I’m not quite sure when it started. Maybe when my grandparents moved in. Maybe when my parents called a “family meeting” to lecture me about my dishwashing habits (or lack thereof). Maybe when I took a look at my finances, discovered they weren’t as awful as I’d initially feared and realized that the possibility of home ownership was actually within my grasp. Not right away. But soon.
I used to think that I’d just live with my parent s until I got married. They’re pretty cool as far as parents go, and I love the neighborhood and I can’t afford anything nearly as nice on my own. But this isn’t 1950. And it doesn’t look like I’m going to get married any time soon.
So I’m moving out.
And by moving out, I mean buying a house.
I can’t remember the last time I’ve been this excited about anything. Probably when I was moving to London for grad school. I wake up thinking about it, I go to bed thinking about it and whenever I have an hour free, I’m on Trulia and Prudential cruising real estate listings.
I know it’s going to take time. Especially as I’m teaching two college courses this fall in addition to a gazillion tap classes, producing a show in December and applying to go back to school for my PhD, but it’s fine. I’ve always been good at multitasking, and no matter what TWD has to say on the subject, I will not get “too stressed out.”
(Okay, who are we kidding? I will get stressed out. I will probably have a meltdown. Or two. Or twenty two. But that’s why God invented boyfriends. And box-o-sangria.)
As with everything I’ve ever set my mind to, I’m attacking Operation Move the F*ck Out with every file folder, sticky tab and highlighter I’ve got. I’ve already printed three different maps of Philadelphia zip codes (which I intend to cross reference with Philadelphia homicide rates) and have narrowed my search to a mere 16 neighborhoods. (Progress!)
I’m in the process of setting up a meeting with the mortgage folks at my bank and am putting myself on a strict No New Shoes austerity budget. (Fortunately, I managed to snag a new pair of open toe, metallic ankle straps to wears to TWD’s co-worker’s wedding before said moratorium went into effect.)
Until recently, I was pretty sure that if I just saved enough money and watched enough HGTV, the rest would just fall into place.
Having just watched my parents go through nine months of hell, however, in purchasing and renovating a summer rental property on the Jersey shore, I’m beginning to think there might be more to it.
So, this is where you come in. How do I get from no-new-shoes to official-home-owner without losing my mind?