When it rains...

...my basement floods.

For the third year in a row, Holland is seeing record amounts of rainfall.
This past weekend's storm may qualify as a State of Emergency.
My family weathered the storm in a dry tent.
We came home two days later to 3 inches of water in the basement.
The cats were flooded out from their litter box, so even our dry rooms needed some drastic cleaning measures.
Oh how I miss our 2nd floor rental apartment right now. With a landlord. Who you call when stuff smells real bad, leaks, or is broken.

But, after 24 hours, we're in a much better place.
We have amazing families who came to help.
We know better than to keep our good stuff vulnerable in the basement.
Our basement isn't finished, so the carpet that's down is fixable.
Did I mention our amazing families?
Not to mention my POWER HOUSE husband.
Seriously - is there anything sexier than a man with a mop?

There's still about 200% humidity in our house and hotter than you-know-where.
But I'm calling it quits.
After two hours at the laundromat, I feel like Charlie looks:

The evidence

I took these partly because few things happen in my life that don't make me think "I could blog this." And partly because at the time, I wasn't sure if we'd have to file some sort of claim or not. Adrenaline always makes me jump to the worst case scenario!

The smell is mostly gone now. Odoban ROCKS!

Reason #76 why I hate electric ovens

We skipped church today.
We intended to go - were even looking forward to it.
I love Communion Sunday.
It was supposed to be a normal Sunday - church, then lunch at the in-laws, then a whole lot of vegging.
I always pack three things on Sunday morning - my Bible, my slippers, and my novel.
This morning, I put my 560 page novel on top of the stove, with my phone on top - to make sure I didn't forget. I was getting a little bored of the book and really want to push through to the end.
Keith decided to make some breakfast, so he started the tea pot for some oatmeal. Or so he thought.
I hate electric ovens.
I could hear a little crackle and pop from the bathroom - it's usual with our nasty old electric stove top. Even smelled a little hot - nothing strange about that either. But then all the sudden it smelled real hot.
I came into the kitchen and saw at LEAST 8 inch flames from my fully engulfed novel.
"Hello, 911? I could have sworn I turned on the BACK burner..."
(I'm not proud of this next part).
I grabbed my phone and quickly started to save it, while I yelled for Keith to come deal with the book. What do you do? Do you throw water on it? It was seriously engulfed. Luckily, my husband has teflon hands and he just picked up the book and threw it in the sink and ran water on it. He doused the few pages stuck to the burner with water.
The whole thing was over in about 30 seconds. By thing I mean fire. Because 9 hours later, we're still airing the house out with open windows and fans on high and it still smells like the morning after a frat party.
Blech.

The moral of the story?
No books on the stove. Period.
AND... cell phone covers are worth it. A little melted plastic at the hinge, a horrendous smell, and a whole lot of luck later, I can still make calls with the little sucker!

And yes, I did actually snap a few pictures. I'll post those soon.

Don't mention this post to Keith... ever.

Saturday morning, I took a long hot shower. It was great. Except the tub wouldn't drain. I blamed it on the fact that Keith bathed Dodger Friday night.
Keith was on a shoot, so I plunged and plunged and plunged.
Keith came home and plunged.
And then he dumped a gallon of turbo Drano down the drain.
Then we left for a party, both a little agitated by the thought of coming home to six inches of standing, dirty, drano water in the tub.
On the way home, we bought a snake.
Keith spent 30 minutes and got no more than 8 inches down the drain.
He examined the options - could we open pipes in the basement and remove the blockage?
At this point, it's important to point out that 15 hours later, the water hasn't drained AT ALL except when we plunged. This is more than a hair issue, I think...
Back to the pipes - they're glued closed. Crazy. (And stupid)
We went to bed, really agitated by the standing water.
And dirty.
And resenting the whole homeownership thing as we spent all last weekend fixing the washing machine.
So we woke up, went to church, and showered and Keith's parents' house (GREAT day with Lane, by the way - pictures to follow).
On our way home, Keith called my dad for advice. They started plotting how to saw the pipe downstairs, rebuild the plumbing, "so that it's right."
But we have kind of a busy week, so Keith vowed to give the snake one more shot and then just call a plumber.
So while I was rocking out to Guitar Hero III (I might be addicted), Keith worked the snake again. "I'm prepared to be disappointed," he said going in, with a resigned expression.
He came out ten minutes later.

So??

"We won't speak of this to anyone. Ever."

What?

"The plug was pulled. I flipped the switch and the tub drained like a champ!"

At least it wasn't the plumber who told us....

Who knew?

Ikea actually has extensive options for kitchens.
I'm officially asking Santa for Lidingo.

Before

And After

You can't see them, but there are ornaments in the trees. And I'm working on the wreaths...
Now we just need snow!

a weekend revelation

Not only do I not live in an apartment anymore, I no longer live an apartment lifestyle.
Sunday afternoons are for eating roast and walking in the woods, like we did yesterday.
They are not for grocery stores, laundromats, and bleaching the bathroom.
They are not for to-do lists.
They are for rest and laughter and reading books and watering the yard.
They can be because when you don't commute and you have everything you need at home, you can do all those annoying errand things on Tuesday, maybe one on Wednesday, and that last minute run on Friday and still make it home in time to make dinner and still have an evening.
I appreciate my house in a whole new way today.

You measured twice, right?

We bought the house with all appropriate appliances provided. We neglected to ask for the fridge sans duct tape. The thing is a piece of crap. So when we were in Muskegon picking up my piano (yea!), we shopped the local clearance center and got a "steal" on a refurbed side-by-side.

We got it home, took off the door to the house, took off the doors to the fridge, and the stupid thing is exactly 3/4" too wide for the space.

Dad and Keith decided just to saw the counter off 3/4". They started the cut and then looked up.

If only it weren't for those pesky cupboards...

Anyone in the market for a great side-by-side? I can offer you a real steal.

Provision

We close on our house tomorrow morning. I will sign my name something like one million times. It's a big heavy weighty thing that's about to happen, but even more so, it's liberating and exciting and inspiring.

To say that I was "intimidated" by the house buying experience is an understatement. I am partly programmed and partly trained to ask "what if?" What if one of us loses a job? What if taxes jump uber high? What if we get called into the mission field and have to sell all our worldly belongings but we can't sell the house? What if something happens to Keith? What if we start a family and have a kid with special needs? What if the water heater breaks? What if the neighborhood goes down the crapper? What if lightning strikes and the shingles catch on fire and we no longer have a roof?

Not to mention the big question -- what exactly are "means"? And how do we best live within them?

We shopped aggressively for a house last fall because we wanted one. We even offered, counter offered, and got bummed when we "lost" the house. I am soooo glad we did. So glad. More than glad, I'm thankful. My what-if brain kept praying over and over again - Lord, close this door. Make it obvious if we shouldn't be doing this. And if you say no, make sure we both hear you. Can't say there's anything more obvious than another buyer coming and making an offer for full asking price. Let 'em have it. (Side note, those buyers are now selling the same house...)

So we rented. And we protected ourselves from our own tendencies and asked to sign a year long lease, although the landlord wasn't requiring one. We paid too much rent to really love where we lived, so that we wouldn't be tempted to jump the gun before the time was right.

And what better time than to start shopping for houses once Keith quits his job? Lord, close this door. Why not make an offer on the 7th house you actually enter? Please make it obvious. And who says you both need to be in same state while making one of the biggest decisions of your life? And if you say no, make sure we both hear you.

The purchase agreement went so smoothly, that it all sort of felt like a whirwind - I didn't have much time for my what ifs? Then we got to the financing. Oy. We agreed to a price based on a particular loan, with a particular interest rate, that would "max" us out. But we couldn't lock the interest rate yet... So we wait, and the rates climb. All the sudden, our top-end budget is out the window. Then I start to pray harder - what now? Is this a door? Make it MORE obvious. We wait - me anxiously, Keith calmly. He tells me "I feel like God's asking us to trust him." I tell him - I don't hear anything, and I think we need to start coming up with a Plan B. I probably also thought some pretty nasty things about how spontaneous and irresponsible my husband is. Now I just think he is a faithful man who I admire.

Because the end of the story is the real message here. It's the feeling I had just now driving back to work from the bank. It was peace. It was a little whisper "I told you so." - not in Keith's voice at all. It was an invisible hand on my shoulder that gave me the feeling that all the what ifs aren't for me to worry about. The cashier's check I asked the bank to provide today will cover our closing costs and leave some cash in our savings that neither of us earned. Or stole. Or borrowed from our parents. It was a severance package Keith's boss blessed us with when he quit his job - probably the biggest leap of faith we've taken in our short marriage. Who gets a severance package when they quit?! Doesn't make sense.

It also doesn't make sense that the loan that looked so awesome two months ago is no longer our best option. But we have a better one now - one that by adding on extra fees and insurance actually brings our monthly payment down to lower than we budgeted.

It also doesn't make sense that two of the most opposite people in the entire universe (me and my husband) actually have felt unified throughout the entire experience - more so than we started.

It also doesn't make sense that a worry wart like me has a stomach ache from excitement, not from anxiety, that we get the stinkin' keys to our house in 15 hours.

I think I've learned my lesson - from now on I think my prayers will be, God - make it all not make sense - and help me just be okay with that.

Try not to think about it

Dave thought we should get to know our new neighbors a bit, so he sent me the sex offenders website. You can go here to see names and addresses for convicts in your neighborhood. Then you can go here to see their pictures.

Keith was appalled at the number of "predators" in our new neighborhood - until I showed him the numbers in our old neighborhood. I guess this kind of thing is all about perspective.

I'm somewhat addicted to the website now - you can assume I've looked up your neighborhood, too. Look out, Chris Hansen -- I might have your job someday.

Ho-lee crap.

We locked our rate today. We now know what we will be paying every month for 30 years. I'll be 57 by then, if we don't refinance. I also know the total sum we will have paid for our house including interest. I also know that although I hate every single principle of PMI, I just agreed to pay it because it will actually save us money in the long run. And by long run, I mean 30 years. Holy crap. I think I just bought a house. In Holland. I wonder if we get wooden shoes at closing...

Moving on

The packing has officially begun. And by begun I mean we've collected enough boxes, now we need to fill them. However, with the weather finally taking a turn for the better, I'd much rather be out enjoying our neighborhood. It'll only be our 'hood for another 22 days or so. There are a lot of things I don't want to forget about 265 Union - here's a few, in no particular order.

• The walk to Meghan and Dan's house being only 1.2 miles on the way there, and approximately 7 miles on the way back.
• Only making the walk to Meghan and Dan's house once.
• Missy, the spunky Shih Tzu who lives just up the street. She runs up to see us on our porch. Her mom, an elderly African American woman, follows behind. She talks to Missy like she's human. "Missy - how you gonna just run across the street - you trying to get me killed? Next time, you wait." Just recently, she told us that Missy told her "You must be crazy if you think I'm riding with you all the way to the grocery store in your cold car." I love Missy and her sass. And her mom is my favorite neighbor ever.
  
• Pepe, the HUGE skunk that lives under our neighbor's house. I don't like it when he squirts under our house, but a little skunk funk in the neighborhood is almost pleasant.
• The Samurai Warrior - picture Napoleon Dynamite's brother, then give him nunchucks, a sword, and some crazy ninja stunts. Yesterday, we saw him walking the street holding a cement block out in front of himself. He might look like a weenie, but I wouldn't want to be on the wrong end of those nunchucks.
• Drinking white chocolate mochas outside the Wealthy Street Bakery on Saturday mornings in my pajamas.
• The built-ins. Oh, the built-ins.
• Mary, our neighbor next door. She's a grandma now and lives in the house she grew up in all by herself. When Keith was traveling, Mary and I looked out for each other. She says she's not a cook, but our street's always full when she's making tamales.
  
• The three little african american boys who play in our yard. Last summer, they were always running around in no shoes, no shirts, but plenty of things to beat each other with. Come fall, they added shoes. Now, in the spring, they have shirts and mini short - gotta love growth spurts. These boys are best friends - I still don't know where they live, but I think they've spent more time in my yard than I have.
• Getting paid an allowance from the landlords for watering the yard.
  
• Neighborhood restaurants. I'm gonna miss these the most.
  
• Being centrally located. Walks to the fireworks, carpools to the beach or movie theater - it usually began here.
  
• Hearing Keith's mom calling to our cats as she goes into work, 6 doors down.

This is definitely an anxious time - one filled with anticipation, a little mourning, and a whole lot of financial stress. We still haven't locked in our interest rate - it's been climbing since this process began. Please pray it gets back to where we budgeted!

I wish I was a Baller

I don't mean to brag, but I (with my husband) are privileged enough to be considered VIP members of our local credit union. Not that we have so much money saved there - rather, it may have something to do with our negative net worth that they like so much, but VIP it is. Between the two of us, we technically have 7 accounts there. I like to think they know who we are. I'd be wrong.

We went to said credit union two weeks ago for mortgage pre-appoval. We worked with Dave, our friendly loan officer, filling out ALL the appropriate personal information. Dave kindly sent our file back to us, so we had a copy. Dave made the mistake of mailing the file with our credit reports, SSN, income, etc., to our new address. Right. To the house we don't own yet. To the people who still live there. Could you possibly make a worse mistake as a bank employee? Is there a better way to beg for identity theft? I think not.

Luckily, the sellers are good people and forwarded the package to our realtor. When I picked it up today and saw everything in the file, I got so mad I started to shake, and my blood pressure rose. Literally. Keith joined me as we left the realtor's office and headed straight for the credit union.

On the way over, we imagined the scene --
Keith holding me back as I swing around him, screaming "What's my address, B*#@!?? Say it - say it!"

And then I remember Pastor Dave's sermon about showing people Jesus while you're at work and in your every day activities. Dang. Just when I had a good gangsta reaction and everything.

So we politely told the branch manager, who gave us the number of the morgage supervisor - I called him. Everybody was very apologetic and I managed not to swear at anyone. But man... do I ever have some gangsta rage right now...

It's official... sorta

Inspection reports came back today. The house is clean. No radon. No bugs. Some sub-par electical, but no more negotiations. We've accepted the house and the offer both as-is for real now. Next conversation is with the bank to finalize our loan and we'll close in 42 days.

I think I might throw up soon.

I own a house and I've been listening to the FOOTLOOSE soundtrack all afternoon. Does it get any better than this? I think not.

alone in a hotel in california

I've been looking for an outlet lately. Should I take a photography course? Write more? Buy a house so I have a place for my piano? At some point, instant gratification takes over and I need something here, NOW.
Like a blog.
So here goes - my outlet.

I turned 27 last week. Why do odd numbers always sound bigger?
I feel old.
To make matters worse, this week, I bought a house.
Actually, Keith bought a house - I was in California.
It was kind of nice, actually.
I wish I could make him a shirt that says, "My wife went to California and all I got was this AWESOME HOUSE!"
It's going to be a big year.
I hope to document it well. Maybe I'll even do it here.

Here is a picture of my biggest financial commitment ever...