Adventures in House Hunting

The sun is shining today. It's chilly out there and the threat of rain looms but it's still a day, struggling to start brightly.

I know how it feels. Once again, I got to bed far too late last night and had to get up far too soon. I'm currently devouring my rather large cup of coffee which I actually made at home with my nifty little French press. That thing makes tasty coffee and it's way easier even than a regular coffee maker. It's a bit messy to clean but it's well worth it. It means I can bypass the office coffee for a day which, while no longer vile, is still just office coffee.

I did go look at houses last night. Naturally, I did the one thing I'm not supposed to do. I loved the first one I saw. Granted, we looked at four and the other three were definitely not to my tastes but that first one...well, I could live there. Don't worry, I'm going to keep looking but it's definitely on my radar.

Looking at houses is fascinating. The first one had just been redone and you could tell that the owners had put time and into effort into making their house sellable. They had put in new appliances, painted and cleaned. It looked liked they wanted someone to buy their house. I wanted to buy their house. Then we looked at two others, priced similarly to the first. What a contrast. The second one felt wrong when I went in. It had old carpet, no longer lying flat but easily trip-able. The basement was dark and gloomy and though there was an interesting '70's style padded bar and seats, the newly installed wall paneling had already buckled and I knew it was hiding something bad. It just felt like an antique store that sold nothing but junk, no treasures thrown in to keep it interesting.

The third house was a bachelor pad. The owner was asking the same price as for the first house I had seen. This was also a contrast. The carpets were thick, shaglike. They were dirty. As mean as it sounds, it smelled like a bachelor pad. The bathrooms were sparse and the corners were dirty. The kitchen had potatoes that were actually growing leaves because they had been left for so long. It was just...dirty.

It was an eye-opening experience. People think very highly of their houses and ask a lot of money. It amazes me that the first house was clean, airy, the fridge, oven and dishwasher still with their factory manuals taped to them, they were so new. For the same price, the third house had an oven that looked like it belonged in a bomb shelter from the 1970's, the yellowed plastic and manual clock frozen in their attempts to blend in to the 21st century. Both the good house and the other two were within three blocks of each other so there's not even much room to rationalize that the vastly different quality but the similar prices were about location.

I'm lucky. My realtor is fantastic. She's thourough. She's blunt. She's not afraid to point out flaws and tell me what to look for. She also refuses to allow me to fall madly in love with one place but wants me to keep looking and if that first place is still appealing after a lot more looking, then it can be a possibility.

I did look at another place but though the door was supposed to be unlocked, it wasn't and the best we could do is look in the windows. That was enough for me. The driveway was almost vertical up a hill. As a wary winter driver, I'm not about to think about trying to get my little Corolla up a hill that would be tough, even in summer. So, that was an automatic no.

House hunting is fun. Each place offers the chance for me to picture myself living there, to picture where I'd write, the ways I can decorate to make it my own. I am in the best situation possible to buy a home: I rent so I don't have to sell a home before I can buy a new one, the market is a buyer's market, the interest rates low enough that even I on my meager salary can consider buying instead of renting and I'm willing to compromise. The possibilities are endless and I'm no longer terrified of the possibility but excited.

I finally rolled into my apartment around 10 p.m. last night. Being Monday, I had my weekly calls from the Derron-lady on my answering machine. Since that first night, I've realized her urgent need to talk to Derron is limited to Mondays. I feel for her because she clearly can't comprehend that when my answering machine says, "Hello, you've reached [Captain Monkeypants]", it's not really code for "Derron is really here but he's hiding from you." Personally, I'd rather like to take Derron aside and give him a good talking-to. Clearly, he's either not calling this lady back or he keeps giving her the wrong number which happens to be MY number. She doesn't believe me when I tell her it's not Derron's number. She doesn't believe my answering machine. Short of changing my number or unplugging the phone, there's little I can do. It's just another incentive to move, I suppose.

Happy Tuesday!

I am not Derron in Disguise...I Promise!

Happy Monday. True to form, it's a gloomy, cold day with a chance of snow. In fact, it was snowing a little when I came in this morning. I know that if it actually does snow, my coworkers and family will most likely blame me. Apparently the snow dance that I do with my dog, Sausage, has become infamous. I don't dance with him anymore, just saying the words "Snow, Sausage!" excitedly seems to bring snow. I accidentally did that last weekend without thinking. Don't tell anyone.

Aside from it being a Monday and thus it being a naturally sluggish day, I'm a little sleepy this morning. You see, I'm being stalked on the telephone.

It started last night. I was just watching an episode of "MI-5", one of my favourite BBC television shows, on DVD. I was enjoying it because it was an episode with a lot of Adam Carter in it. Confession time, I think Adam Carter might be my dream man. He's an MI-5 spy, a tortured soul but strong and confident and, also, he saves England quite a lot. Picture Jack Bauer, make him a lot more dashing, British and less breathless and you have something like Adam Carter. Not that Jack isn't a good hero because, well, I can't picture Adam saying "Get me a hacksaw!" in order to cut off someone's head. No, Adam would most likely try to stop the decapitation but then order someone else to do it instead. He's a good delegator, that Adam.

Yes, I digress. Anyway, so I was watching "MI-5" and my home phone rings. This is a rare event. I mostly use my cell phone. In fact, I only have a home phone number because I decided to keep my L.A. number for my cell and thought I should probably have a local phone number as well. Also, it was part of my Verizon Home Internet package. So, when my home phone rings, I usually answer it expecting it to be either my friend who lives in the same apartment complex or a salesman. Even though I'm on that "National Do Not Call Registry" thingy, there are still some solicitations that slip through the cracks. Very annoying but nowhere near as frequent as before I was on the registry.

When I answered the phone, a little old lady was there. She warbled, "Derron?" I said..."No, I'm sorry, I think you have the wrong number." She said, "Sorry," and hung up.

Two minutes later, I'm watching Adam Carter have a fight with a terrorist and my phone rings again. "Hello?" I say. "Is Derron there?" the lady says. "No," I say. "This is the same number you called before. I'm afraid Derron doesn't live here."

She says, "Oh." We hang up. A minute later, my phone rings again. I don't want to tell the lady that Derron doesn't live at the number she's calling again. So I let my answer phone pick up. My answering machine (and yes, I still have one) says, "Hello, you've reached [Captain Monkeypants], I'm not available right now so please leave a message after the beep and I'll call you back." It says MY NAME and so you would assume that anyone calling would hear that and think, "Oh, oops, wrong number."

Not so with Ms. Persistance. She hangs up on the answering machine. Then she calls back. She hangs up. By now, as you can imagine, I'm a little fed up of momentarily getting engrossed in "MI-5" only to have it interrupted by the Derron-seeker.

Side note, I know someone named Derron. He lives in California. I wonder if for some reason, the world is so small the lady was trying to reach that Derron. I doubt it but stranger things have happened.

There is silence for a while. I finally relax, thinking she's given up. Nope. Five minutes of silence and then my phone rings again. I confess, I was irritated at this point. I had thought of turning my ringer off but I couldn't help thinking that since it isn't MY fault she keeps dialing the wrong number, I shouldn't be the one to have to take action. Silly me, being so logical.

So, this time, I pick up the phone and snap, "Hello." "Derron?" she says. "No!" I say. "Derron does NOT live here. You keep dialing the WRONG number. I've had this number for six months and Derron has not lived here." She bleats, "Derron [last name]?" By the way, it's not the Derron I know in California. Shocker, I know.

By this point, I'm annoyed but I realize that shouting at a little old lady isn't very nice. So I try to take the irritation out of my voice. "No," I said, as calmly as I can manage. "Derron does live here." "Is your phone number ***-****?" says the lady. "Yes," I respond. "That is my number. Perhaps Derron lives in another area code."

"Derron isn't there?" she says. This is when I feel my temper rise. I've tried to be nice. I've tried ignoring her. She's not listening. "NO!" I say. "I'm sorry, lady, but Derron DOES NOT LIVE HERE!" This time, my irritation must have been apparent. "I'm sorry," she says. Her voice starts quivering. I instantally feel like a horrible, horrible person. "It's ok," I say, trying to sound nice. "You just have the wrong number."

"I'm sorry," she says again. "But Derron isn't there?" I sigh. "No," I say. "You should try calling information." Sadly, she says, "Why would he give me this number if it's not his?" Naturally, because I'm not a nice, sweet Monkeypants all the time, my mind instantly thinks, "maybe because Derron knew you'd never get off the phone?" I don't say that though. I just let her ponder it for a moment.

She hangs up, finally. I hang up. I have ten minutes of lovely peace and uninterrupted "MI-5". Then, ten minutes later, she's back. I let my answering machine get it. I have no more energy. I feel really bad that she can't find Derron, that she clearly is desperate to reach him. On the fourth call back, I snatch up the phone, openly hostile now and say, "Sorry, Derron still doesn't live here." There's nothing but heavy breathing and the sound of a TV. Perhaps it was Derron. I'll never know.

Finally, the calls stop. I'm relieved to say the least. I go to bed and I sleep. As I mentioned on Friday, I haven't been sleeping well. While I was able to sleep better this weekend, I still woke up a couple of times. Last night, I slept solidly until about 6 a.m. when I was awoken by...you've guessed it, my home phone was ringing.

I keep my phone in my living room but I'm a light sleeper and while a distant phone shouldn't wake me up...it does and it did. Sleepily, I listen to see if the caller leaves a message. I might be awake but I'm not about to get out of bed unless it's an emergency. It wasn't. It was the little old lady. Even though my message clearly states MY name, she left a message somewhere along the lines of, "Derron, you need to call me. I want to talk to you."

I thought, "Oh, great, now she's leaving him messages." I started to get back to sleep when...she called back. Again. This time, she is very angry and she's actually shouting at Derron on my machine. This time, she said "Derron, I don't know why you're not calling me back but you gave me the wrong number. Call me. Now." She was furious.

Naturally, so was I because I couldn't get back to sleep. Even though I get up around 6:45 a.m. anyway, it was still 45 minutes of sleep that I lost. I don't know how many other ways to tell this lady to stop calling me. I'm wondering, exactly, how many messages Derron will have when I get home. I don't have caller ID so I can't even figure out where she's calling from.

So, Derron, whoever you are, if you live in Southwestern Ohio and you've got a little old lady friend who is looking for you, please call her. Seriously, PLEASE call her. I know you might be trying to avoid her and all, and, truthfully, I can see why. She is one persistant lady. Sometimes persistance does pay off but if you've dialed a number ten times and each time it does not belong to Derron, perhaps you should....stop calling. It's a thought, at least.

I'm hoping that tonight while I attempt to spend my Monday hour with Jack Bauer, Little Old Lady Persistance does not try to reach Derron. I'm hoping that perhaps Derron has reached her. If not, I'm hoping that somewhere between my first telling her that Derron does not, in fact, live at the number she keeps dialing and her angry recorded message to Derron on MY machine, she realizes that Captain Monkeypants is not, in fact, Derron in disguise and that I'm not deliberately lying to her about Derron's whereabouts. By now, trust me, if I knew where Derron is, I'd tell her. Oh yes, I'd tell her.

Sadly, I don't think she'd listen. C'est la vie.

Happy Monday.