Last week I bought a house.
No, really. I (and, I suppose, the husband) bought a house, on Thursday. I suppose it would be more accurate to say we bought 30% of a house, which, I think, means we own the bedroom, part of the hallway, and at least half of the staircase. Given that I’ve never owned more than a car, and a large number of Benihana mugs, I’m going to say that’s pretty impressive.
It was our ambition to own a house by the age of 36. We started poking at the idea this summer and, this fall, started reading a few house listings here and there, checking out neighborhoods we liked, looking into the price ranges we could afford.
I don’t think anyone would be surprised to hear that, naturally, the most we could afford was a place with a door. Most of a door. The NOTION of a door.
We’ve lived in the same house for 7 years now. My parents bought it as a sort of investment property: i.e. investment in us not paying some random stranger rent for a house entirely too small for 4 people. The house, as it is, has served us well, but it is not our ideal. Being a spoiled only child, and my parents having absolutely no intention of dying in the next few years, they offered to help out.
It totally looked like we could afford a whole door.
No shit! A real door!
In the end, we found a lovely house, newly remodeled, in the neighborhood I’d spent my first ten years and to which I’d always vowed to return (the neighborhood, not my childhood though, at this rate, I’m going to say that would not be a poor idea, either). We put a bid on the house December 27th. Haggling commenced, and a contract was drafted New Year’s Eve. Inspection was January 9th, and we closed on January 30th.
We do things fast in this family. The husband and I were dating a mere year before we moved in together, another year before we got married. I was knocked up before our first anniversary. Waiting is not our forte.
Owning a house seems like a massively grown-up thing to do. This is difficult, because the husband and I have a combined maturity age of 25 on our best days. On our worst, it’s also 25, but I account for something like only 6 of those years. I am completely untrustworthy. I like glitter too much.
Given the husband did the majority of the loan handling, and freaking out about said loan handling, our combined maturity age has been somewhere around 32, where I behave like a seven year old. I love packing, but I also love planning and plotting. I also have several large collections, including, but not limited to, the aforementioned Benihana cups, 80s Happy Meal toys, and knee socks. I am, in essence, an elementary school student with a broad vocabulary of curse words.
As the husband’s maturity age is currently hovering in the very adult category of mid-twenties, he is hoping for an Adult House. I have repeated to him that owning a house does not change my personality. I planted my skeleton flamingos in the front yard the day we closed. I have plans for the arrangement of my Russian premiere nesting dolls. I named our house The Silver Devastation on Foursquare.
Yesterday found us with a hammer and nails for mounting artwork. I pointed at my favorite tile in our bathroom, a piece we bought in Taos years ago, of a skeleton on the john, reading a newspaper. I have a large collection of Day of the Dead artwork, in the range of “cute” to “outright tacky.”
The husband shifted uneasily. “Are you sure you want that in the upstairs bathroom? What about the kids’?”
I huffed. “You can’t shunt everything I like to the basement!” *cue foot stomp*
We bought a lovely, hand-woven rug. We bought a couch, and curtains. We put up shelves. Today, I carried around my tea cups from the 70s, emblazoned with stoned-looking animals. It hasn’t come to pass that my husband has broken my cherished items “on accident” to save himself from their presence, but I’m keeping an eye on him.
He will never lay hands on my glitter “ho” sign.