Padd Solutions

Okay, so it might not be the moving day you were expecting, but it's almost as good. (At least, I think it is.)

From this point on, you can visit me at SweetAvenue.net.


Same content, different name, cuter layout : )

About a year ago, my friend Margo and her husband purchased their first home. Like the house I'm purchasing, it was a foreclosure that required excessive dealings with lenders, bankers, and escrow agents of all shapes and sizes. For all intents and purposes, my home purchase should have been identical to theirs. But it wasn't. Why?

They closed early.

And before you tell me I'm lying, that there's no possible way anyone could close early on any home, much less one entangled in that much red tape, let me tell you a secret about Margo: she is "good cop." And her husband? "Bad cop."

The game of "good cop / bad cop" is one that has well served our law enforcement agencies (and parents) everywhere for decades. Maybe even centuries. Maybe even millennia. For all we know, "good cop / bad cop" dates back to the Ice Age. Someone should really look into that.

And the great thing about "good cop / bad cop" is that one person gets to be the raging asshole, while the other gets to be this saccharine sweet follow up. It's a one-two punch that leaves you with a gushing bloody nose, and some of those deliciously soft moisturized tissues with which to tend to it.

Margo told me that her husband put an immense amount of pressure on the escrow officers, and would flip out if anyone asked him the same question twice. Meanwhile, Margo got to balance him by being what the bureaucrats thought was the kind, sensitive, patient half of the pair. And as a result, shit got done.

The issue with buying a home while single is that there is no one to play "good cop / bad cop" with you. You have to be the saccharine sweet half all the time because if you piss someone off, there's no one else around to kiss their boo-boo and make it all better. You're just fucked.

So I'm trying as hard as I can to be "good cop," because the reality is that I'm "only cop" and I have to be nice. But as the days drag on and I find myself nearly a month past my original closing date, I'm finding that I'm not above sending a nastygram or two to whomever I can get a hold of. And at this point, I don't really care what they think. I just want my keys.

This is the (planned) color palette for the new house:


Most of my furniture is made of rich woods, with fabric in medium browns and burgundies. Basically, the overall look will be a fall foliage color scheme with a pop of teal for good measure. And, of course, I'll be posting pictures of the entire decorating process, as well as the finished product. I hope you're all as excited as I am!

Things I don't need: for my apartment complex to tell me how I "should" clean my apartment. Really, guys? Who died and made you my mother?

In spite of the fact that closing on my house has been delayed again (which I believe can be attributed primarily to by the incompetence of the SIX escrow officers working on my case), I went to my complex's office this afternoon to put in my thirty day notice, at which point I was notified that they're going to do a walk-through of my apartment next week.

Um, why?

Apparently, they like to come in, do a preliminary walk-through, and point out all the damage you've done to your apartment over the last three years you've lived here. For example, you should probably steam your carpet. Your stove needs to be cleaned. Oh, and did you notice there's a giant hole in your wall? You might want to patch that up.

Seriously, I AM AWARE OF ALL OF THAT. And I will be bringing in someone to clean my apartment, to move all of my boxes out, and then AND ONLY THEN will you be allowed to come in to do a walk-through. At that point, if my apartment is still not up to your standards (and God only knows what those standards are, considering that you allow all kinds of ridiculous college boys to live, party, drink, and barf here), you can take whatever money you need out of the security deposit I gave you three years ago. Remember the security deposit? THIS IS WHAT IT'S FOR.

So I politely declined the preliminary walk-through (and by "politely," I mean I argued with the complex manager for ten minutes until she allowed me to decline it), paid my last month's rent, and left. Because as I mentioned, I have a mother. And you, Village Terrace Apartments, are not her.

I went to the grocery store today to buy tea, soda, and sushi. I know that seems like a semi-random combination of things to be purchasing, but this is my life. Such is the shopping list of a single woman.

Because I was only purchasing those three things, I decided to do something I never do. I used the Express Lane. You all know this lane. This is the lane that limits the items you can pay for at its register in an effort to get customers who just need a few items (like tea, soda, and sushi) in and out as quickly as possible.

My grocery store of choice caps its Express Lane patrons at fifteen items, which, when you think about it, is quite a few. Most grocery stores cap their Express Lane at ten items, so it's almost like this particular store is giving you the Express Lane limit, plus several grace items. That should be more than enough for the average person.

But the man in front of me was apparently not the average person, and thus he plowed his way into the Express Lane with eighteen - EIGHTEEN - items. Granted, three items over the limit isn't a lot, but when that limit is already five items greater than the average Express Lane limit, making his personal shopping cart nearly twice what it should be, I vote that it's grounds for annoyance.

Jasmine, on Alexa Chung:

(1:00:05 PM) Jasmine: she tweeted about being heartbroken she ran out of white chocolate kit kats
(1:00:16 PM) Jasmine: then ten minutes later tweeted that someone just delivered a box to her door
(1:00:17 PM) Jasmine: WHAT
(1:00:19 PM) Jasmine: I WANT THAT LIFE

Word, sista.

I've been lax in my house cleaning and laundry doing routines over the last few months, and understandably so. I mean, I'm training a puppy, buying a house, finishing my master's degee, and fighting with my mother's entire side of the family all at once. I'm a busy lady.

But I didn't realize just how busy I was until I went to do laundry today and found, in my hamper, a pair of pajama pants that I haven't seen since I purchased them. In January.

I think the fact that I can go six months without ever seeing the bottom of my hamper is probably indicative of a larger issue, but I'd prefer not to speculate.

There has been some drama, to say the least, with the process of closing on my house. My concern over it being a fixer upper (and thus a money pit), the complete "WTF?!" moment I had when the home's asking price dropped ten thousand dollars below my accepted bid, and - perhaps most frightening - the threat of carpet being laid in one of the bedrooms.

But I think today tops them all, because today, I got an email from my loan consultant asking when the repairs were going to be finished and I was going to take possession of the home. When I asked to be locked in at a rate of 5.5%, I had thirty days from that point to close. And next Monday is the end of that grace period.

She informed me that for every day I remain locked in past July 27, I will accumulate thirty-two dollars in debt. It doesn't seem like a lot, but if the bank takes a week to get their shit in order, that's over two hundred dollars. Two hundred dollars that could be spent on a new roof, new fence, or any of the other six billion new things this home needs.

I emailed my realtor in a panic. A few hours later, I got a phone call from her. She informed me that she had, more or less, chewed out the selling agent and told her that all the repairs need to be done by Thursday. This means the home can be appraised on Thursday or Friday, and I can close (hopefully) on Monday at the latest.

Here's hoping.

"Math may be the language of the Devil, but statistics proves that reality really is what you make it."

- Stephen Colbert (via Twitter)

If so, you should probably sign this petition.

Why? Because now that California's budget is in the shitter, our Governator is proposing that we close eighty percent of our state parks. EIGHTY PERCENT. For those of you who are math-averse, that translates to "almost all of them."

As someone who actually uses and enjoys our parks, I am begging you to sign. If not for yourself, then for those Californians (like myself) who need places to birdwatch, walk our dogs, sleep under the stars, and poop behind giant redwoods.