Sorry, haven't posted that much lately. I've been busy taking 20 years off my life.
I've been looking for a house for oh, the last 2 years. Nothing was fitting the bill - mainly because the house I was looking for would cost $2 million dollars in Los Angeles. If I was in Detroit, I'd be all set. But out here, in the most expensive place not named New York, it seemed like I could barely afford something the size of my apartment.
Then luck swung my way. The world economy collapsed. Oh joy! Prices came down (a very tiny bit), but more importantly so did interest rates. Surprisingly, this didn't help as much as I thought it would. I would drive around on Sundays screaming to myself "there's supposed to be a recession, assholes!"
Finally, I saw a place I liked. It was a brand new townhouse complex, really nice, pretty good neighborhood, but not fantastic location. It was the first place I loved. But I didn't get serious about it, the economy was still good, and it was too expensive, so I forgot about it. And then 5 months later I went back and the shit was still for sale and they had lowered the price a lot.
However, it was in escrow, though it was shaky, and they wanted a great offer to tell the other guy to go fuck himself. Something told me it wasn't right. The bedrooms were small, and I wasn't sold on the location.
Months go by. I find another place I like. This one isn't brand new, and isn't as nice. But the location is absolutely perfect. I have a job. The price is right. I (extremely nervously) make an offer.
Turns out, they have 5 other offers - all of which are higher than mine. They come back and tell us to make our last and best offer. I go above the asking price. My agent calls me - no, not my writing agent, that guy never calls me. Fucking Team Handleman.
My real estate agent calls me and says my offer was the highest...by $1 thousand dollars. I got the house.
It was the worst moment of my life.
Was this really a good idea? I tend to be unemployed A LOT (shh, don't tell the bank). This isn't exactly a steady business, you know? There's only so many Latino comics to write for. And did I mention fucking Team Handleman?
I am not a stressed person by nature, and here I was adding the biggest possible stress. It was the worst feeling, I finally understood my dad at airports.
I began seeing the splendors of my apartment. It's got a bedroom! It's darn near roomy, some would even say. The creepy guy downstairs barely ever peers through my window! He's great, charming, even. The homeless tourrette's lady screaming "FUCKSHIT" at 3am every night, adorable!
But the ball was rolling.
By some miracle, I got the loan. And that's when I realized: I'm part of the problem. I'm the reason the economy collapsed. If they're giving loans to me, they will clearly give a loan to anyone. Take me away, Tim Geithner.
I awaited any phone call telling me it had all been a big mistake. Seriously, I would've been so relieved. I had a plan that involved not getting the house and me going to Vegas and making it rain, possibly even at Rain. But the call never came. It happened.
This was the week. I put all the money into escrow. And then...
My car fell apart.
Literally, it fell apart. And of course, it needs a pile of money to fix. On the week where I put all my money into a house. The vast Handleman fortune wiped away in one fell swoop. Imagine Hurricane Katrina, but instead of wind blowing, it's sucking. Sucking up all my money.
Welcome to home ownership!