One of the nice things about moving into a place where I'm owning instead of renting is the fact that I'll be able to do anything I please to it, something I've never really had to think about since having a roommate. I'm used to having four white walls and milk crates for furniture and my bed is an old twin bed that I've had since high school.
All of the sudden, the condo goes through and suddenly find myself gazing at IKEA catalogues and going to the Z-Gallerie. Wicker baskets and elephant trinkets suddenly become charming and I find myself watching Pier 1 commercials, relating to Kristie Alley.
Eh, who am I kidding - that crazy bitch? Hells naw.
One thing that I've been thinking about, however, is the color that I paint the walls. What are my options? Hmm...
I could always go with this color scheme. Purple and yellow are, incidentally, the corporate colors of Yahoo!. If I had to deal with with staring at bright colors at work, then come home to a bunch of purple and yellowness in my living room, I'd probably have a stroke like one of those overworked Japanese salarymen. It would also give me nightmares about living in Sweet Valley High, and I had a traumatic experience already in high school. (Will Jake take me to the prom? Will he take Jenna instead? I'm so confused!)
Hmm... Eddie Bauer colors. All I need now is a vase with fake lilacs, a mini-van full of screaming children and a secret heroin addiction. Still better than hospital white, I suppose.
My friend Don has this orange color in his living room. It actually works because he has a good amount of accessories and pictures and furniture so the color isn't too distracting. Also, he's a gay man, and that's almost a requirement to use orange in one way or another. Sure, I'm gay too, but my decorating-fu is weak, and much skill and training for me is required.
(If I ever make a kung fu and interior decoration reference ever again, I give you permission to shoot me at the back of the head.)
HA! Now seriously, I would only paint my walls this if I had a serious vandetta against my parents. "You want me to live ten minutes from you? Well then, take a look at my NEW PLACE!" I could buy a Hello Kitty flat screen television and I could buy a Sanrio placemat and OMG it would be so CUTE!!! ^_^
On the flip side, I would have to live with myself in a pink house. Ugh, nevermind.
You guys have any suggestions?
My father recently retired this month. And when you're retired and your son is going to buy property and he's too busy to handle the paperwork and you're looking for something to do, well, you handle the paperwork instead.
For this reason, my loan broker and real estate agent are Taiwanese. The realtor reminds me of Annette Benning's character in American Beauty, except for the fact that she only converses to her clients in Chinese. While it's not a big deal for her - 40% of Fremont is Asian - it sucks for me, having to figure out counter-offers, termite inspections and faxing instructions in a language I'm not 100% comfortable with.
The culture also makes for some interesting house tours. Especially with the parents. (Italics = Mandarin.)
Realtor: Ernie, Does this condo fit within your price range? How large is your salary, anyway?
Ernie: (Ernie tells realtor his salary)
Realtor: WHAA!? That much money? You could buy the whole chain of condominiums! Ha ha ha!
Mom: Oh, I wouldn't bet on it. Ernie is so careless with money.
Dad: He is very careless with money. When he was in college, his credit rating was horrible.
Realtor: Oh? Please, tell me more.
Ernie: (buries head in hands)
Mom: One time, when he was living in Cupertino, his roommate asked for rent money, and he actually GAVE HER the money! Who would ever do something like that? A person lending that much money, it's unbelievable.
Ernie: Mom, that was years ago. We don't need to talk about this now.
Realtor: And did she pay back the money?
Mom: Of course she didn't! She's Mexican, she moved out a day earlier than she said she would.
Ernie: (spits out water) MA!
Mom: What, she wasn't Mexican?
Ernie: Being Mexican has nothing to do with it.
Mom: (To realtor) See what I mean? He's too trusting. It's a good thing we're here, otherwise you'd sell him an elephant for an extra quarter million dollars and he'd buy that, too.
So, I've been quiet on this weblog for a while, but I got a good reason to be. In a nutshell, I'm buying property.
I'm already pretty far along in the process - I found a condo somewhere in Fremont, my application has been accepted, the inspections have been done, the mortgage loan has been approved. All I have to do is strip down the wallpaper so it doesn't look like I'm trapped at a Michaels store on LSD, paint the walls, and I'm set.
Emotions are pretty mixed, especially when it comes to blogging about the situation. A part of me wants to write about the wacky stories that come from purchasing a condo for the first time. The other part of me realizes that by buying property, especially with the aid of my recently-retired father, I plunge head-first into adulthood. By agreeing to live 10 minutes from my parents, I give up a sense of independence.
Yep. In exchange for some, uhm, "financial assistance," I agreed to live ten minutes from my parents. It freaks me out too. But I do have my reasons for doing what I did - they just haven't been posted for all of the Internet to read.
Maybe I will. Or I'll just write some wacky stories about the realtor. Maybe I'll do both.
Every other weekend or so, my friend - let's call him "D" for sake of anonymity - spends the night at our place. You see, every so often his roomate throws bisexual sex parties in his apartment, and things get awkward. Sometimes it can be inconvenient stepping over a threesome while you're washing dishes or side-stepping the giant sling while returning from the laundromat. You know how it is.
"You know," I said to him, "you have just as much of a right to the apartment as he does."
"Yeah," he says. "But he pays more rent than I do." And that was that.
Hey, who am I to argue? At least it makes for some entertaining conversations over dinner.
D: So, my roommate installed a gloryhole in his bedroom closet door.
You know, that sentence uttered anywhere else in the country would send people running to their local confessional booth. Our house though, we don't even bat an eye. Welcome to California. Anyway...
Ernie: A gloryhole. In the closet. So you're watching TV and all you hear are these drilling noises, like it's no big deal?
D: Something like that.
Paris, the roommate: Wouldn't, uhm, splinters be an issue?
D: Naaah, the door isn't too thick; it was bought at IKEA.
Ernie & Paris: ...
Paris: What was the door called? BLOJAAB?
Ernie: You need an umlaut over the A's. BLOJÄÄB.
D: Okay guys, I get the joke.
Paris: Don't forget the slash over the O so it's BLØJÄÄB!
Ernie: Personally I find the name KØKSÜCKIR much more...
D: Stop it.
Now, many of you will feel bad for the perfectly good closet door with a hole drilled through it so a penis can be put through the orifice. That's because you're crazy - it's a door. It has no feelings. Besides, the new one is much nicer.
