Holding Out
Look. It's not like I'm purposely holding out on you or anything. It's just that I can sum up the last three weeks of my life like this:
No LOLz here, my friends. I mean, sure, I got to take a much-needed and delightful break to see friends in the big city. But the tenor of July, for the main part, has been a combination of rage and despair, hope and dashed hopes, flavored with a soupcon of "seriously, this has to be over soon, right?"
Tense updates in the negotiations about selling our house continue. The going consensus of our realtor and lawyer is that the buyer's realtor is invested in squeezing us for every penny she can. My favorite quote from Friday: "it's clear that they're not going to do the work on which they're basing this estimate. It's just about getting you to give them the cash." To wit: despite the fact that they based their original offer on visible structural issues, they now want us to take more money off of the final price of the house for those same issues. I spent much of the weekend entertaining various revenge fantasies, in which both the buyers and the realtor have infestations of mold in their respective houses. But those, I think, are probably healthier than the whining that I often find myself falling back on: what is wrong with these people? Is there absolutely no point at which they'll consider, even for a second, acting in a way that's honest and/or fair? And when did I turn in to such a Pollyanna? As my contractor likes to say: "People are scumbags, Fluff. Haven't you been around long enough to figure that out?"
Meanwhile, we found a house we're very interested in. Does it need aesthetic updates? Yes. Does it violate my requirement for a post-'84 kitchen and bathroom? Yep. In addition, I'll just say one word: paneling. But, bless its heart, it's on a half acre plot and it's a 12 minute commute to work. The owners accepted a very reasonable offer with no haggling, for which I thank them profusely. Forge ahead, says I. Pay for yet another structural inspection (on top of the one for the house we lost to contingency). The result from the inspector: it's sound, and it has a nifty, brand-new furnace. The result from the appraisal: it's worth $10,000 less than you think it is, which will affect your financing.
Thus, on this happy Sunday, I wait to hear whether the owners want to amend our contract to adjust to the appraisal. Meanwhile, however, the house we're living in is going to go, assuming that there's not some other way the buyers have of nickel-and-diming us to death. Rock and a hard place, anyone?
My summer class begins in a week, and will be immediately followed by a very full fall semester of teaching and service, and a couple of conferences to which I've committed. Of course, I had planned to spend the summer drafting out those conference papers, so that the fall wouldn't be so hectic. Instead, my entire summer has been consumed by the house. Assuming (and this is a big assumption at the moment) that the purchase of our house-in-need-of-renovation goes through, we can also assume that I'll spend a good part of this coming year, and perhaps the much fought for sabbatical coordinating reno rather than writing. All of which, I think, leads up to a big career FAIL on my part. My big post-tenure plan was to reinvigorate my research agenda, and not only have I f'ed that up for now, but seemingly for later as well.
Truly, I hate everything. Except you, readers, despite the fact that I've made you wade through my solipsistic whinging above. I'll be back with some sweetness and light, I hope, or at least some of the snarky sarcasm I'm too self-indulgent to locate right now.
No LOLz here, my friends. I mean, sure, I got to take a much-needed and delightful break to see friends in the big city. But the tenor of July, for the main part, has been a combination of rage and despair, hope and dashed hopes, flavored with a soupcon of "seriously, this has to be over soon, right?"
Tense updates in the negotiations about selling our house continue. The going consensus of our realtor and lawyer is that the buyer's realtor is invested in squeezing us for every penny she can. My favorite quote from Friday: "it's clear that they're not going to do the work on which they're basing this estimate. It's just about getting you to give them the cash." To wit: despite the fact that they based their original offer on visible structural issues, they now want us to take more money off of the final price of the house for those same issues. I spent much of the weekend entertaining various revenge fantasies, in which both the buyers and the realtor have infestations of mold in their respective houses. But those, I think, are probably healthier than the whining that I often find myself falling back on: what is wrong with these people? Is there absolutely no point at which they'll consider, even for a second, acting in a way that's honest and/or fair? And when did I turn in to such a Pollyanna? As my contractor likes to say: "People are scumbags, Fluff. Haven't you been around long enough to figure that out?"
Meanwhile, we found a house we're very interested in. Does it need aesthetic updates? Yes. Does it violate my requirement for a post-'84 kitchen and bathroom? Yep. In addition, I'll just say one word: paneling. But, bless its heart, it's on a half acre plot and it's a 12 minute commute to work. The owners accepted a very reasonable offer with no haggling, for which I thank them profusely. Forge ahead, says I. Pay for yet another structural inspection (on top of the one for the house we lost to contingency). The result from the inspector: it's sound, and it has a nifty, brand-new furnace. The result from the appraisal: it's worth $10,000 less than you think it is, which will affect your financing.
Thus, on this happy Sunday, I wait to hear whether the owners want to amend our contract to adjust to the appraisal. Meanwhile, however, the house we're living in is going to go, assuming that there's not some other way the buyers have of nickel-and-diming us to death. Rock and a hard place, anyone?
My summer class begins in a week, and will be immediately followed by a very full fall semester of teaching and service, and a couple of conferences to which I've committed. Of course, I had planned to spend the summer drafting out those conference papers, so that the fall wouldn't be so hectic. Instead, my entire summer has been consumed by the house. Assuming (and this is a big assumption at the moment) that the purchase of our house-in-need-of-renovation goes through, we can also assume that I'll spend a good part of this coming year, and perhaps the much fought for sabbatical coordinating reno rather than writing. All of which, I think, leads up to a big career FAIL on my part. My big post-tenure plan was to reinvigorate my research agenda, and not only have I f'ed that up for now, but seemingly for later as well.
Truly, I hate everything. Except you, readers, despite the fact that I've made you wade through my solipsistic whinging above. I'll be back with some sweetness and light, I hope, or at least some of the snarky sarcasm I'm too self-indulgent to locate right now.
Labels: nesting, post tenure, whining
posted by kfluff at 11:45 AM
2 Comments:
Aha! Now I have a mental image to pair with your posts! It's no use; no matter how much you scream and yell I'll be going, "it's a fluffy white kitty! Who's a fluffy white kitty?"and trying to scritch you under the chin.
Good luck with the housing dramas (paneling? ugh!) and don't forget to feed our sick addictions to to moving, packing and decorating sagas out here on the internet!
ditto-ing everything sisyphus has said. i have no choice but to now think of you as an angry white kitty.
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