My son came to me after a long weekend of open house events here. For two days, we’ve wandered from our house to dad’s house to Guy’s house, to Grandma’s and to the baseball field to kill time while people scrutinize our house for imperfections that might leverage a lowball offer. I hate these weekends, because it’s necessary remove any sort of evidence that people live here. Better to look like a Hilton when selling a home, right? *eyeroll*
“Mom, have you seen my DS? I left it on my dresser.”
“Nope, I think I’d remember that.”
“You sure you didn’t put it somewhere? And did you ever find that game I was asking about the other day?”
“Hon, have you ever looked at your bedroom today and compared it to your bedroom of the last eleven years? There were PILES OF CRAP EVERYWHERE that had to be sorted and moved so that we could make it look nice. When we move and unpack boxes, you’ll get to look for it, but I’m not opening boxes in the POD to search for something that MIGHT be in a box out there. When did you last see it, anyway?”
“Two years ago.”
Good Christ Jemimy on a syrup bottle.
“Two years?”
“Yeah, maybe we should think about buying a new one.”
“Maybe not.”
“Why?’
“Look, we have to clean up this place for two days a week. We need to put the important things—”
“But do you think the Realtors moved it?”
My voice went up a notch. “Babe, you’re going to have to learn how to let me finish a sentence if you want to hear an answer.”
“I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”
“I was just trying to say that there is no way the Realtors moved it, and that I wouldn’t have just put it somewhere else, I would have handed it to you and asked you to put it in your backpack or something. And if you’d waited for me to finish, you’d have heard that sooner.”
He looked ready to cry.
“Hon, look at me. Why are you so upset?”
“Because I’m afraid of what might happen.”
“What? Are you afraid of me?”
He didn’t answer.
“Have I ever hurt you or given you a reason to be afraid of me?”
“No.”
“Then I don’t understand. What have I done to you?”
“It’s not what you’ve done to me, it’s what you’ve done to yourself.”
My heart stopped.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re just so stressed out lately I’m afraid of what might happen if things don’t get better soon. I’m afraid you’ll explode or something.”
Oh. My. God.
“Baby, I’m not going to explode. I lose my temper sometimes, and I’m sorry about that. I’m not going to fall apart, I promise. We’re all safe. We are going to be just fine, okay, baby?”
“Okay.”
“Oh, hon, I’m so sorry you’re thinking things like that. It’s too much for a child, you’re not supposed to worry about taking care of your parents. I’m sorry. We’re fine. Okay?”
“Okay.”
I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Man. I’m sorry.
This is just a portion of an article by Paul Craig Roberts, former university professor, Wall Street Journal editor, and assistant secretary of the U.S. Treasury. His latest book, How the Economy Was Lost: The War of the Worlds
My heart sank with every paragraph, as each point was identified, explained, and sank in. It’s like having a game of charades replaced by a set of progressively more informative bullet points with snapshots from your families’ lives appended.
I would love to poke holes in it and identify it as political propaganda, but I have seen, first-hand, too much of what’s described unfold. This is so much worse than accepting the previous, prevalent belief that we would never be able attain our parents’ generation’s standard of living.
Doomed by the Myths of Free Trade
How the Economy was LostBy PAUL CRAIG ROBERTS
The American economy has gone away. It is not coming back until free trade myths are buried six feet under.
...The demise of America’s productive economy left the US economy dependent on finance, in which the US remained dominant because the dollar is the reserve currency. With the departure of factories, finance went in new directions. Mortgages, which were once held in the portfolios of the issuer, were securitized. Individual mortgage debts were combined into a “security.” The next step was to strip out the interest payments to the mortgages and sell them as derivatives, thus creating a third debt instrument based on the original mortgages.
In pursuit of ever more profits, financial institutions began betting on the success and failure of various debt instruments and by implication on firms. They bought and sold collateral debt swaps. A buyer pays a premium to a seller for a swap to guarantee an asset’s value. If an asset “insured” by a swap falls in value, the seller of the swap is supposed to make the owner of the swap whole. The purchaser of a swap is not required to own the asset in order to contract for a guarantee of its value. Therefore, as many people could purchase as many swaps as they wished on the same asset. Thus, the total value of the swaps greatly exceeds the value of the assets.*
The next step is for holders of the swaps to short the asset in order to drive down its value and collect the guarantee. As the issuers of swaps were not required to reserve against them, and as there is no limit to the number of swaps, the payouts could easily exceed the net worth of the issuer.
This was the most shameful and most mindless form of speculation. Gamblers were betting hands that they could not cover. The US regulators fled their posts. The American financial institutions abandoned all integrity. As a consequence, American financial institutions and rating agencies are trusted nowhere on earth.
The US government should never have used billions of taxpayers’ dollars to pay off swap bets as it did when it bailed out the insurance company AIG. This was a stunning waste of a vast sum of money. The federal government should declare all swap agreements to be fraudulent contracts, except for a single swap held by the owner of the asset. Simply wiping out these fraudulent contracts would remove the bulk of the vast overhang of “troubled” assets that threaten financial markets.
The billions of taxpayers’ dollars spent buying up subprime derivatives were also wasted. The government did not need to spend one dime. All government needed to do was to suspend the mark-to-market rule. This simple act would have removed the solvency threat to financial institutions by allowing them to keep the derivatives at book value until financial institutions could ascertain their true values and write them down over time.
Taxpayers, equity owners, and the credit standing of the US government are being ruined by financial shysters who are manipulating to their own advantage the government’s commitment to mark-to-market and to the “sanctity of contracts.” Multi-trillion dollar “bailouts” and bank nationalization are the result of the government’s inability to respond intelligently.
Two more simple acts would have completed the rescue without costing the taxpayers one dollar: an announcement from the Federal Reserve that it will be lender of last resort to all depository institutions including money market funds, and an announcement reinstating the uptick rule.
The uptick rule was suspended or repealed a couple of years ago in order to permit hedge funds and shyster speculators to rip-off American equity owners. The rule prevented short-selling any stock that did not move up in price during the previous day. In other words, speculators could not make money at others’ expense by ganging up on a stock and short-selling it day after day.
As a former Treasury official, I am amazed that the US government, in the midst of the worst financial crises ever, is content for short-selling to drive down the asset prices that the government is trying to support. No bailout or stimulus plan has any hope until the uptick rule is reinstated…
I wasn’t going to write about this because it’s just gross, but it’s starting to sound a little funny, and we’re kicked out of the house for three hours while the open house is going on. We’re at my ex’s house. Hannah Montana is on in one room, and Mario in the other. I’m hunkered in a corner waiting it all out.
So, police tape. I SO WANTED to block off half my house today to keep anyone from wandering back there because I thought there was no way I could make it livable again.
You see, at around two a.m. I heard a child get up and use my bathroom. Yes the other one is still not functional. Shut up. About ten minutes later, I heard sounds in the other bathroom and got worried. There shouldn’t be anything going on in there except baths, and that was NOT water running.
I know I exaggerate for humor but I swear to all that is good and crunchy I am not stretching one syllable. There was no way to get down the hall or into the bathroom without stepping in it. It was UNBELIEVABLE. Just like those cartoons where someone leans in to coo at a baby and the baby fire-hoses him with spit-up. There was a lot of effort going into controlling the fire hose, but it looked like a child actually holding a fire hose and being whipped around by the force.
By the time I skated in there, there was no place to focus other than the little two-gallon metal trash container, and it wasn’t going to hold much more. I just didn’t know what to do or how I was going to get out of there and across the valuable Gabbeh runner between the kitchen and me. No matter. First order of business: wait it out and then deposit child into hot, sudsy bath. When I was sure it was in remission, I stuck my feet one by one into the tub and tiptoed along the tops of the baseboards until I was out of the swamp.
Ok. paper towels, new roll. Tilex. Swiffer mop. Bucket. Oil soap. HazMat suit.
Good gravy, I’ve cleaned up some messes but this was—I know I’ve said this—UNBELIEVABLE. And I couldn’t mutter or swear or I’d further offend my already mortified child.
One hour later—ONE HOUR—I’d cleaned that bathroom like I’ve never cleaned anything before. Walls, baseboards, tiles, grout, you name it. I finally fished my baby out of the tub and into bed. Then I went back for one more sweep.
This morning, It looked and smelled great! Yipee! I win! But wait… something… crap there was still something somewhere. I just couldn’t figure out where.
And then I decided to re-enact it. I went into the bedroom and closed the door. Bingo. The first obstacle. It was ALL OVER the inside of the door. I’m guessing that was the first barrier. Then there was the turn into the bathroom, slipping in the mess, then the closed toilet, then the spin around to hit the 2-gallon decorative waste can. That’s when I walked (slid) in. Mystery solved.
And just enough time to set it right before we left and let the realtors do their thing.
Bad Mood DudeI think people who are going to work intimately with me on long-term projects should remember what I do for a living, and know that I try very hard never to stray from the high road.
But they should keep it in mind.
White fucking chenille couch and shag carpet that my kids have to stay off of for the couple of months we’re selling the house, my ass. Oh, and you’re bringing in photo prints so I should take down the Chagalls? Okey doke.
I’m up again at the crack of six to start the day, hauled ten bins to the POD, swept up an orchid I kicked across the room last night in sheer frustration and exhaustion, and started making coffee.
I’m doing that thousand-yard stare out the window over the sink when this… clown…car? Pulls up in front of the house. Huh, could be lost. No, they are looking right at me, with the water running over the top of the coffee pot in my disbelief. I opened to door because, really, I needed to hear this.
“We’re here to take measurements for the termite company.” He was actually carrying a measuring wheel, so I shrugged and said have at it, and then went back to have another look at the car. It was a mini-compact-wee-car with brightly appliqued side advertising for—I kid you not—Animal petting for parties, a logo for Kiddieworld, and another I didn’t catch before they drove off, but I sure hope it had something to do with termites because that would be the all-time champion side-of-the-car business sticker. I did notice the slogan: “Three businesses to serve your needs!” Well, I now need a drink. Does that thing have a tap of Jaeger in the dash?
Now that I’ve delivered that last up-to-the-ceiling carload of stuff to my cousin, including a life-sized black Spidey-doll and a 40 of Malt Liquor, there are only a few things left that I’ve been storing for people. Mr. X needs to pick up his bike, battery jumper, some art, and a suede jacket I was sorely tempted to “forget” was his. It’s very nice. Trouble is, he’s thrown his back out and my bloody, battered hands can barely close to carry things (and you should see how much correcting I’m doing as I type along) so we have a Mexican standoff. Either he’s got to come get everything or I’m going to have to load up my car again and take it to him.
And I got an email from the Realtor this morning asking if I was ready for our exciting! Week! Ahead! Depending on the definition of “ready” I have sterilized the children’s rooms and most of mine, the other rooms just need a final bulldoze—I was literally using my forearm to sweep things off surfaces into huge rubber bins last night—so we can stage the furniture. I’m beginning to wonder how we’re going to live here. I mean, we still live here, am I right? Only, now it doesn’t feel like it and I’m tempted to go rent another place before this one sells so we can relax. And yes, I’m aware of the added expense, but as long as I have to tent the house and tear out the entire Master Bath, there’s not much point in staying, is there?
So. Checklist. Today: housing inspector and staging. Tuesday: In-house Realtor tour. Wednesday: virtual tour photographer from Sacramento. Thursday and Friday I contemplate my navel. Saturday and Sunday: open house. The following Wednesday: All-out Realtor tour. Must remember to move smelly shoe bin to garage. And sweep up in there.
There had better be a good lump of cash at the end of all this, because I will need it for meds and recovery. And massages. And you know, maybe I should just take everyone away for the summer and rent a vacation house for a couple months until we can come back fresh. And then someone will just give us a new house out of the kindness of their hearts and maybe the rest of my family might even want to know where we’ll be living. Haven’t heard from anyone outside my mom and stepdad about the move, I dunno, maybe it’s not as big a deal as it seems. Or maybe I’m feeling petulant. Probably the latter.
Coffee!
Bad Mood DudeThat’s essentially what the termite inspector said today. Just a teensy bit of fumigation needed, but my shower leaks and, well, some other things, and have to gut the entire bathroom. Whee! I cannot wait for the home inspection on Monday.
In other news, it sure is echoey and cold in here since I took everything off the walls and emptied a lot of square footage.
Bad Mood Dude
In my packing zeal, I boxed up my 2009 tax paperwork. FAIL.
The goddamn fucking gate has been off the fence all this time and someone just stole my gas BBQ. It was here before I left for mom’s birthday dinner last night.
All I needed was to get the stupid thing back on the post. People offered to help but I didn’t stand there with a whip and it didn’t happen. I literally cannot lift it myself. And now the 16-foot storage POD will be here within the hour, along with Dylan and Daphne, who are sick. My ex is bringing them here so he can have phone calls.
And one of my children just received one of the worst behavior reports ever and I HAD NO IDEA. Why did no one talk with us about this before sending it home, so we could fix it?
It’s just raining kittens and ice cream here.
At least I will have time to myself to finish clearing out personal stuff so the Realtor can show the place ASAP. The kids will spending their winter break in Tahoe with their father and my parents this Saturday through Wednesday, so I got that going for me, which is nice.
I’ve just been on the phone for an hour with Anthem. Six months ago, I applied for a policy with a request for HIPAA coverage if they denied my application (I knew they would, and they did). I waited for the notice that I’d been accepted under HIPAA. I knew it would take a few months. This has happened before.
Backstory: twice now, the company that carried my COBRA went out of business, taking my coverage with it. Instantaneously stripped of health insurance coverage.
Single mom of three, sole support.
I checked in periodically until last week when I finally got someone to admit that they had made a mistake. You see, they insisted that I had not checked the box for HIPAA, but I had. They finally admitted the mistake, awarded me coverage backdated six months to the last date of COBRA, and then promptly demanded that I pay all six months of premiums in 30 days or risk cancellation of the policy that had been awarded not ten minutes earlier.
“We’re sorry, we made a mistake, we’re correcting it, and you owe us $3,014.00 in thirty days. Or we’ll cancel the policy we should have awarded you months ago.”
Irony: my monthly medical expenses have averaged roughly the same as my monthly premium. I would MUCH rather have been paying Anthem directly.
So I went on a campaign. For the first twenty minutes they insisted that I pay all six months or suffer consequences.
So I went over heads. One supervisor later, they’d agreed to allow a partial payment of two months, about $1,000.00.
Two supervisors later, I’d gotten them down to one month, or $504.00. BUT! I must pay the remaining five months in the next billing cycle, which I assume will have one more premium accrued, so—wait for it— I’ll be facing that 6-month bill again for $3.014.00.
Christ in a breakfast nook holding a bagel in one hand and a newspaper in the other.
I had to get aggressive to get them to admit they were at fault, and then was shut out. I tried to go to legal, they would not allow it. A supervisor said, “This is not for Legal, this is our fault.” That is why they made an exception and allowed me to pay just one month within 30 days.
And they will not provide a way to expedite reimbursements for pharmacy and medical office charges. She’s sending me an email with a claims form.
God Bless America.
UPDATE: As of today, Tuesday, February 9, 2010, I have still not received the emailed forms. Looks like I will have to call in again for another go-round.
Why? I have genu-ine, govenrment-issued, portable health insurance!
I’ve been having conversations with Anthem about why they did not forward my app for HIPPA consideration after declining it last August. After repeated inquiries, they now claim I did not ask to be considered for HIPPA if denied, but the app in my hand says I did. So, I did what I do best and went up the ladder to get a decision.
The decision? “Oops. My bad.”
So, within five minutes it is announced that I have coverage, and that I owe them, immediately, five months of premiums of $502 per month. Did I say I have to pay it immediately or they will cancel the insurance? I have thirty days.
I spoke very slowly to the lady on the other end of the phone, “That’s a tall order, paying in thirty days. Do you see the irony here? I have been spending five hundred a month on medications when I could have been spending it on insurance. That is why I may have trouble paying back premiums within thirty days. Do you understand that?”
She did. She even sounded sorry about it. She thanked me for calling and told me to have a nice day. Guess I’ll be looking forward to the paperwork.
I IM’d Guy about it.
Me: [whole revolting story]
Him: So if you owe the back premiums they should cover bills, so it should wash. You can get your money back.
Me: Sure, after I kill the leprechaun and exchange the pot of gold at the bank.
Him: Ok, so we have a cash flow issue.
Me: I have it handled.
Him: Really, don’t sound so convincing. Want me to butt out?
Me: I want to go back to bed and think about it.
Him: Want to let me in on the plan?
Me: There is no plan, Guy. I have to think. I just heard about this myself.
Him: Okay.
So! If you’re about to write to me about some incredibly exciting new product or promotion, DON’T.
So. Christmas party tonight. Meeting Guy’s boss and co-workers for the first time. All I have to do is show up sober, look nice, and make small talk, am I right?
Well, there’s a bit of time to kill and a few things need doing around here before I go, so I get cracking.
First, the TV. Our TV is twelve years old, has three inches of dust on it, and weighs a metric ton. Also, it doesn’t work. As in, you get a one-in-five chance of it actually turning on, and even then you might get the picture shmushed down to a five-inch bar for an indeterminate amount of time. Annoying. It was decided last month that the family gift to our home from Guy and me would be a new TV. Cheap as all get-out, must have been mislabeled at Costco. We didn’t ask questions, we just grabbed it and drove off.
Here’s the catch: in order to use a new TV, you have to get rid of the old one. I know. Pissed me off.
I figure I can do this.
Turning that thing around on the turntable was like waltzing with a phone booth, but I had to disconnect everything so that it didn’t fly out of my arms when I tried to lift it out of the cabinet. How many freaking cables can be plugged into one goddamned TV? HOW MANY? After forty minutes I was reasonably sure that nothing was still connected—whether or not I’d destroyed any of the cables such that no TV could ever be used there again is yet to be determined. Satisfied with my work, I lifted the 32” behemoth off the tray.
Have you ever tried to give the Heimlich to Refrigerator Perry? No? How about moving a cow out from in front of your car by wrapping your arms around its middle? Or, better yet, carrying a mailbox ten feet in a room with only eight feet to maneuver. That’s kinda what it was like. I heaved once, staggered, and fell back onto the couch where the front-heavy screen smashed into my cheek bone.
I know one thing for sure: I do not want to show up at Guy’s company Christmas party to meet his boss for the first time, sporting a shiner.
Anyway. I don’t know how, but I got the TV back onto the floor and decided to wait for someone with a Y chromosome and advanced cable and TV expertise to wander by.
Time to get out of the heavy stuff and figure out what to wear. Simple. Red sweater, jeans, and look at that, I’d forgotten all about these…I think I’ll wear Great-Grandma’s diamond drop earrings. They definitely do not see the light of day more than once a decade.
They’re a little dingy.
Think I’ll clean them.
So I did.
And then rinsed them over the bathroom sink.
And dropped one into the drain. Fuck a duck and the flock he flew in with.
No problem, that’s what P-traps are for, right, people? I’ll just unscrew that puppy, pluck out Great-Grandma’s earring, and pop it back in.
Trouble was, I could only get one half of the P-trap to unscrew. Luckily, it swung out and I could reach inside. Nothing. I took apart the drain stopper assembly so I could look from the sink. Holy Mother of God you would not believe what was in that thing. Let’s just say I’m glad I was able to kill it and flush it before the kids got home. (Did I mention that we are going on Month Two of an inoperable toilet? It has a leak that won’t stop—I’ve tried five different flappers and had scads of advice but it won’t stop leaking, and my water bills are through the roof. So I turned off the water and made the kids use my bathroom all this time. Which they love.)
Now I couldn’t see what was down there. And I don’t own a flashlight, because I am too stupid to be a homeowner. But! I have a USB nightlight! I scrounged it up, plugged it into my netbook, booted it, and propped it against the wall behind the faucet so I could point the light down the drain. Which was blocked by the faucet. So I turned it to the side. Have to tighten that later. Once I could see, I realized that the trap was still full of water. Duh.
I’ll just drain it out with a turkey baster! Yeah! Where is that thing? Only two utensil drawers in the kitchen… has to be here somewhere… what kind of a mother doesn’t have a turkey baster handy?? ARGH!
Wait. I’ve siphoned gasoline out of a car’s tank before, right? All I need is a flexible tube. Bingo. One of the boys’ sports bottles has a long, bendy straw. Perfect. I carried that into the bathroom with a bowl, stuck the straw in, and gave the other end a little suck—just enough to get it flowing but not enough to actually have to taste anything. See? It pays to grow up in Chicago where you learn these important skills.
Water’s gone, I can see straight down, and now the only problem is that there is a blind spot right in the middle of the bend. Of fucking course there is.
So I finally gave in and started to unscrew one more piece of the pipe, toward the sink—which suddenly broke off into my hands. Whoops. But there was Grandma’s earring. Which was all that mattered, right?
I shoved that thing back in as best I could, reattached the P-trap, reassembled the drain thingy, turned on the water and tested it. HULL BREACH. That’s enough of that! Leakage! *squeak squeak* I turned off the water to the sink.
Poor little sink with the water turned off, next to the poor little toilet with the water turned off. Poor little me with just enough MacGyver in me to take things apart and jerry-rig a solution but not enough skill to put it all back together properly. Poor little sore and bleeding hands. Poor little strained wrists, to go with my strained neck and back. Poor Guy, who I hope will not have to endure funny looks if my cheek starts to bruise.
Now, if you’ll pardon me, I am going to retire to my bed for a wee nap. I was up for four hours in the night because my body thought it was still time to party in Thailand.
Three hours later: Oh, the irony. The mailman just brought me a water termination notice for nonpayment. I don’t fucking believe it.
Bad Mood DudeI mean, really. For fuck’s sake.
Annual New York’s Hottest Mom Contest For Cougars Over 35 and Kittens Under in Times Square Is your Mom the next Angelina Jolie, Kate Hudson or Madonna in NYC
————————————————————————————————————————————————————————————
The Hawaiian Tropic Pageant might get a new twist as some of the hottest moms in the planet will walk down the zones runway to compete for the Hottest Moms Contest which is sponsored by Radio Station Q-104. There will be a cougars category awarded for moms over 35 and a Kittens for those sexy moms that are under. Hundreds are expected to attend and judge the annual mom-fest which will bring together some of New York City’s finest looking mothers. The Hottest Mom Beauty Pageant will kick off on Thursday October 29, 2009 -7pm on Times Square at 729 7th Avenue in Manhattan.****Media can schedule the hot moms on their morning show or features in advance
Yeah, ok. I’ll get right on that.
*delete*
If I have to drive over to my ex’s house one more time for a math book or blanket or shoe I will flay myself alive with an ice cream scooper.
I chatted with my mom while I was waiting at the curb today and eventually noticed that the kids were lounging around the yard, not collecting belongings.
“What are you doing? Do you have everything you need?”
“Yeah, we were just giving you some talking time.”
I wiped my hand from my forehead to my chin. “Please get in the car and let’s go, or I swear I will beat you blue…”
“What about black?”
“Oh, that will come later, but first cyanosis sets in… the blue once the oxygen is depleted… WHY AM I EXPLAINING THIS? Get in the car!”
Later, in the house, the humming of the Sonic theme song continued, the chatter about dance routines, and “yo mama” jokes went on and on until I could not stand it. “Children, please, I really don’t want to hurt any of you. You know, that used to be less of an empty threat just a century ago.”
“Mom, are you crazy? If we still lived in times when you could get away with beating me senseless, do you really think I’d be this annoying?”
I’m floored with another! fifth disease! flare-up! and all three of the kids are home sick with various and sundry illnesses. Gooooooo Roberts! I actually took one to school, only to have him call from the office at ten past nine for me to come back and pick him up. Me? Oh, well, let’s see: arms and legs in agony, extremely tired, swollen feet and ankles, fuzzy cognition (shut up). When I put it all together this morning I suddenly realized why my abdomen has been hurting for three days. It’s just been a while since the last flare-up, and eight months since the first. Yep, nothing like childhood diseases in an over-forty body. Comedy gold!
More evidence of impaired cognition and ability to function: I just realized that FOUR Momversation videos have posted since I last updated my episodes, and they are good ones. Some funny, some not so much. And the one I’m to record today on overcoming depression should be an all-out scream fest. What happens when you don’t feel up to talking about depression? Do you just stare into the camera? Put on The Cure in the background?
Did You Take Your Husband’s Name?
Kids and Gun Play: Good or Bad?
Funny Wedding Day Stories (I’m in this one. Oh, yes, I am.)
Dealing with a Miscarriage (Didn’t appear in this one but am all over the subject in the comments.)
Talking to Your Kids About Race (Today’s episode.)
If you need me, I’ll be… not answering email. You might catch me by phone, because the ringing drives me up a wall. Carry on.
Him: I’m having one of those “fuck it” days.
Me: Tell me about it. I live in a house where the windows are about four feet off the ground with lavender bushes outside to break my fall.
Arrrgh, I just woke up from a dream in which all my problems were solved. There was a condo complex right in my neighborhood I never knew about, and I could move us into a two-bedroom place so cheap that I would have about a $500 mortgage. And? They had a plan that would let me upgrade—moving completely complimentary, on them—to a bigger place once we could afford it.
Affordable housing, in the same school district, with security to move again when ready. And a mortgage I could pay with my eyes closed and two feet tied behind my back.
Cruel irony, thy name is dreamland.
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