I Just Made (At 50) My First Offer Ever On A House
- 2008 Jun 22
I've never owned a home. I've never really had any money to speak of, and there seems to be some sort of connection between the two. Plus, I hate yard work. When I was a kid, my dad was forever making me do yard work. I hated it so much that I swore one day I'd be too poor to afford property. That'd show him.
Anyway, there comes a moment in every person's life when they realize they're going to grow old and die freezing to death in a refrigerator box on the street if they don't finally do something about the fact that they're still living like someone who's main concern in life is what kind of chips to buy for their kegger that night.
And that moment, in my own life, came about fifteen years ago. And I went, "Okay, that's it. No more being poor. I'm gonnna become a WRITER!"
I know what you're thinking: Stupid much?
Well yes, as a matter of fact, I am.
Anyway, for the First Time Ever, my wife Cat and I, as of this morning, are making an offer on a piece of Actual Real Estate -- except there's no land involved, since it's a townhouse (being a three-story condo, don't you know), which is located in a "planned community" (um: be afraid) called San Elijo Hills.
If you go to www.sanelijohills.com, you'll read this nugget o' sales copy:
"Just north of San Diego on the highest point in North County is a community designed with almost everything in mind … a walkable Towncenter planned with shopping and dining, brand new schools, 18 miles of trails, 1100 acres of open space, a regional park for hiking and horseback riding, a 19-acre community park with ball fields and play structures and homes of every size, shape and feel you can imagine."
Horseback riding. Yeah. I'm sure Mr. Ed would be very happy living in one of our closets.
Anyway, there you have it. We've made an offer on a townhouse in San Elijo Hills.
I've been renting since I was sixteen. I'm now living in about the twenty-fifth apartment I've ever lived in.
What a trip, to ... have to fix my own garbage disposal, or whatever.
To not know that at any moment someone with the power to evict me could turn his or her key to my front door, and walk on in.