Gazumped

Well, we were buying a house.

This morning we were informed that the vendors had received yet another offer 'substantially greater' than the one they'd verbally accepted from us. Did we want to raise our offer?

Instinct told us, no. Nevertheless we spent an uncomfortable few hours mulling it over. Then later in the day we found out that the vendors were now wanting some $25,000 more from us than we thought the house was worth.

That simplified matters. We walked away.

Not to worry. These things have a habit of turning out for the best, and though it was a lovely house we're sure we will find another that suits us even better. The whole business has been fairly stressful, but we are the better educated for it. We'll be having no more dealings with miniature dalmatians for a start.

Housing worries aside, we continued to enjoy the company of our friends and hope they didn't find us too distracted. Before they left we visited Henry Hudson Park. Later on we drove up to Saratoga Springs for another party with work colleagues.

Love Ertz?

Good friends have come to visit, up from Providence, Rhode Island, so we've been enjoying their company today.

When I picked the Man up at the airport last night I snapped this lovely thing, displayed in a stairwell. At first glance I thought it was elaborate macrame, but in fact it is made of 'Chenille Stems' (that's pipe-cleaners to you and me). According to the nearby blurb, the artist, Ginger Ertz, 'hopes that the formality of its radial symmetry, coupled with its soft, organic, biomorphic quality will give travelers something to enjoy and remember'. Result, Ginger!


As you can imagine, I'm now wanting one just like it for our new house. I'm also thinking the 'artist' known as 'Insanely Livid' might like to reproduce it to submit in the next Linton Garden Club Show (category 125: Any Other Craft). It'll win you 50p or my name's not Albaniana.

House-bound

Whew! What a day. I've hardly done a physical thing, yet I'm exhausted.

All day long, emails and phone calls, or waiting for phone calls, and anxious conversations about whether we should make an offer on the house, and if so for how much. The decision-making process was made all the more complicated by the fact that a) the Man was still away in Washington and b) we hadn't had the chance for a second-viewing. Oh, and c) we had to act today. No pressure then.

So finally we put in an offer, only to discover we were up against two other bidders. Should we raise our offer? More agonies of indecision.

We really, really don't like making decisions.

Well anyway, the upshot is, the vendors accepted our offer. We're buying a house!


Whaddya think? I reckon it'll be just lovely once we've shooed out all the critters...

Soap opera

Went on a lovely walk this morning with Exile #2 and her youngest offspring, round one of the longer trails at Five Rivers. How pleasant it was to stroll along enjoying the sights and sounds of a nature reserve without once hearing the whingeing call of Ambulator Reluctans (aka the Boy, who was at school). Exile #2's little one is still a baby in a sling and is yet to hone his whingeing-on-walks skills.

It has been warm and summer-like for the last few days. No sign of this nine-month winter everyone talks about.

As I write now I'm feeling a little tense and anxious. Late this afternoon I got an email telling me that someone has put in an offer on the most promising house we've seen (it ticks a lot of our boxes). Typical. The housing market round here is slow to the point of being stationary, and I go and fall for the one house that someone else wants. So, do we put in a counter offer? I need to discuss it with the Man, only he's away on business and I can't reach him on his mobile. Aarghh.

I'll try and distract myself with an episode of ER. I don't know why I watch it, it's rubbish, but there you go. Call it an addictive habit. For some it's soap operas, for others it's the football season, and for others again... reading daily blogs, perhaps?

Tune in tomorrow for the next 'exciting' installment...

Housey housey

I have received several suggestions via Comments as to the sort of house we should be looking for. Here, in no particular order, are some of my immediate family's requirements:

The Girl would like:-
to be able to catch the same school bus with the same friends as now; a tree suitable for tree-house building; a sledging slope in the yard (garden); a low mantelpiece so that her mother can't keep hiding the TV remote up there.

I'd like:-
walkability, ie the possibility of walking out of the front door for a purpose other than keeping fit; nothing too bland or too flashy; a pleasant neighbourhood; something easy to keep clean (housework not being my forte).

The Man would like:-
a convenient journey to work; an attractive yard; air-conditioning; lots of square-footage so that he can say 'Look how big my house is!'.

The Boy would like:-
a swimming pool; a chimney (to facilitate possible visits by Father Christmas).

We'll have to make compromises (not least because some of our requirements are contradictory). But I guess as long as we focus on our real priorities we'll find somewhere we can all feel happy to call home. Better keep an eye out for a nice low mantelpiece and a working chimney, then.

Oh, and we do want space for guests because we hope friends and family will visit. You will...won't you?

Cross purposes

Another day, another house - this time one which may be promising. I'll keep you posted.

We also had the fun of an international credit checking conference call. A firm has been employed by our mortgage brokers to check with our UK credit card companies that we are not 'delinquents'. So, a three-way call was set up between the credit checking company in Vermont, the credit card agents somewhere in the UK, and ourselves at home in Albany hovering over the Man's mobile (cell) phone switched to speaker mode. There were some bizarrely entertaining clashes of culture as the British and American personnel attempted to interact, mostly at crossed purposes:

Female employee of credit check company: Hello, I'm a cross American who talks incredibly fast, working for Blah Blah Blah Company and I want you to give me information about one of your customers, right now, before you've had time to assimilate anything I've just said.

Employee of credit card company: Um, er, I'm just a very timid British girl in a call centre. I can't understand what you're saying and you're really scaring me. I'm sure I'm not meant to have to deal with this kind of thing... Help!

Cross American: C'mon, c'mon stop wasting my time...

Timid girl: Hang on, maybe you should speak to... I'll just put you through to...

Well-spoken Englishman: Hello, I'm quite posh and have a position of great responsibilty. How can I help you?

Cross American: I'm a cross American... etc etc.

Well-spoken Englishman: Who did you say you are? Well, I don't know about that. Ah, the English gentleman concerned is also on the line you say? In that case I shall deal exclusively with him. Now, sir...

Well, ok, it wasn't quite like that, but you get the picture. Fortunately, for my credit check we were put through to a lovely Northern Irish chap who was all charm and efficiency.

Custom. Car.

House-hunting and car-hunting today. We looked round just one property, a ‘custom’, i.e. designed by its first owner. Grand Designs it wasn’t. Looked like someone had scribbled a few randomly interconnected squares and rectangles on a piece of paper then given it straight to a builder – clearly no architect worthy of the name had been near it. Ah well. Another one crossed off the list.

Then on to a car dealership, where we were looked after by Janice (not her real name, but if you’ve ever watched Friends you may know who I’m thinking of). She had the look – big hair, perfect teeth, immaculate make-up – plus a Noo York accent to die for. She found us baffling yet amusing. The most neutral of remarks from us caused her to throw up her manicured hands and cry ‘You’re funny!’

To be honest she had some trouble even hearing us. American ears are accustomed to a different pitch and louder volume. And when we were audible she didn’t necessarily understand what we were saying.

But perhaps the biggest problem as far as we were concerned was that she didn’t seem to know anything about the car she was trying to sell us. Or cars at all, really. She told us she used to be a mortgage broker (as recently as last week, perhaps?).

She was very nice, though. Poor lady – a car sales rookie, and she gets landed with two clueless, mumbling foreigners as her first clients. As we drove away from the lot, without a new car, we saw her hovering on the forecourt with a coffee and a cigarette, recovering.