back hills.

Of NH.

Trust me, that’s all the security they need. Anyone who reads that sign and doesn’t understand that their ass will be shot if they go onto the property will learn pretty quick. We turned around as respectfully as possible, just in case, and made our way back down the hill. We did not turn down any more unmarked roads.

So that was our day of local sight seeing and property watching. We found a couple we like, so keep your fingers crossed. Seems everything in our price range is “cash only”, which is moronic when you think about it. If I had $70K in cash, I certainly wouldn’t buy a $70K house that needs total renovation. I’d buy a $200K gorgeous place with one helluva good down payment.

Actually, $70K would probably get me a nice chunk of redneck heaven up in those hills, with enough left to get a couple old trailers to stick on there. And maybe even a used tractor.

Hm. Now if I could only think of a way to trick someone else into emptying the holding tanks…

Thus concludes the Morning Musing for Tuesday, September 2, 2014. Keep your fingers crossed for a little one we really like. Figuratively. I don’t really expect you to walk around for weeks with your fingers uselessly twisted together, though I thank you for your commitment to the cause…