Y’all, I was yet again looking at the price of condos in the neighborhood adjoining mine (over where the Playwright lives) and the new ones are going for between $250,000 and $300,000. I’m declaring this Christmas the “Ask Rude Questions” Christmas, where I can just go up and knock on your door and ask you rude questions like, “What kind of job do you have that you can afford to live here and would prefer to live here rather than in a house in a neighborhood not ten minutes from here?” and then I could knock on builders’ doors and say “Look here at this cute boob freckle. Shouldn’t it have a home of its own, that it owns, in a real neighborhood with coffee and things to walk to and a window over its kitchen sink?”
I believe it was Ivy who said (though I can’t find it at her blog) that money may not buy happiness, but it sure as hell helps.
I think I must have been drunk or hung-over the day they went over in college which the good paying jobs were, that’s all I’m saying.
You know, my great-grandma Teckla wanted a car once, back in the 20s, and so she went to some dealership there in Chicago and said, “I’ll work for you for long enough to pay off this car” and for some reason, they agreed, and so Teckla took my baby grandma down to the dealership every day and used that baby to entice men into buying cars from her.
Certainly Mrs. Wigglebottom or the Butcher is cute enough that I could somehow parlay them into at least a down payment.
Anyway, I’m starting to think that my desire for a house is not just about a house, but about feeling secure and unbeholden to anyone but me. Also, I’d like to invite people over for dinner or to watch movies or to be annoyed by my dog. I wonder, if thirty people came over, would Mrs. Wigglebottom get so overwhelmed that she would just go upstairs and hide?
We may never know, because right now, I couldn’t fit thirty people in the place I live.
Anyway, I’m just whining. I have a plan. It’s just that it’s going to take a few years and I want it now.
So, there you go.