Real Estate Tangent

The highs and lows of parenting and real estate.

The Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Run

I had a bad run yesterday. No, like really bad. I’m not saying The Exercise and I have hired divorce attorneys yet, but we’re in counseling and considering a trial separation, is my point. The Exercise is totally sleeping on the couch. It’s not looking good.

I’ve mentioned that I’ve been training for a RAGNAR that goes down in about a month. I basically have 18 miles to run in three sections over about 30 hours. I have to run 8.3 miles, then 6 and finally 3.6. I have been training regularly since early November, but lately I’ve taken a bit of time off here and there for the big anniversary trip and because I’ve encountered an IT band injury. I’ve been working on stretching and various other things to get my knee back in shape, but as RAGNAR approaches, I’ve been worried I need to get some decent mileage in so I’m not unprepared for the big 8.3 run.

Yesterday I planned to do 7 miles. It’s officially the longest run I’ve ever done. I did 6.5 at the very end of the year, and I did 6 a few weeks ago (before I figured out why my knee was hurting), but 7 was a new obstacle.

Suffice it to say 7 remains an unattained goal for me. I have, however, accomplished the new low of bailing on a run. That was a first for me.

In order to convey just how not only painful and soul-killing, but in typical Elizabeth Newlin fashion, ridiculous and idiotic this run was, I present to you: a screen shot of my heart monitor graph. I’ve labeled the parts worth mentioning. It really tells the whole story.

Ok, so I’m sure you know how a heart rate monitor works, right? This graph shows my heart rate on the left and the time on the bottom.

A: This was the first 3ish miles of the run. It wasn’t great, right from the start, but I was surviving. If, by ‘surviving’ you mean running as slowly as is possible for it not to be called walking and still sucking wind. I had stretched and iced and put this weird-ass magical voodoo tape on my leg before the run with the hope of keeping my knee pain under control. The knee was actually feeling great. Unfortunately, the new shoes I bought to facilitate the knee healing were banging the hell out of the big toe on my right foot.

B: This was where a car of elderly Canadians pulled up along side me on the road while I was running to ask me for directions. Who stops people while they’re running? Apparently lost tourists do. In addition, of course to the serial killers looking to snatch you off the street and cut you into tiny pieces.

C: During this section I had turned a corner and was actually running downhill, at my exact same pathetic slow-motion jog, but you can see my heart rate continues to climb. It’s like my body was getting wussier with every step. (Side note: I used to see people running really slow and pity them. Like, Dude, why are you running in public that slow? It’s embarrassing. I was an asshole and this is clearly karma. I’m pretty sure caterpillars were passing me.) This is also when I started to notice pain in my hip. Not in the hip of my left leg that’s been bothering me with the IT band issue, mind you. No, that would make too much sense. This was sharp pain in the other hip. And of course every step on the right foot felt like a hammer to my big toe.

D: The last few minutes of the downhill straightaway my heart rate climbed up into the 180s and I could not get it down. I was sucking wind hard, my hip and toe were throbbing and I knew that as soon as I hit the stoplight and turned right I would be straight uphill for a full mile.

E: This is where I hit the stoplight, took one look up the hill towards home and said fuck it and quit running. It’s also where I saw stars, immediately developed a stabbing pain under my rib cage and briefly considered heading into the CVS on the corner and calling someone to come pick me up. Or 911.

F: During this period I walked and had the following conversation with myself.

Me – Ok, so I’m going to walk 2 minutes and then try running again, right?

Me Also – THE HELL YOU ARE. Are you feeling the stabbing pain in your chest that’s probably a heart attack? And your right leg is about to fall off at the hip, you know that, right? You’re insane.

Me - I’m not going to quit this run. I need to finish. Only losers quit.

Me Also – Losers and people who want to live past today quit? And why do you even care so much? Didn’t you start this whole exercise thing to lose some weight? You’ve lost almost all of it; WHY ARE YOU STILL RUNNING? It’s not like you’re ever going to win. Wouldn’t this time spent torturing yourself be better used on your writing aspirations? Or even quilting for god’s sake? Something you don’t inherently suck at?

Me - I hate you. I also hate me. And I hate my ribcage and my big toe and my hip. Although, I think the voodoo tape might actually be legitimately magical. It’s just tape stuck to the side of my thigh, and yet, the only part of my body not in agony at this very moment is my injured knee with the magical tape on it. What. The. Fuck.

Me Also – If you turn in half a mile up you can cut across the desert and get home at least a mile quicker. This limping along pathetically on the side of the road is humiliating.

Me – Yeah, but there’s a six foot concrete wall separating the desert from my neighborhood.

Me Also – You can hop that, no problem.

Me – Oh really? I’m so worthless and pathetic that I can’t run two more miles to finish, but you’ve got tons of confidence I can scale a 6 foot wall in this condition? Now who’s insane?

Me Also – It will be so much faster.

Me – You had me at humiliating.

G: This is where the walking was taking a really long time, and even though I’d already committed to bailing on the run and had started the (very long) short cut, I convinced myself the pain in my chest was almost gone and I could try running a little bit.

H: I realized I was lying to myself again and the pain was not gone. Three snails and a turtle breezed by me. I considered laying down in the desert and allowing vultures to pick the flesh off my bones.

I: Here is where I made up a little song about how much I suck as I wandered through the desert toward my house. And I crossed paths with a 70 year old man out walking. I could tell he felt sorry for me.

J: This is when I got to the wall right across from my house. The heart rate monitor lost connection because after my first attempt to get a running start and jump as high as I could and try to pull myself up to the top of the wall failed spectacularly, I threw my leg up as high as I could and caught the edge of the top of the wall with my toe and my monitor became dislodged as I scraped and clawed up to a sitting position.

K: This is where I sat for a minute at the top of the wall and wondered if any of my neighbors had witness the spectacle I’d just performed. I also wondered if you can be fined by the HOA for acting like a jackass.

L: And where, finally, almost 6 miles after setting out for a 7 miles run, I limped by into my house and vowed not to speak to The Exercise for a really long time.

I’m not convinced I’m going to be ready for RAGNAR.

I Could Live on Endorphins and Outfits

I don’t know if other bloggers ever feel this way, but I go through cycles where I feel burned out and I can’t think of anything about my life I could possibly write that would be interesting or entertaining. I can go weeks where it’s like pulling teeth to come up with topics. Then, magically, I’ll blip back into the mode where I have an opinion I want to share about everything I do.

What can I say? Some of us are calm and even tempered and some of us are more up and down. I’ve never been accused of being even tempered.

My point is, I’m back to feeling opinionated this week! It might have something to do with the endorphins. I did a lot of The Exercising this weekend. I took my favorite ballet class Saturday morning and then on Sunday I ran 4 miles and went back to the studio for an hour of Ballet Boxing class. Then I went home and felt like a superhero except when I tried to stand or move or do anything but lie on the couch and watch rom-coms from the 1990s.

But I digress. I am currently enjoying many things about The Exercising. Which, a year or so ago, are words you probably would have only heard me say while role playing ‘Sexy Swedish Gym Bunny and Manly Trainer Guy’ with my husband. (Just kidding. We only role-play ‘Guy Snoring on the Couch and Wife Watching Teen Mom While Wearing a Snuggie’. Sometimes we switch parts just to spice things up.)

Besides the endorphins, I have to say, I’m totally getting into the outfits involved in The Exercising. It’s apparently not just about the sweating. There’s like a whole cute/functional clothing language I’m learning.

With ballet, beyond the tutus and ballet shoes (which are, admittedly, awesome), it’s all about layers. When you get to class you start in sweat pants and a sweater. Then you do plies and warm up enough to peel down to legwarmers, tights. After tendus you’re starting to sweat and you can lose the sweater. Finally, by the time you’re finished with the barre work and ready to come out to center and work on an adagio you’ve peeled off the legwarmers and you’re down to a leotard and tights. It’s like you’re an Oscar host and you get four costume changes. Or it’s like a really long strip tease with no real payoff at the end and the strippers all wearing their hair in buns.

I really like the ballet layering thing because I have a very small comfort window as far as temperature goes. I’m usually cold, but about 7 minutes into any kind of physical exertion I get tomato-faced and overheated. I find it super useful to just peel off a tiny bit of clothes every time my body temp rises by a degree. Plus layers are just kind of adorable, right? I tried to work this concept into my regular attire this weekend after class by layering over-the-knee socks on top of skinny jeans with calf-height boots and two thin shirts of different colors and shapes and a sweater on top, but when I came downstairs Jason looked me up and down and shook his head. I believe the words he uttered were, “You’re so weird.” I’m not sure that was an endorsement. So that’s still a concept in progress. I haven’t given it up yet. I might just need to do some shopping.

The thing I’m not enjoying about The Exercising is this whole ‘being injured’ nonsense. It’s kind of counter-intuitive for The Exercising to make you feel so awesome it’s like you can accomplish anything, but then when you move forward on that premise and actually try to run farther and faster your body breaks itself and hurts a lot. Who invented this shit anyway? I would like to speak to a manager about how this whole process could be improved. Is there a suggestion box I can put my paper that says, Stop hurting, Stupid Body, into?

Luckily, my current injury (some lame IT band thing) seems to be fairly minor. Plus, since I got my medical degree through Google, I’ve managed to diagnose it and treat it myself with stretching and several hundred dollars spent at the running store (none of which went to adorable outfits, sadly). I’m still planning to be ready to run the RAGNAR Del Sol in a month. (Don’t worry if you don’t know what that is; I’m sure I’ll be discussing it at length as we get closer to it.)

In conclusion and to sum it all up:

The Exercise, Endorphins, Outfits = Good.

My body refusing to live up to the awesomeness of my head = Lame, but we’re working on it.

10 Questions to Ask When Building New

New builds are the Angelina Jolie of home buying: glamorous, alluring, sexy and perfectly-coiffed, but at the same time, inscrutable, unpredictable, prone to man-stealing and potentially not worth the high paycheck. When you first see them all dressed up for the Oscars looking like the unattainable fantasy of all men (and 75% of women), those model homes are hard to resist. It’s important to keep in mind, however, their history of wearing blood in a vial on a necklace and that time they passionately kissed their brother at a televised award show. These things can influence your decision, is all I’m saying.

Here’s how a visit to the new build models has a tendency to go:

The large colorful signs and banners draw you in on your way home from lunch Saturday afternoon. You may not even be seriously considering purchasing a new build. You might not really be in the market for a new house. That won’t seem to matter when you glimpse the circus-like atmosphere of the model home center. It’s inviting and fun. They’re begging you to stop by. Why not just take a look?

You walk in the door to the sales office and are immediately inundated with floorplans, color choices and a subdivision layout all over the walls. There’s a smiling, friendly salesman who acts so familiar you wonder for a split second if you already know him from somewhere, but you don’t.

You’re struck dumb. It’s sensory overload. You know these houses and the things in them must cost money, but you don’t see prices anywhere. You become tense at the possibility that it’s wildly out of your price range. What if you ask about the prices and they’re embarrassingly far out of your financial universe? That would clearly be humiliating and should be avoided at all costs, you decide.

You throw out a test question: Do you have a list of what’s available? The smiling agent turns to you and pauses. You see a deadness in his eyes. The silence is just long and awkward enough to make you realize how stupid you are for asking something like this. The answer must be utterly obvious, but you don’t know what it is. It was a terrible, stupid question. The sales rep finally answers, Well, why don’t you tell me what you’re looking for and I’ll let you know what we have that would work for you. This is where you conclude you should just let the agent tell you what he wants to and avoid all uncomfortable conversations.

By the time you’ve left the new build office, two hours later, you think you’ve agreed to something, but you’re not sure what. You registered and signed your name on some document, but it was only presented to you long enough for you to scrawl your signature and then was whisked away. You remember remarking that a 6 bedroom, 8 bath home with a basement and both and indoor and outdoor swimming pools was a nice house and you wonder if you’ve agreed to buy it. The agent seemed really excited when you said you liked it. And you’ve got free bottles of water in your hands. That has to mean you’ve purchased something.

It doesn’t have to go like this. Don’t be afraid to ask the sales agent specific questions. He’s the dumbass, not you. To help you navigate the reality of buying a new build house, I put together a list of 10 questions you should never be afraid to ask.

1.    What is the average build time?

This will vary depending on the builder, the market and the availability of materials, but you can expect an answer of anywhere from 90 days to 8 months.

2.    Do you have any available specs?

A spec home is a newly built house that’s already had everything in it picked out by the builder and constructed. These are also referred to as ‘inventory homes’. They are usually ready to close in 30 days and they have a set price.

3.    Is there a lot premium?

New build pricing can be ridiculously confusing. There is usually a price range each floorplan ‘starts at’ (the range is for the different elevations), and then the upgrades increase the price from there. With some new builds all of the lots will have a cost or a ‘lot premium’. This will be higher if the lot is larger or in a better location. With other builders only the really great lots have a lot premium.

4.    What is the average amount people are spending on upgrades?

The builder isn’t going to be able to tell you how much you’re going to want to spend on upgrading the counters and the flooring and what have you, but usually the sales rep can give you an estimate of what other buyers have spent. This is sometimes in the form of a percent. So, if they tell you the average buyer is spending an extra 10% on upgrades, and the house you’re considering ‘starts’ at $300K, then expect to be up between $330K and $350K when all is said and done including upgrades and lot premiums, elevation and the like.

5.    How much earnest do you require?

Every builder will have a different amount required at the time of writing the contract to secure the lot and start the building process. This is usually not a negotiable figure. It’s also not usually refundable once building has begun.

6.    What are your incentives?

Most of the time (just to further confuse things) the builder will have some sort of incentive program that takes money off of the price. This is usually fairly convoluted and difficult to understand. Make sure to ask as many questions as it takes to feel like you are comfortable with what the incentive is and how it can be used. Sometimes they will have a $25K incentive to upgrade options that cannot be taken off the price. So you need to realize that you will have to use all of the money at the design center to get it. You can’t reduce the base price using the incentive.

7.    Does your preferred lender have any incentives?

Sometimes the preferred lender of the builder will have additional incentives for using them. Make sure you get all of the rules on this as well.

8.    What are your HOA fees and what does this include?

This seems like an obvious question, but you often get caught up in the whirlwind of all of the other info and forget to ask this one. It’s an important one.

9.    What is standard with your properties?

Different builders have wildly different base standards. With a KB home, you often start at a pretty low price, but that price includes 8 foot ceilings and laminate flooring with gold metal transitions to the carpeted areas. With a Blandford home, your base price is going to feel high, but you’ll usually get granite counters, 18 inch tile and lovely plumbing fixtures without spending a dime extra. It’s important to know where you’re starting. Ask the sales rep for a tour of the model and ask which things are standard with that model and which are upgrades. You’ll probably be shocked. Much of what’s in the model isn’t even available for the actual buyer.

10.    Is landscaping (front or back), appliances, blinds or paint included?

This is another one that will vary from builder to builder. Front landscaping is pretty commonly included, but still often not at all. Meritage had an EI package at one point that stood for ‘Everything’s Included’ (blinds, landscaping, appliances). Sometimes these things are not included, but can be added as an upgrade at the design center.

Or hey, better yet, call your agent and she’ll run interference with the sales rep. Your agent will be happy to meet you out there at a moment’s notice. She doesn’t get paid unless she goes with you the first visit. And it’s nice to see the sales reps get a little nervous when they’re evenly matched. If I’ve learned anything, it’s that deadeyes are countered with a steady gaze, an eyebrow raise and a head tilt.

Momentum: The Other Side of the Coin

Can we talk about Momentum?

I have a love/hate relationship with Momentum. Momentum is like my high school boyfriend who seemed more important than eating or sleeping, until we broke up and he started dating that blonde and then he was the reason all I wanted to do was eat and sleep. Momentum is the Nicole Richie to my Paris Hilton; my best friend and closest confidant until she invited me over and showed my sex tape in front of all of our friends.

A couple of months ago I had forward Momentum. It was glorious. I was writing 2,000 words a day. I was running 4 miles every other day. I had lost 5 pounds. Momentum was on my side. Every time I considered sitting on the couch under a soft blanket drinking wine, eating mint chocolate chip ice cream and watching The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Momentum was there to whisper in my ear, “You did it yesterday. You can do it today. It’s not that hard.”

Because that’s the thing: if I did it yesterday, I can do it today. And I had. I’d done it again and again, so I knew I could do it tomorrow. Momentum stood behind me and pushed me forward. She helped me succeed.

But then I took a break from writing after NaNoWriMo ended to get through the holidays. And I took a break from the diet to go on the anniversary vacation. And I’ve taken a week long break from running to rest a sore knee. They were all legitimate reasons for breaks. I didn’t just give up because I wanted to watch trashy TV at night or because a Whopper and medium fries really sounded delicious, but I might as well have. I paused in my climb up the mountain and as soon as I did, that bitch, Momentum, turned and slapped me backwards. I tripped behind myself and rolled, just like Jill, tumbling after.

Last Monday was Back-to-Business Day. I should have written 1,000 words and eaten only greek yogurt, salads and almonds. I was busy getting back on top of the rest of life, though, and because it didn’t seem to matter if I did it that day or the next and it all seemed too challenging I wrote 0 words and threw myself a carb party for lunch. Momentum was against me.

Every day last week it got easier and easier to fail at my goals. “You failed yesterday; what does it really matter if you fail again today?” Momentum whispered evilly in my ear. I caught up on TV. I ate too many carbs and drank too much wine. I slept 9 hours every night.

Today I’m here to declare war on Momentum and her mind games. I can do it, regardless of yesterday. I’ve proven I can do it. Yesterday is gone and dead; whether I’ve failed or succeeded. Today is all that matters. Today I will eat better. Today I will write 1,000 words. Tomorrow I will run again even though I’m terrified of what that will feel like after a week off. I vow to listen to Momentum only when it benefits me and to block her out when she wants to do nothing but drown me.

Dear Momentum,

You never really cared about me. We have a toxic relationship. You’re an enabler. So I’m dumping you.

I feel better already.

Sincerely,
E

Cancun Photos Part II

Continued from I’m Back! on Monday…

Jason forgot his trusty baseball cap at home, so he spent the first part of the trip trying on various hats at gift shops and roadside tourist traps. Apparently in comparison to either most tourists or most Mexicans, Jason has an enormous head. This one was a 'no'.

This was the winning hat. I think it makes him look like a Floridian mobster. But in a good way.

I'm posting this one as revenge for the beach bikini picture Jason tweeted of me without warning or photo-approval. In retrospect, the bikini pic wasn't a horrible photo, but dude. I'm pretty sure one of the commandments Moses brought down from the mountain was, 'Thou shall not post pictures of your wife in a swimsuit on the internet without first allowing her the right to delete it off the face of the Earth if she so wishes." AmIright?

 

Thursday we ziplined through the jungle. It was rad.

This is me, careening dangerously toward the small platform between ziplines. I completely suck at slowing down. If you could see the look on the photographer's face, it would be one of horror.

Jason thought he would only need dark socks for pants or flip flops for this trip. He didn't anticipate the need for an athletic shoe with shorts. Thus the sexy black sock with shorts look he's sporting here.

 

After we ziplined they took us to a 'special activity' that turned out to be a bungee swing. That little red spec is Jason getting ready to jump.

This is me a fraction of a second after the guy at the top said, "Are you going to jump or do you need to be pushed?" and without waiting for a response hauled me up by the back of my harness and dropped me over the edge. Which was probably for the best.

I wasn't super into the free-falling part, but the swinging kicked ass.

Then we took pictures with birds. I feel compelled to post this picture merely for it's intrinsic unflatteringness. I don't know how you could possibly look at it and not be immediately drawn to the gut and crotchal center of the picture. It's like the birds don't even exist. It's a black hole of gut and crotch and stiff posing and black socks with shorts and helmets.

We capped off the adventure tour with a zipline into a cenote. Because I'm not a pansy I did it twice even though I could think of nothing but dead bodies and lake monsters as I splashed into the water.

Jason doesn't get that this is what I see in my head every time I enter a natural body of water.

 

 

We could only get WiFi on the balcony of our room at the resort. Luckily it was a gorgeous, comfortable balcony.

Friday we took a ferry to the island across the water from us, Isla Mujeres. From there we drove around the island in a rented golf cart that allowed us to do more gratuitous couple posing and nature photography. I tried my best not to worry about how they would identify our bodies after the violent golf cart wreck we were bound to die in at any moment.

That, my dears, is the long and the short of it. Here’s to another 10 years of wedded bliss! I think I might need a trip to paradise every two years instead of 10 from now on…

I’m Back!

That’s right, this blog hasn’t yet been abandoned to decay and be picked clean by scavengers until it’s nothing but a pile of bleached bones. I was gone a few weeks, but that was a just a vacation. No need to worry; as I’m sure you were.

How will I ever get through life without the overshare and occasional real estate tidbit that is Real Estate Tangent? I don’t even know what seemingly innocuous thing is making Elizabeth’s head explode today or what embarrassing situation she’s gotten herself into in the last 10 minutes. My life feels so empty.

It’s alright, my dear readers. I made it through the holidays and the big 10 year anniversary vacation to Cancun and I’m here again to entertain you and humiliate myself (Did I tell you about the time right before Christmas when I was on cold meds and showing property, neglected to lock the bathroom door and my buyers walked in on me peeing? No? Well that’s the whole story. But with more horror on both my part and I would imagine, that of the lovely couple who just wanted to see whether the downstairs lavatory had a shower, and not the color of my underwear.).

Well, I’m sort of here. I have to confess, after a full week in Mexico at a child-free all-inclusive resort I’m having a bit of culture shock back at home. I keep turning toward my middle son across the room and gesturing for another cocktail, and feeling confused and disappointed when a Pina Colada doesn’t quickly materialize. How am I supposed to live again in a world where drinking is only appropriate after 5pm and I’m the one expected to do things like pick my own towels up off the floor and make dinner when I’ve spent the last week in paradise?

So yeah. My brain is still a bit fuzzy with the unfairness and tragedy of it all. But don’t you worry, I’ll get through it all. To help facilitate my transition back into the cold cruel world, I just ate half a box of Triscuits with hummus, port wine cheese and salami for lunch and I’m finishing it off with a Reese’s peanut butter cup (ok, 2). And you’re getting vacation photos as my inaugural post.

I was taking this picture of Jason in his favorite place in the resort when a nice couple came up and asked if I wanted to get in the picture also.

And because I'm a wuss and didn't want to get into the cold pool, I climbed across to get in and the guy graciously took this flattering picture. I'm just glad he didn't get one where I was doing the splits or when I'm pretty sure my right boob had fallen out.

This is the largest temple at the Mayan ruins of Chichen Izta. Jason was in architecture-geek heaven.

 

This is an arena where the Mayans used to play some soccer/basketball hybrid that ended in the bloody sacrifice of the losing captain. Or the winning one. The archeologists aren't sure on that one. Suffice it to say being a professional athlete in Chichen Itza wasn't the awesome hooker and blow adventure it is in the present day US.

When we walked around the corner of this giant snake sculpture ruin thing two huge iguanas totally got into a fight and chased each other around a bunch. I'm pretty sure they're on the tour guide payroll.

Gratuitous posing.

Apparently in 2005 some lady fell off the top of this thing and died, so tourists are no longer allowed to climb it. I hope they put on her tombstone, "The dumbass who ruined it for everyone else."

Excessively up-the-nose shot.

This is the Sacred Cenote of Chichen Itza. Apparently it's a giant sinkhole with water at the bottom. It was dregged in the early 1900s and they found a bunch of human remains at the bottom. The Mayans used to throw people off that platform into the water below as a sacrifice. Because deep murky wells aren't creepy enough without that mental picture.

The Mayans were kind of dicks, right?

This was another cenote we stopped by on our way home from Chichen Itza. It had a very small opening up top and then stairs that went down into the dark cave with the water underneath. We walked down, but didn't swim like lots of people were down there. Mostly because of the dead people and underground river monsters I was sure were in the water, but also because I was fairly certain the stalactites were going to break off and impale us.

I was going to post all of the pictures today, but there are a ridiculous amount of them. And each with a story, natch. Come back Wednesday for the zipline, the bungee swing, the beach and several unflattering pictures of the Newlins in crotchally confining harnesses.

Because Looking the Part is Half the Battle

I’m 33 and started my ballet training at 32.

My turnout is more of a ‘turn-in’.

I can never remember the position my head is supposed to be in so I’m often looking out at the mirror while everyone else in class is looking demurely toward their hand on the bar.

Doing rond de jambes with the arm feels like rubbing my belly while patting my head and it probably looks pretty similar.

My ballet teacher regularly tells me I have ‘desk job posture’.

I don’t have the ability to follow the weight-loss advice handed down to me by one of the other ballerinas at my studio, “When you’re sitting on the couch and you’re hungry, instead of eating just do two minutes of crunches.”

I almost never have time to take more than one ballet class a week. My teacher says if I really want to get better I should be there 3-4 times a week.

Sometimes when I’m working really hard at having the perfect position and holding every part of my body in exactly the right way during the adagio, I glance into the wall of mirrors and realize the look on my face is the same as the one on my nephew, Colby’s, face when he’s taking a crap.

I will absolutely, undoubtedly, without even the remotest possibility, never be a professional ballet dancer.

None of that means that the very perfect Christmas present I could get from my husband wouldn’t be an awesome, over-priced, utterly impractical, adult tutu:

He just knows me that well. I am going to dance the shit out of that thing in my next class.

Here’s hoping you got the perfect, impractical, dream gift for Christmas, too!

Shit Moms Say

This video has been making the viral internet rounds this week:

And I admit, I LOLed. Because yes. At our house “Can you do me a huge favor?” is synonymous with “Go get Mommy a Diet Coke from the garage fridge, please and thank you.” I like to think in a few years when they’re all a little taller it will come to mean, “Please get Mommy a wine glass from the cabinet and fill it to the brim from the box in the garage fridge, please and thank you.” But for now I’ll take what I can get.

I wish I knew that guy so I could write him another one to film. It would be called ‘Shit Moms Say’ and would go like this:

What did you just eat and where did you get it?

Can you just… not?

Seriously?

Why would you do that to your brother?

I’m going to count to three. One… TWO…

If you don’t come home soon I’m going to stick my head in the oven.

Do we have our listening ears on?

What’s in your mouth?

Come here, you have something on your face.

Are you really going to wear that?

Check again.

I’m going to count to five and I’m not even kidding.

Not helping would be helpful right now.

If you don’t get home soon I might sell your children to the gypsies.

I need you to stop talking for at least 3 minutes.

ONE! TTTWWWWOOOOOO!!!!!

I’ll get it for you in just a second.

Don’t talk to me while I’m on the phone.

Maybe after dinner.

We’ll see.

NO ONE IS ALLOWED TO DO ANYMORE YELLING!

I don’t want to hear it.

I think you’re fine.

I’m sure he didn’t mean to.

What is all that noise?

No, you don’t have to eat it, you can go straight to bed if you want.

HOLD MY HAND! That car will squish you flat.

Mommy needs a timeout. With the box of wine.

 

 

How to Make an Offer: The Three Things You Need to Know

You’ve seen 87 houses:

53 were horrible, disgusting homes you were fairly certain should be condemned

7 were nice but backed to a major road, giant electrical lines or a Walmart

20 were almost right, except the floorplan wasn’t Feng Shui

5 totally would have worked except you found too many dead scorpions and/or cockroaches for your comfort

1 seemed perfect until you researched the sex offenders in the area and realized a child molester lived next door

But one house was THE HOUSE. One house has everything you’re looking for. The master has his and hers closets. The kitchen has an island with room for four barstools. The downstairs guest room has its own bathroom for the in-laws who can’t make it up the stairs. The backyard has a pool with a margarita table in it. There’s a closet under the stairs that’s totally big enough to house an orphaned magical nephew you would prefer to pretend doesn’t exist, if you needed to. The house is close enough to an elementary school the child molesters can’t legally live within a respectable distance. It’s the house you can see you and the hubby and kids living in for the next 20 years.

So now what?

Now you come to me and say, OK, we want to make an offer. Can we go in $30K low? It’s a buyer’s market, right? I mean no one can afford houses right now, so we should be able to get this for a steal, shouldn’t we?

This is where I cradle my head in my hands and try to decide if wine at lunch is acceptable if I put it in a sippy cup.

I’m not saying I don’t understand where you’re coming from. I remember when Jason and I bought our first house, way before I had even considered diving into the shark tank that is the life of a professional Realtor. I had no idea what the house was ‘worth’; I just knew it seemed like a rip-off to pay asking price. It felt like in Rocky Point when you want to buy a piece of jewelry from the street vendors; only the suckers pay full price, right? And then the locals laugh at you behind your back.

I’m here to tell you: Buying a house is not like bartering for cheap junk in Mexico. I know, it’s a revelation.

There are three things you need to take into consideration when making an offer on a house. That’s right, only three things. It’s not scary and complicated if you can boil it down to three things. And this works in any market. You don’t need to consult a stock broker or a weather girl or even a tarot card reader if you just consider the three following things:

1.    The listing price in comparison to the recent sold comps.

2.    How long the property has been on the market.

3.    How bad you want the house.

Yep, that’s it. That’s all of the information that should go into what offer to make on the house. Let me walk you through an example so you can understand how it works.

Example 1:

Perfect house A is listed at $250,000. The comps show other similar houses in the neighborhood have closed escrow for between $227,000 and $268,000. House A seems to have better upgrades and amenities than most of the sold comps.

Perfect house A went on the market 2 days ago.

Perfect house A is the perfect house! You reallyreallyreallyreallyreally want it!

The analysis of this data shows that you should make an offer at or slightly above list price. House A’s value is supported by the other houses that have sold. House A just went on the market, so they are unlikely to accept a low offer and could potentially have competing offers. You can’t afford to let House A go because you superalot want it. You need to make a strong offer.

OK, you say, I get it that if I really want a house and it hasn’t been on the market long then I need to make a good offer. But you’re a Realtor and you always want me to offer more money so I can get the house because it’s not your money. Show me how this system actually benefits me.

Yes, let’s do another example.

Example 2:

House B is listed at $279,900. Neighborhood comps have closed in the $240,000 to $270,000 range recently, but House B seems to need a lot more work than any of the comps did.

House B has been listed 48 days with no offers yet.

You like House B and it would definitely work, but it needs all new floors and a kitchen remodel, so for it to be worth it you’d need to get it at a really good price. Otherwise you’re OK with moving on.

Ah, so House B is an excellent candidate for a lowball offer. The seller doesn’t have anything else to go with and you’re not going to be devastated if you lose out on the house. The comps support a lower price. In this case, there’s no harm in going in fairly significantly low.

Are we all on the same page now? Alright, I won’t break out the wine yet.

Christmas Bipolarity

I’ve had a post brewing in my brain for about a week. So far I’d held back from unleashing it on the world because I didn’t want to hear all the bitching about how I’m a Scrooge and a Grinch and various other nefarious cartoon characters who eventually turn into saps at the end of the movie. Don’t hold your breath, People, I’m not going to grow a heart anytime soon.

But I think my blogging idea canal is clogged with this post and I just need to write it and get the pathway cleared so the other blog topic ideas can start flowing again. Or possibly I need some fiber. One of those two.

The point is: The Winter Holiday Season, and specifically, Christmas, is the worst. AmIright? Don’t answer it. I don’t want to hear about how you love how this time of year brings out the best in people and makes you feel all cheerful and cozy and loved. It’s THE WORST.

(Edited to add: I started this post last week and I think I must have been in a seriously rotten mood. I’m posting this because I still agree with the general content, but wow. Not maybe quite this strongly. Wouldn’t you love to be married to me? #moodinessrulz)

Top Five Things That Suck About Christmas:

1.    Holiday Card Pictures – You know what I’m talking about. Everyone has to dress up in coordinated outfits, assemble at a specific time and place and smile at the same time. In theory, it should take 10 minutes tops. In reality the outfits you spent an entire day trolling the mall to find only fit 3 of the 5 people you purchased them for. In reality you have to bribe the youngest with enough sugar to fuel a space shuttle to Mars to get him to stand there and attempt a smile. In reality, the only picture where everyone in your family looks halfway reasonable and sort of like they might be smiling, is the picture where your second chin is most visible and you look like you have a lazy eye. And that’s what you end up sending out so the people who haven’t seen you in a year will know how you’re doing. That’s the mental picture they’ll have of you.

2.    Holiday Lights – I’m pretty sure the manufacturers of these stupid things are in a secret alliance with the National Association of Divorce Attorneys. Every year after the holiday ends my husband tests each string of lights and carefully winds them individually and puts them neatly away, but every year when he opens up the box labeled ‘Christmas Lights’ they’ve morphed into a seething, tangled vat of mostly dead bulbs, as if they have a mind of their own. That moment when my husband unearths the holiday lights of horror, is when he turns into a cantankerous, angry, holiday hating beast. I can see in his eyes that I turn into the bossy shrew who forces him to endure the light torture every year. It’s a wonder we’ve stayed married through nine holiday seasons so far. I’m convinced it’s an intentional plot.

3.    That person everyone knows who’s ‘all done!’ with shopping and all other holiday prep the day before ThanksgivingOh really? You’re all done with everything? Wow, good for you! You know, I have a special prize for you for being the first one to finish up the eleventy million tasks associated with this holiday. It’s right here in my kitchen. Did you read The Help? No? Oh, great book. Here it is, Minny’s Chocolate Pie, just for you because you’re so special. I got the recipe from that book. Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I have to go back to freaking the eff out about how I’m never going to get it all done and the holiday will be ruined for everyone in my family.

4.    The tacky – For every beautiful and tasteful holiday decoration there’s a hot pink artificial tree with zebra striped ornaments all over it. For every handmade, meaningful ornament you truly love, there’s a dancing Garfield the Cat wearing a Santa hat statue that plays Jingle Bell Rock my four year old cannot. Stop. Making. Go. Off. For every ‘Silent Night’ and ‘Peace on Earth’ there is an Alvin and The Chipmunks’ version of ‘We Wish You a Merry Christmas’. For every Bob and Doug’s ’12 Days of Christmas’ there’s a Justin Beiber ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’. You can’t hide from the tacky. It’s drowning the cool. It’s killing the meaningful. Pretty soon we’re all going to be wearing matching hoodie/footie’s with cartoon Reindeers all over them and exchanging matching florescent purple Shake Weights. Mark my words.

5.     Guilt over the closing of another year and what I didn’t accomplish in it – Face it, even though the closing of another year is just another human construct that doesn’t really mean anything, we all feel the need to reflect on what we have (and have not) accomplished in the last year. The pounds we didn’t lose judge us from our midsections. The money we didn’t make mocks us from just out of reach. The organizational system we implemented last January remains in the corner we pushed it into mid-February, gathering dust. Sure, maybe things will be different next year, but considering your track record, how likely is that?

(OK, my heart grew a little in the last week. These things still suck, but now that the lights are actually on the tree and the presents are almost all purchased, I’m kind of looking forward to the big day. What can I say; I clearly should be medicated.)