There’s a digital clock at the top of our stove. Each number is made up of digital sausage links. They’re curveless and rigid but they do the job. Twos look like backwards fives, threes like eights without Western borders.

When we first moved in, the stove was brand new and so the clock was as well. It worked well. Each sausage did its job. Together, they made up numbers.

About two years ago, our oven just stopped working. For no reason, just stopped working one day. I turned it on to 400 degrees gleefully anticipating a homemade pizza, and a half hour later it was still cold. We did what all renters do, we called our landlord.

When the repairman arrived, he sold our landlord on a warranty. Included in that warranty was the clock, which had had recently lost the top digital sausage making up the second number. I remember when it happened too. I remember trying to figure out why it was so dark at 4 PM.

The repairman didn’t have the parts to repair the clock. “You’ll have to schedule another visit. But you should know that you have a warranty. The clock’s included.” He said. “The light, too.”

Due to my Easy Bake Oven and Shrinky Dink days, and the fact that I really enjoy watching things cook, change, grow, shrink, melt, move, and brown like old paper, the light burned out a few months after we moved in.

It’s been dark ever since.

We’re outgrowing our apartment. And for the life of me, I cannot figure out who is buying up all the real estate in our neighborhood, who can afford to. I have asked a few people and no one ever really gives me a straight answer. I’m still asking.

Who is buying up all these condos and houses?

I’m still very much in the dark waiting for an answer.

But it was only recently that I began to realize that we actually have to leave here, that it’s not really a choice anymore. It’s becoming a necessity. We don’t have the room here for a toddler. And it’s not safe.

But I think the most telling moment, the second I realized that we simply had to leave, was right around the time my son turned 9 months old and we watched him touch green grass for the very first time.

I said to Tobyjoe, “Do you realize this is the first time Em has touched grass?”

Neither one of us said another word.

Truthfully, I have no idea how to make this work. As much as I want to, as much as I’d like to, as much as we should be able to, we have no way of making this work. And up until recently, I haven’t been willing to accept that fact.

The clock on our stove has become a failure at its only function. We don’t even try and guess what time it is anymore. And at some point during the last two years, three more digital sausages burned out. I always thought I might catch one of the sausage’s final, parting moments. But other than that minor amusement, it’s been useless for a while.

What good is a clock that can’t tell time? What good is a clock that’s slowly dimming over time—quite literally?

Last night I was baking a homemade pizza when I paid our barely functioning clock a brief glance. I noticed that yet another link had gone dark. And with a chuckle it occurred to me that I may have had its function wrong all along. Perhaps it’s not there to tell us what time it is at all, or, at least not in the usual sense. Perhaps it’s letting us know in its own special way—through the dimming and eventual darkness of individual digital sausages—how much time we have left.

I’ve written at least 10 posts about this and deleted every last one of them. If this one makes it up, I’ll be shocked. (Here’s to number 11.) The YouTube Video below is of a lecture given by Elizabeth Warren. It’s enlightening, terrifying, confusing, sad, informative, long but outstanding.

I have decided to post it anyway. It’s long but it’s worth it. The statistics alone offer so much food for thought, your head will be reeling. (Please note: you don’t actually have to watch it. You can get the gist just by listening to it, although the charts at times do help illustrate her points. Also, the lecture starts at 4:45.)

There are so many things I want to talk about, write about, discuss. This lecture illustrates and voices a great deal of the frustration my family has experienced as we try and find a safe and affordable place to raise our son. We are the family she speaks of in search of a decent education for our child, willing to buy something overpriced just to see our son grow up educated and safe. This is scary stuff, people.

I’m going to stop rambling. But please, if you have time, watch the lecture. Let’s start a revolution. We need to change course. America’s future depends on it. I truly believe that.

Our bid was accepted. We were to enter attorney review today. Another offer came through 15 grand higher. We were given the option of meeting that offer and have declined. (We simply cannot afford to pay any more). We are back at square one. We don’t have a place to live come July. I wish I could say I was disappointed, but I’m not. I’m actually a little angry and anger isn’t an emotion I’m accustomed to. Not sure what to say. Think we might find another place to rent if something doesn’t happen soon.

^{I’m going to open comments after all to potentially start a dialogue. Judging by the number of email I have gotten in such a short amount of time, I thought it might learn us all something. Maybe.}

Edited to add: I have addressed the “offer less and then negotiate” issue regarding this house in the comments section. :] I hope this helps.

We didn’t get the house we put an offer on. And even after we said we’re not the bargaining type (meaning, we’ll never accept a counter, that the amount we offer upfront is the amount we’re comfortable with) the sellers came back with a counter. And the counter was more than our real estate agent said they’d settle for. I’m thinking one of two things took place: either they are really that arrogant and/or stupid, or they got an offer closer to what they’d settle for and figured they’d have nothing to lose asking us to go higher. Nevertheless, we feel we offered them a fair price and have said no to their counter.

OK, so, this whole house buying thing is and has been an emotional roller coaster. They now HAVE accepted our offer. We’re going into attorney review tomorrow. I’m not going to get my hopes up — I made that mistake last time — but it looks like we may become homeowners soon. I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

On Sunday Tobyjoe and I did something neither one of us would have agreed to a year ago. We went to a couple of open houses for the condos going up all over Greenpoint and Williamsburg. (Remember this?) I’m not sure why, really, anything we need (size) is too expensive. Most of them looked exactly how you’d imagine, which is to say trendy and cookie-cutter. But there was this one…

I actually really liked one of them. I even pictured myself living there. Granted, we’d have to sell the baby in order to afford it, which seems silly since one of the reasons we like it is because it happens to be in one of the best public school districts. It also has an elevator that delivers its occupants directly into their apartment. Do you have any idea how appealing that is to me right now? After spending 8 months lugging a baby, a diaper bag, and whatever other baby things I need up three flights of stair just to take my son outside? Orgasmic!

They also had balconies, an added bonus for those of us who haven’t had access to an outside space since college.

I don’t know what to say. I’m deflated. I’m sick of driving around each and every weekend to look at overpriced, sometimes rundown properties with annual taxes of ten thousand dollars plus. Factor in crime statistics, resale value, size of lot, garage space (or lack thereof), driveway space, walking distance to anything (we would rather not depend on a car), public school rating, oil tank burials, commute time (and price), and you’re left wondering why any member of the middle class chooses to buy a place at all.

One of the places we looked at (and it wasn’t cheap) is three blocks from the apartment complex that housed one of the shooters from this heinous murder. Yes, that’s in Newark. The murder took place there as well. No, we weren’t looking to move to Newark. Yes, one of the neighborhoods we’re looking at borders one of the most dangerous places in America. I am left thinking that denial must play a huge role in how some folks agree to buy what they buy.

And I’m thinking that choosing to read this book right now was a bad idea. (Anyone commuting to NYC from Southern Virginia?)

Should we continue to rent? Am I just having a bad week? I am still sick, 8 days and counting. Do I sound like a broken record?

Do I sound like a broken record?

Let me begin by saying I have had too much coffee this morning. Couple that with the Sudafed and I’m completely out of my mind on speed.

The baby is down for his morning nap and so I’m going to try and squeeze in a few paragraphs.

Let’s see, I’m still sick. It’s been five days and I still feel awful. The first few days were brutal, however. I had hives and I was freezing no matter what I put on. I could barely keep up with Emory. Having to go to work sick is one thing but being a mom and taking care of a baby is far, far worse unless, of course, your job is taking care of babies or kids.

To top it all off, we still don’t have a place to live come June 30th. If that doesn’t scare the pants off someone, I don’t know what will. As of right now, I have no idea where we’ll be living when Emory celebrates his first birthday. Perhaps that’s why my body is having trouble shaking this sickness, stress induced hives? If all else fails, we’ll move into The Hobo Nest.

We do have an offer in on a house we really like but we’ve been told they are planning on countering out offer, which we will not agree to. The house is awesome, sure, but it lacks a garage, the basement is unfinished, there is no real yard (it’s small compared to all the rest), and the attic is unfinished. (Many of the houses in that area have finished basements and/or attics.) I think we offered a fair price and I think that if they don’t accept it, they’re going to find themselves paying the difference in two mortgages. We’ll see, but I’m not getting my hopes up, not this time.

Real estate is a strange business and real estate agents make me feel a little sad. Lately, I have had the scene from American Beauty in my head. You know the one where Annette Bening is shown in the middle of a very dated looking home declaring that she “WILL SELL THIS HOUSE TODAY!” while she’s down on all four scrubbing its surfaces.

I swear to you I could smell the desperation.

I have been reminded of that scene a lot lately especially as we trudge through some homes and listen to these poor real estate women (yes, they’ve always been women for us) try and ignore all the horrible things. I have no idea how they do it. The whole experience makes me feel really sad sometimes, sad for everyone—the agent, the people who once lived there, the people who will, the emptiness. What good is a home without voices?

Ah well.

Our Emory is incredible. He’s now pulling himself upright. Everywhere. I discovered this one day by interrupting a potentially dangerous moment. We put Emory down for a nap. He was fussing and fussing and fussing and then he just stopped, just like that, silence. I peeked into his room to check things out and there he was, standing upright in his crib, arms holding onto the top bar. A mere head-thrust forward and he would have toppled out. Needless to say, his mattress was lowered immediately. And I get the feeling he’s going to skip the whole proper crawling thing and move directly from commando baby to standing upright and walking.

It’s Friday. It’s raining and I am dead tired.

It appears there could be a potentially HUGE problem regarding the underground oil tank that will keep us from actually buying the house. I plan on discussing this further today but I have to feed the baby first. Heh. So, we may not be homeowners yet. We may back out of this entirely.

Tell me, why? Why did people think it was a good idea to bury oil tanks? I got so worked up last night and then I spent an hour thinking about all the environmental faux pas we’re currently committing that our kids and our kids’ kids are going to have to deal with once we’re dead and gone.

More later. And happy Good Friday.

Later…

We were told by our real estate agent that the whole oil tank fiasco is the leading cause of contracts falling through. During attorney review, the buyers request that the sellers have the oil tanks removed at seller’s expense and the sellers refuse. The deal ends swiftly. We’re looking at this house as a place to raise a family, sure, but we also don’t want to find that our ground is contaminated and we’re potentially in the hole (no pun intended) hundreds of thousands of dollars. I realize that’s a worst case scenario, but when planning for one’s future, one can never be too careful.

Here’s the bigger stinker: this particular oil tank isn’t just underground, it’s beneath the basement as well. Digging said tank up, or testing the soil, could prove to be one gigantic pain the ass for whoever decides to take on said feat. Not only do you have to pay to dig up the tank (which isn’t all that pricey alone) but you have to dig a giant hole in the basement, test the soil, wash the soil out (if there is any contamination) and then put the basement back together again. Scary, is the first and only word that comes to mind.

I wrote this before we entered attorney review and learned more about what lies beneath:

“We have a screened in porch that runs the entire length of the house. I am looking forward to turning it into a sanctuary for the entire family. (I envision plants, bird feeders, creaky rocking chairs, candles, and maybe a designated spot to practice yoga.) I can’t wait to listen to the chorus of crickets from that porch, let my cats curl up into fat furry balls at my feet on that porch, grow more wrinkles on that porch. I can’t wait to sit outside on hot summer nights, sipping a glass of chardonnay to wash down my Grand Old Man with my grand old man.”

I took the rose colored glasses of yesterday and am now willing to accept (as egirl put it) having to kiss a few more frogs first.

Did you know that the three most expensive counties in the United States where property taxes are concerned are Ocean County, Essex County, and Westchester County? It’s a fact. And we looked at houses in one of those counties yesterday.

Toby and I went to look a houses in Maplewood, New Jersey yesterday. We fell in love with the town. Of course we fell in love with the town, to live there, homeowners pay anywhere from 7,000 dollars per year on taxes, all the way up to 11,000 dollars a year and that’s for smaller lots. The bigger the lots, the higher the taxes. The taxes don’t even include trash pickup or sewage costs.

Let’s say you get your mortgage down to 2,000 bucks a month. Awesome, right? Add on water, heat, sewage, property tax, trash pickup, commuting expense and any insurance you need and you’re suddenly well into the 4 thousand dollar range. Well, we can’t afford that, not on one salary. We come nowhere near that. I’d have to go back to work, which I think I might be OK with, but that means adding another expense to the list for childcare.

At one point on Sunday morning, I decided suddenly (in the middle of a yoga class) that we were moving back to the Washington, DC area and into rural Maryland where houses are a little cheaper and we’re surrounded by close friends with kids. (I was fed up. I had a moment.)

I get the feeling we’re going to see a whole bunch of crap before we find something we’re willing to buy. One of the places we saw yesterday was just awful. Not only was it poorly built and falling apart, but the person living there was filthy and did nothing to try and clean it up. I fail to understand how and why people choose to live that way. Do people have that little pride in what they own? I have watched people on our Brooklyn street clean their SUVs with a toothbrush. Do they give the same care to their houses? All but two of the houses we have seen have been disgusting. One of them was covered in dog piss. I have no idea how real estate agents keep a smile on their face while trying to sell some houses. They should win Oscars or join professional poker tournaments.

But I don’t want to sound totally negative. We did see one house that was well out of our price range that I fell in love with. Its only downfall was that it has an underground oil tank, which is proving to be a big headache for many homeowners in Jersey. Everything else about the house was outstanding. I immediately began putting my furniture into each one of its rooms. It was a lovely house.

In spite of the pricey real estate we looked at, my weekend was really quite great. Emory has exited The Screaming Baby Phase and has entered Sweet Baby Phase. He’s even starting to amuse himself for extended periods of time with all the new toys we got him from Haba and elsewhere. Although, for the first day or two he was more into the Haba catalogs than the actual toys. I think he’s been taking hints from the cats. If I have learned anything from cats, it’s that the more you spend on something, the less they’re likely to use it.

I went to yoga twice and I can barely use my arms today. I cleaned the apartment. I showered twice. I even shaved my legs. It’s been a wonderful couple of days and I can’t thank you all enough for your words of encouragement. You helped me (again) more than I can possibly say. I bookmarked that post so the next time Emory and I have a rough week together, I can remind myself that I’m not alone and that things will get better and always do.

UPDATE Comments are broken. Once they are up and running again, I’ll turn them back on. So sorry if you posted one and it got lost somewhere. Fixed!

We went to look at houses last Saturday. What a disappointment. I am appalled by how some people keep their homes, or don’t keep their homes. And I’m not talking a mess here and there (which is also a bit shocking considering they are trying to sell it during what I hear is a buyer’s market.) I’m talking about upkeep, filth, etc. We saw one house (the one I was most excited about from the pictures) that had pools of dog piss throughout the kitchen. I’m not sure what I felt worse about; the fact that someone cared so little for their house or so little for their dog. The poor dog barked crazily from a cage in the basement the entire time we were there.

And the walls were crumbling, the ceiling too. The rooms were filthy. The rugs were covered in stains. I can’t even begin to tell you how beat up and ugly this house was. It’s a shame.

We saw four in total. One of them I didn’t even want to go into. It was a flip and I left wanting to call the person who “flipped” it and verbally tear them up. Who in their right mind would assume anyone would want to buy a house like that? The work was shoddy. The floors which were laid over top of some other monstrosity and didn’t meet up to the walls. I pictured dirt and grime collecting in the crevices within one week of living there. The walls were fake wood paneling. This house was a perfect backdrop for where bad things happen to small children.

We looked at another house that could have been nice if the people living there cared at all. The rugs were stained, the walls were painted dark colors and not done well at all. The husband (a-stay-at-home) is an artist, a jack of all trades. In the 15 minutes we were there, he told us he was a writer, a painter, a musician, a writer of poetry, a sculptor and the house reflected his focus in life.

We saw one house that had potential. It’s nearing foreclosure. Right now it’s in something called a short sale. If things work out the way the potential buyer wants, the house could be had for 100 grand less than what it’s worth. But it hinges on everything working out just so. The woman who currently owns the house has to write a letter stating why she’s unable to pay for the house; it’s basically a letter begging the bank to go easy on her. So, if a buyer is willing to pay a certain amount, the bank may agree to sell it and avoid foreclosure. But the woman living there has zero incentive to write the letter because her credit is already ruined. You see, she slept with the guy she and her husband hired to fix up the basement. Her husband found out and left her. The house was in her name because her husband’s credit was so bad at the time they bought the house. She’s a single mother and can’t afford it alone. Her credit is destroyed. She is renting. So, if we offered her some cash, I bet she’d write that letter but it’s all so messy and who knows if the bank will agree to a short sale. It’s a mess. It’s about as messy as this paragraph.

We’re discouraged. If the houses are nice, the schools are awful and/or the neighborhood borders a ghetto. When there’s a check cashing place and a liquor store equipped with shopping carts within 5 blocks of the neighborhood, I lose interest. If the houses are nice and the schools are good, the taxes are 11 thousand dollars a year. Tack on 500 extra tax dollars a month onto an already high mortgage and we’re suddenly unable to afford that neighborhood.

I’m not sure what we’re going to do. I guess we’ll keep looking. We’re opening up our scope a bit further to include Upstate New York as well as Connecticut. At the rate we’re going, we’ll end up in Eastern, PA (near the Quaker schools! yea!) and TobyJoe will have to commute two plus hours to and from work.

This is an example of my ideal house and terrain.

Too bad it’s in the middle of Virginia and the nearest job is almost two hours away.

Maybe I’m cynical. Maybe it’s my hyperthyroidism. Maybe I’m right. But I am not sure how the middle class can afford to live near New York City and send their children to a decent school at the same time. I have to be missing something. There must be something I’m missing.

Sometimes I realize that I write about something and then I never, ever come back to it. So, if you’ve been following along (poor thing), you may suddenly ask yourself, “Wonder what ever happened to that parking ticket?” Well, today’s post is going to put an end to some of those cliffhangers.

OUR LANDLORD WOES

I am happy to report that our landlord woes have come to an end. After a not so pleasant email correspondence (one with us in the right) we won. It ended with a sweet-as-can-be phone call. Here’s the short story. We agreed to a three month out two years ago. (We’ve been here for four years. We’re awesome tenants. I mean that.) The clause was written into our lease just incase we made an offer on a house. Well, this year, out of the blue, our landlord said they didn’t want to give us that option (but didn’t tell us they removed it) and that we’d either have to sign an year lease or get out. We don’t want to sign a year lease because this is going to be the year we buy a house. There was some back and forth, some really bad logic on their part (not wanting to find tenants more than once a year, and in the winter, which, unless Al Gore’s projections are right, will be the case always since our lease is up on December 4th.) We pointed out their bad logic. (This is getting too long.) Nutshell: We were right. They agreed to it. They told us we have been awesome and they simply don’t wish to lose us.

Good news all around. Plus, we’re going to be homeowners by this time next year or I’m going to move in with you.

MY UNFAIR PARKING TICKET

Remember this? I got a $65.00 parking ticket accusing me of a being a dealer selling our ‘75 Volvo. They were wrong. I was right. I contested the ticket. It’s been 3 months. On Friday of last week, I got a letter stating that the judge agreed with me. I do not have to pay the ticket. (I did have to pay the one I got while giving birth, however, for an expired registration even though I had it registered but failed to put the ticket on the windshield. Ah well.) So that’s taken care of. And the Volvo has since been donated to Autism Speaks of New York City. (I miss her.)

THE HOUSE HUNT

Looks like we’re going to settle in New Jersey. We’re looking at houses this Saturday. Yay! I can’t wait to have a yard, a hose, and a floor that touches the ground.

THYROID STUFF. ANOTHER AHA! MOMENT

(This is an oldie but a goodie!)

I wrote about my shins turning themselves inside out back in 2004. We were in San Francisco at the time. The itchy, bumpy mess has happened since then a few times, usually when I’m under a lot of stress or I’m depressed. It flared up even worse right after Emory was born. I complained about it nonstop to my mother and TobyJoe. Well, check this out. (From the Grave’s Disease page Mayo Clinic Web site.)

Graves’ dermopathy

An uncommon sign of Graves’ disease is reddening and swelling of the skin, often on your shins and on the top of your feet, called Graves’ dermopathy.

Have you ever seen Chasing Amy? Remember when Banky is at the bar with Holden and he has that moment of clarity when he realizes it’s actually a lesbian bar and that Holden’s new crush is batting for the other team? Well, that’s been what I’ve been doing the last couple of days. I’m going back in time and realizing that a lot of symptoms I have had could be related to Grave’s Disease (or high thyroid levels). I have asked four doctors through the years about the skin problem on my shins. (Most recently, I talked to my dermatologist about it, the same woman who discovered the basal cell carcinoma.) Not one doctor has suggested testing for Grave’s. I have complained about heart problems (mainly palpitations and my heart rate fluctuation) and not one of them has checked my thyroid levels. (I even had a stress test done in 2005 to check out my heart.)

Crazier? The doctor who finally did test my thyroid levels actually asked me, during our first ever meeting in 2005, if I have Grave’s disease because, “your eyes are kind of buggy.” (I wrote about that meeting here but for some reason I can’t find it. My mother left a comment reassuring me that my eyes were lovely. That’s all I remember.)

What I’m saying, Internet, is this diagnosis could possibly change everything for the better. I’m manic with the possibility that I might not have to continue living the way I’ve been living for so long, which is to say erratically unhappy and happy, confused, lonely, and sometimes filled with doom. I don’t use this site to write about the dark moments. I did during my postpartum, but even then I held back. I’m hard to live with. On Monday, whenever the doctor called to say my thyroid levels were high, a moment of clarity swept over me.

On Monday I realized that I’ve been at the lesbian bar all this time. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that.)

So, today I have a meeting with a endocrinologist. I am not sure what that entails, but I do hope he can make sense of all of this for me. Perhaps he can make me understand myself a little better. I’m not saying I do have Grave’s Disease, but something is askew and now I’ll get a chance to figure out what and why.

And maybe then I’ll learn how to feel normal again even though I’m not even sure what normal is.

THE WRAP UP

I suppose that’s it. If I’ve missed something, please let me know. If you’ve had some unanswered question, if I’ve left cliffhangers, let me know. I am not a fan of cliffhangers.

I understand why people move to New York. I moved here at age 27 because I always loved it. I decided to move to New York when I was a kid and my father took us to our first ever Yankee game. He drove us right through Harlem so he could teach us a lesson and show us just how good we had it. “Not everyone lives as comfortably as you do, kids.” In reality I think he was lost. I remember riding the subway convinced that I looked more like a New Yorker if I didn’t hold onto the bars. Only tourists need to hold onto the subway bars. I actually believed that. I believed that after living in New York for a while, you figured out how to ride the subways without having to hold on.

New York was where I wanted to live. Always.

I lived in Washington, DC before. Twice, even. I moved from State College to Washington, DC. Then, I moved back to State College, back to DC, to New York City, back to DC, to San Francisco and the back to New York. Writing that down sounds perfectly insane. But I can assure you that each move made sense. For example, the first time I moved to DC was for a job that wasn’t what I signed up for. I worked there for a little over a month before calling a quits. My apartment building was depressing and bug-ridden, and so I headed back to State College with my tail between my legs. (Back then, my life kind of looked like that Ben Fold’s Five song “Steven’s Last Night in Town.”)

But We thought he was gone
And now he's come back again
last week it was funny
now the jokes wearing thin
cuz everyone knows now
that every night now
will be Steven's last night in town

DC stuck the second time because my boyfriend at the time and I did it correctly; we lived in an apartment building in the city and one that wasn’t a housing project for those on house arrest.

Toby and I left New York because we were pretty messed up over what we saw on September 11th. I know that DC isn’t exactly off the radar where terrorist attacks are concerned, but it was a change of scenery for us and were therefore able to heal quicker.

Anyway, we’ve been here for three years and we’re at the point (again) where we want to leave (again). This time we’re going about it the right way, i.e.. slowly. And we’re talking about moving to Boston or New Jersey. We’ve even discussed moving to Providence with TobyJoe commuting to Boston every day. (Is that an insane idea?)

Truth be told, we’re looking for that perfect place to live. A place where we can raise Emory without running into too much trouble, whether it be something simple like subjecting him to incessant horrific language, or something a lot more serious like high pollution, or a murder rate every New Yorker tries to ignore. We want somewhere fairly safe. But we also want him to have the ability to grow up around art and culture. (I come from an art background. I really do put a lot of stock in the arts.) We want a backyard filled with fireflies not drunk and dying polish men. We want a garden fed with uncontaminated ground water as well as public transportation.

We’re readying ourself to move again. And we’re looking for the “Forgotten City”. The city on the East coast that isn’t riddled with murder or pollution. The city on the East coast with excellent public schools and affordable housing. We want to settle down and raise our son safely. Why does that seem so hard to do right now?

^{Part of NaBloPoMo (National Blog Posting Month), where one writes every day for the month of November, which is easier said than done.}