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Really, what else can I say about Arky?
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His mailbox even has a buzzer!
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Hubbicula's kitchen in Arky.
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for when li'l pirates cut themselves with their li'l cutlasses. they also had one for princesses and one for teddy bears.
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Last night, just as I was about to call my realtor and say, "Let's make an offer on the Filthy Hippie House," he called to say that it had been sold.
Crap.
Back to square one and there's nothing much on the market here in Lawrence. I've already looked at and ruled out the only five houses that were close to what I wanted.
Which leads me to this craigslist ad:
http://lawrence.craigslist.org/reo/1202335142.html
What do you think, Cranky? Buy an empty lot and set this baby up?
Yesterday, while the inspector was at our house with the buyer, I went out with our real estate agent to look at houses. Wowie. A couple of cute little prospects, and some seriously scary ones, too.
We're looking to really take a step down on our mortgage and get some of our equity out of our current house, so most of the houses I looked at yesterday are currently rental properties. Most of the renters are college students, although one house was occupied by a family of hippies.
(The fifth house? It was EMPTY.)
And the hippie house? Oh lord. In addition to Peasant Skirt Mountain and the Birkenstock Valley, there was The Bedroom That Could Not Be Entered. Full to the ceiling with crap. Look, you wanna call your second bedroom a "recording studio" and sit around smoking pot in it and burning incense until the pores of the walls are infused with Patchouli, fine. Whatev. But when your three kids have to sleep in the same bedroom with you and your partner, because the third bedroom is full of dirty clothes, broken toys, old magazines, and boxes of unknown crap, you have a problem.
Similarly, slacker college boys, when you've let the kitchen get so dirty that the only way to properly clean it is with two gallons of gasoline and a Zippo, it's time to get a fucking grip on yourselves.
So, can you guess which house I'm considering?
OMG. I just glanced over and out of the corner of my eye, I thought there was a Stormtrooper eating at the next table. (yeah, i kinda feel like a douchebag for blogging this, but i'm all about the cheap laffs.)
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Well, I will be soon enough.
As of Sunday morning, we have a contract on our house. The buyer wants to close quickly, so tonight I go house-hunting for me. Yike! Here's what I want:
1.) Walk to work
2.) Non-skanky kitchen and bath
3.) Hardwood floors (carpet is Teh Gross)
4.) Decent neighbors
Am I asking too much? I dunno, but I guess I'll find out this evening.
All of this means PACKING AND MOVING!!!! AAAAAAGH!
We pack up Hubbicula's stuff this week and take him to Arkansas on Friday. Then it's back home for me, where my packing and moving hell begins. I'm trying to be smart about it. Since we'll have our house sold before I buy the next house, I'm going to rent one of those PODS. Pack it full and have them store it for a week or two (or however long I'm homeless), and then deliver it to the new place for unpacking. Meanwhile, I'll be couch-surfing and living out of a suitcase. Joy.
The cats? They're either going for a spa vacation in Wichita, or going to spend some with Daddy in Arkansas.
Had dinner with some friends last night, and by some astounding miracle, they had not heard that Michael Jackson was dead. They are neither Americans, but of course, Jackson had been iconic in their youth as well.
As we talked about it, I lamented that his childhood was so messed up and wondered, "What might he have done if he hadn't had such a controlling father?"
My friends disagreed, saying maybe he wouldn't have done anything great without his father to browbeat him and his brothers. Mozart, they proffered, was another example of this.
Except...what might Mozart have done if his father hadn't been an emotionally abusive asshole?
After all, plenty of artists do just fine with loving parents. In the two biographies published of him in his lifetime, there's no suggestion that Michelangelo had a miserable childhood and he turned out some amazing art.
I dunno? Is it true that misery makes better art? Or is it that talent attracts misery?
Adieu, scrappy little WW2-era shack. Built in 1942, planned use was 10 years. They bulldoze it tomorrow.
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