The Honeydew List vs. The Wine List

The theme of today’s blog also explains my week-long silence.  The Honeydew List.

I was first introduced to the idea of The Honeydew List while watching Friday Night Lights.  (Best show ever if you’ve never seen it.)  Remember that great moment when Coach runs into Jason Street at the local hardware store and they’ve both got a long list of shit their respective ladies have ordered them to do.  Coach calls it “The Honeydew List”.  As in, “Honey, do this.  Honey, do that.”  Get it?  “Honey-Do List.”  

As a new homeowner, I currently have the world’s longest Honeydew List.  Trouble is, I have no honey to do any of it.  So while today’s blog should be titled “The Honeydew List”, in the case of the single homeowner, another title feels more appropriate.  And so I bring you,

The Wine List 

As in, I whine that I have to do this all by myself.  And I whine that nobody will change that out-of-reach lightbulb for me.  

While the Honeydew List has nothing whatsoever to do with its melon namesake, my list has a deeper double meaning since it actually requires at least one (okay four) glasses of wine to get through it.

The dining room built in bookcase was the first major project on my Wine List.  Okay, so the word “major” might be a tad hyperbolic.  But the closest I've ever come to building furniture is screwing together something from Ikea Birkeland collection.  So just go with it.  

My house was built in 1988 and the bookcase was clearly part of the original work.  It harkened back to a time when hair was bigger, eyeliner was bluer, and plexiglass was a sexy idea in home furnishing.  Take a look…

I know.  Hideous right?  Not only is the plexiglass super ugly but it’s completely non-functional.  It barely supports the weight of a pea so how could I expect it to support my decorative vases?  Or my Martha Stewart book collection in the way that Martha deserves?  

So I took a trip to Home Depot.  The idea was to buy some wood and have them cut it to size for me.  I have to admit I felt pretty badass carrying my giant piece of wood through the store and confidently striding over to the professional saw area.  I leaned against my cart like Bob Vila himself and told the saw dude the dimensions I needed for “this little home improvement thing I was doing.”  Yeah.  I was awesome.  I was independent.  Who needs a Honey when you’re this much of a home improvement goddess?

But then I got my shelves home and tried to fit them into their slots.  Logic had told me that each shelf would be the same size.  But… well… Logic screwed me.  Turns out that every shelf is a slightly different size.  I still don’t quite understand why.  But starting at the top, each shelf gets progressively wider.  The bottom shelf is a full inch and half wider than the top.  And since I’d taken my measurement from the bottom, the higher shelves wouldn't even fit.  This is about the point that the whining started.  And so did the wine.  

But then genius struck.  Since I don't have a saw (and didn't feel like going back to Home Depot for the 20th time in two days) I decided to work with what I had.  Basically I just sanded the shizz out of each shelf until I'd successfully whittled it down to the proper size.

 

Perhaps not the most elegant solution, but the result is pretty awesome.  And when I got the little buggers painted and stepped back to admire my work… Well….  Remember that part in “Castaway” when Tom Hanks finally lights the fire.  He dances around the beach laughing and pointing.  “Look what I've created!  I have made FIRE. ”  That was basically me with the shelves.  

Look what I've created!  I have made shelves!

The moral of this story is that wine beats the crap out of honeydew.  Because I did this.  I made those shelves.  There was no man.  There was no honey.  This is all me, bitches.

-Sarah Watson

A Single Homeowner   

Still Single. Still White. And Now I'm Officially a Homeowner!

It's official.  I am a homeowner.  I have the keys, the garage door opener, and the crippling debt to prove it.  

As someone who has owned a home for approximately sixteen hours now, I feel that I can speak with authority when I tell you that the joy of homeownership is punctuated by moments of debilitating fear.  Part of this fear  is softened by insuring your investment.  And so I bring you my lesson on homeowners insurance.  

I learned a lot during the hour or so that I was on the phone with Carol, my friendly Traveler's Insurance Representative.  Mostly I learned that I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing.  

My conversation with Carol went a little something like this:

Carol the friendly Service Representative: "What kind of roof does your home have?"

Me: "Ummmm.....  It's really cute."

Carol: "I'm sure it is.  Wood shingle or tile perhaps?"

Me: "Yes.  Probably."

Carol: "That wasn't a yes/no question."

Me: "And you're sure 'really cute' doesn't provide you with enough information?"

Carol: *audible sigh* 

At this point I flipped through my home inspection report and found the answer.  And yes.  I felt like I complete tool that throughout the entire home buying process I'd never once thought to ask.  In my defense, I did know that the roof was still under warranty.  This has to count for something even if it was only because the selling agent told me like 47 times the first time I looked at the house.  Apparently normal, responsible people see this as a selling point.  

While Carol took down the information, I kept flipping through the inspection report, realizing how little I actually knew about my home.  MY home.  Holy crap.  It sunk in.  It was MINE.  The roof I didn't really know about.  Mine.  The hot water heater.  Mine.  The piping.  Mine all mine.  So when shit breaks, it's MY shit that's broken.  There's no landlord to call.  And if god forbid shit breaks in a catastrophic sense, a fire or a burst pipe, I'm totally screwed.  "Carol!", I cried out.  We have to insure this baby.  Now!  There's another audible sigh and Carol asks me a few things about the foundation.  I speed read the foundation section in my handy inspection report and vow to memorize every word of it.  Just as I'm learning the intricacies of my poured concrete foundation, Carol's next question stops me cold.   

Carol: "Do you plan on putting in an above ground trampoline?"

I put down the inspection report.

Me: "A trampoline....  I hadn't really considered it."

Carol: *Audible sigh*

Me: "Do I have to decide right now?"

Carol: "We can just assume 'no' for now."

Now all I can do is think about how completely bad ass it would be to own a trampoline.  

Carol: "Do you own pets?"

Me: "No.  No pets."  (I'm still thinking about where I'm going to put my trampoline.  The back patio is covered so that's out.  If I'm going to bounce, I don't want to be limited by a ceiling.  A girl's gotta be free to bounce as high as she wants.  It'll have to be the front yard then.  It would take up the whole area but it would be so worth it.  I'd be so much more than a homeowner.  I'd be a trampoline owner.)

Carol: "Do you plan on owning pets?"

Me: "Hmmmmm."  (Now I'm thinking about owning a dog.)

The dog idea consumes me.  I'm totally getting a dog.  A big one.  A lab maybe.  No.  A golden retriever.  I shall call him Balthazar.  Named for the restaurant in New York, not the nasty actor who got down with Jude Law's sloppy seconds.  But wait.  Will people think I've named my dog after the actor?  Will Balthazar get judged unfairly at the dog park?  Maybe I should go with something more traditional.  Doc.  Ooh.  That's a good one.  Like Doc Brown.  Doctor would be his full name.  Now I'm amused thinking about taking Doc to the vet.  With my last name he would be Doctor Watson.  Doc will be a playful sort of fellow.  I will come home from work and Doc will run out to greet me.  Together we will jump on my completely bad ass trampoline.

Carol: "Are you still there?"

So maybe I'm not the most detail oriented homeowner.  But Carol got me through it.  And it was an important lesson to realize how much I don't know.  I've carved out some time this weekend that'll be for just me and my house.  I'll walk through it with my inspection report and go through every nook and cranny.  I will figure out where my hot water heater is and teach myself how to shut off my gas.  Fear not, Doc.  By the time I bring you home, I will know everything I need to know to keep you safe.  

-Sarah Watson

A Single Homeowner  

 

In which I ask, WWMD?

What Would Martha Do?

I love Martha Stewart and I don't care who knows it.  I'll shout it from the hilltops.  I love her.  I love her the way Julie loves Julia.  It's the way her apron always matches her melamine nesting bowls.  It's her "elegant yet inviting" table settings and her "festive yet delicious" holiday treats.  I will never be Martha Stewart.  But gosh dammit, I'm gonna try.

So when I find myself in times of cooking or entertaining distress, I like to ask myself:

WWMD?  What Would Martha Do?

I've thought a lot about Martha during this escrow process.  I remember a couple years ago when I decided to make her festive yet delicious holiday fortune cookies for a New Years party.  It took almost seven hours and I suffered 2nd degree burns on most of my fingers, but gosh damn were those cookies cute.  So far the road to homeownership has been a similarly painful journey.  But if anyone could guide me through it, it's my patron domestic saint.  Martha is more than just a baker.  More than a mere business woman.  Ladies and gentleman, Martha Stewart is a bitch.

Let's focus on that last part while I tell you about my final days of escrow.  Tuesday was supposed to be the close of escrow.  But before that happens you have to do something called a final walk through.  It's pretty much exactly what it sounds like.  You walk through the house and make sure everything is in acceptable condition.  Here's what you're looking for according to some bullet points I purloined from a first time home buyer website:

• The condition of the property has not substantially changed since you agreed to buy it
• All required repairs have been satisfactorily completed or are in the process of being done
• The items that the seller agreed to leave have not been removed
• All items that the seller agreed to remove are gone

It's a step that has to be done prior to funding.  So pretty much if it doesn't happen, escrow doesn't close.  My walk through was scheduled for Friday.  Then it moved to Saturday.  Then back to Friday again.  Then Monday.  Then Tuesday.  Then back to Monday again.  There were a myriad of excuses for the delay.  The sellers had the stomach flu... the selling agent had bronchitis... the house was still not in a condition the sellers felt was acceptable for viewing.  I honestly didn't really care about the delays all that much.  It was only slightly annoying because the sellers have had their metaphorical panties in a metaphorical wad about closing on time.  But whatever.  Escrow is stressful for everybody.  I get it.  My metaphorical panties were pretty wadded up too.  So we set it in stone for Monday.  And I showed up.

And the house was a disaster.

Gaping holes in the wall where the TVs had been mounted, more holes where the child safety gates had been.  Visible hooks and nails were poking out of almost every wall.  One of the items the seller had agreed to leave was missing.  And the ugly ass metal rack in the kitchen that was supposed to be removed was still hanging there.  In spite of all this, the selling agent smiled real big and told me where to sign and legally declare that everything looked great.  She was actually a little aggressive about it.  All the work would be done, she promised.  The missing item would be returned.  And I was being silly and a total pill for raising a fuss.  There was a lot of pressure.  There was a lot at stake.  And my hesitancy was clearly exhausting her.  So then I thought... What Would Martha Do?

The correct answer is: Martha would be a bitch.

And unfortunately that's exactly what I had to do.  I was polite (well, sort of polite).  But firm.  I would sign the paper when -- and only when -- the work was completed and the house was in acceptable condition.  

The day only got worse after that.  Frankly I'm too emotionally exhausted to explain the story of how a very small communication snafu between my lender and my escrow company resulted in me getting wiring instructions that were off by more than 150,000 dollars.  You read that correctly.  150,000 FUCKING DOLLARS!!  (I'm sorry.  I told myself I wouldn't say the F word in this blog.  Especially not in all caps.  But cut me some slack.  We're talking about a lot of money.)  But it got fixed.  I made the calls.  I went over the numbers.  And I handled it all as a single woman.  And I didn't even cry.  Well, maybe a little bit.  I'm not Martha after all.

Monday, despite being the hardest day of escrow so far, ended on a positive note.  When I finally got back to my apartment, the Crate and Barrel pillows that I ordered for the new house had arrived.  And let me tell you, they are adorable yet functional.  I think Martha would be pleased.

-Sarah Watson
A Single Woman

Seriously. How cute are these? These are Martha's but mine turned out equally as festive yet delicious.

"Sarah Watson, a single woman."

Let it be legally disclosed that a single woman dares buy a home.

If you could read the fine print, you'd see the highlighted section reads as follows: "Buyer's vesting is hereby amended to read as follows: Sarah Watson, a single woman."

Frankly I don't like the judgmental tone.  I know I'm single.  It's bad enough that I get crap from my married friends.  I don't need my escrow company getting in on the action.  But this obnoxious bit of legalese got me thinking.  Actually, truth be told, it got me hyperventilating.  Can I really do this alone?  Mortgage payments, utilities, even the simple prospect of having to change out a lighting fixture has me freaking out.  Ordinarily when my house freakouts strike, I pour a glass of wine, turn on HGTV and take solace in the cool comfort that I'm not alone.  Everyone panics their first time around.  At least they do on "House Hunters", "House Hunters International", and "Property Virgins" (my three HGTV faves).  But after a few hours of watching televised property meltdowns I couldn't help but notice that the featured female home buyers all had one very special thing in common.  

Those bitches have husbands. 

Maybe it's just that couples make for better TV.  I'm sure that a scene of me alone and fetal on the floor clutching my escrow paperwork in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other doesn't pack quite the same punch as a good old fashioned husband/wife fight.  But I can't be the only single lady undertaking this terrifying endeavor alone.  Right?

Right?

Hello?

Is this thing on?

And so I bring you this blog.  I've never blogged before.  I might suck at it.  I also might suck at owning a home.  I guess we'll find out.

Despite the unavoidable "Sinlge Ladies" empowerment message, I promise to quote Beyonce as little as humanly possible.  Although in the interest of full disclosure I should admit that I will probably be humming that freakishly poignant yet otherwise annoying "Independent Woman" song of hers when I finally get the keys and carry my own ass across the threshold.

I close escrow on Tuesday.  So stay tuned...

-Sarah Watson

A Single Woman