Over the Second-to-Last Hurdle

The bank finally decided we have sufficient and proper documentation to finalize our mortgage.

(This means the underwriters took yet another look at our ever-thickening file and couldn't stomach going through it again.)

We close on our new [112 year old house] Thursday!

I've been floaty and happy all day, even through the deafening elementary school Spring Fling (husband decided it was my turn this year) and Kira's band concert (nearly three hours keeping Scarlett quiet in an auditorium - who's more awesome, she or me?).

It feels greedy to hope tomorrow also goes well.  Three guys are coming to the house we're selling to inspect and estimate. Please, let our sewer not be caved in/full of roots. If it's possible, let our furnace and hot water heater pass muster.  Last, let us hope that the electrical - wired by drunken monkeys - isn't too expensive to fix.

All the Things that Could Go Wrong

I'm fighting another monster headache, along with strep - but I have antibiotics for that.

It's the stress that's doing it. We find out on Tuesday if the bank decided that the company logo on some of our 401k paperwork is big enough to prove we have a six month reserve for mortgage payments on both houses.  They keep rejecting us, so finally Mr. Man sent them a bunch of screen shots with the logo plastered across the top of our online statements. They might approve us just to get us to stop bugging them.

If not, our next step is driving five hours to the underwriters' office and harrassing them in person.  Don't think we won't do it.

Also, in the next 24 hours the buyers of our house tell us what they want fixed, minus the sewer, which gets its own keepsake photo shoot on Wednesday. The furnace and hot water heater get their own special inspection also on Wednesday.  We've heard nothing at all from the buyers or our realtor, so either nothing big came up in last week's whole house inspection, or the list is so long they're afraid to tell us.

I haven't blogged much about all of this, because so much involves legal negotiations that probably shouldn't be made public.  (I also haven't had time!) But this - this standing on the cliff, wondering how on earth we're going to get where we want to be from here - this is personal, this is a moment I need to document.

We keep telling the kids that anything worth having in life takes work, and sometimes we have to take risks. We also tell them to pray, because at this point, it's all out of our hands.  And prayer works.

My gut tells me it's going to work out.  If nothing else, I'll still have a wonderful husband and happy healthy kids.

But maybe not a house.

So send happy thoughts my way, and some prayers, too, if that's your thing.

Under Contract

I wasn't going to do this, but I thought some of my far away family might be interested in seeing how our house shaped up.

I thought it looked pretty good, (in need of updating, for sure, but good,) and another couple thought so, too. They put in an offer five days after the "For Sale" sign went up.  With any luck, two weeks from today we'll close on our new house, and in four weeks our house will be sold.

So.  This is where our family has lived for nearly twelve years:

Living room - we were hoping someone would decide they had to have our piano so we wouldn't have to move it.  No suck luck.

My nemesis:

Hall, upstairs bedrooms, bathroom:

 

The world's ugliest paneling - the family room:

 

Downstairs (non-comforming) bedroom:

 

Keep sending happy thoughts our way so this keeps going smoothly!

Snoring in Public

I snored in front of hundreds of people Friday night. That’s what happens when you’re the only one with enough foresight to bring a cot to sleep on at the adult slumber party known as BOCES sign-ups.

BOCES = Board of Cooperative Educational Services = Cheap, awesome summer activities for kids, limited enrollment = parents lining up 10 hours before the doors open.

I was also getting over a cold, which I probably got because Scarlett and Kira had it, and because that final all-nighter getting our house ready for sale (37 hours of frantic painting and cleaning) made me feel like refried crap.

But I was fourth in line, so my kids got every one of the classes they wanted. That makes me feel like a really, really good mom.

But I didn’t tell the lady who stopped me in the parking lot for directions that she needed to save herself the hassle of standing in line for hours only to be disappointed – so she should call Monday to see if anything was still open. So that probably balances things out.

Incidentally, our house is FINALLY for sale, and I think I’m even going to post pictures.  It’s cleaner and in better shape than when we bought it nearly 12 years ago. While it still needs to be upgraded, it’s not much worse than other similar houses in the neighborhood selling for $50,000 more, so I think it’s a good deal.

If the bank keeps playing nice, we’ll close on our new house on our 16^th wedding anniversary, two and a half weeks away.

And now I have just a little bit of free time.  Probably it will get used to do boring stuff like pay bills, but it’s kind of exciting nonetheless.

Somebody hates me.

Alrighty, folks, first I have to tell you about where our cats have been with all this moving business. If I'm a decent person, you'll understand.  If my neighbor's right and I'm a despicable human being, you'll leave a nasty comment at the end of the post and be done with me.

Until last Wednesday night, Jack and Alfred stayed at our old house. We're living in my dad's extra house and not only is he violently allergic to cats, he doesn't like them.  At all.  Mr. Man is also still not super fond of having cats. So we decided to leave them at the house until we got to the point in the our move (painting) where it didn't work to have them there anymore.

This is what we did to care for them and keep them company:

My husband spent about two hours there in the morning, showering and doing some repairs/packing.

I dropped by for about 20 minutes from 8am-8:20, packing.

Depending on the day, I spent a few hours or all day doing more packing and cleaning.

Most evenings, we dropped by for a little while.

Our kitties always had plenty of food, fresh water, and a clean litter box.

Last - and this matters - I kept boxes piled by the window because the cats like to sit there (even when we're around) and watch the world.

Last Wednesday, I arrived to do more moving stuff and found a note, in bold writing, taped to my front door.

It informed me that I am a HORRIBLE!!! person, to have left my cat (note the singular) at a house I've mostly moved out of (hmmm... been peeking in my windows, have you?) and that I am clearly NOT CHRIST-LIKE!!!! Cats are social, my anonymous neighbor informed me, and the poor solitary creature was sitting in the window all day, missing its family.

Do I think we've abused our cats? No. But unaccustomed to people condemning me in such a public way and worried about what she (sounds like a she to me) might do next, I moved the cats to our current home that night. And ironically, I spend less time with them now because all my free time is spent packing and cleaning - where they were.

This whole incident has me feeling really uncomfortable. None of the people on my street would have written that note, much less pasted it to my door. They're too nice, would have noticed our comings and goings, and probably are aware that we have two [very similar looking] cats. But somebody out there, maybe someone who drives by my house once or twice a day, really hates my guts, and I don't know if they're done with being vindictive. Yesterday when I unlocked the front door, I could barely get the key in.  I think someone messed with the lock.

Logically I know that whoever taped that note to my door has issues, and they have nothing to do with me. If my neighbor had been the fine Christian she pretends to be, she would have left a note in my mailbox, giving her contact information and asking of she could talk to me about the cats.

I'd never make it in politics. You'd think being a mother would have made me immune to complaints, threats, and "I hate you," but it hasn't. Mean people are the worst.