This is the 3rd post I've tried to put up on Vox…I hope it doesn't fail yet again—
So, it's been hailing, sleeting, rather arctic. We're hellbent on moving back to Alameda at the first of the year.
My friend Julie, long time Los Angeles denizen, has given me a reality check re: the amount of rent I'm about to commit to. I've done the worst thing, become excited about a certain mid-century modern brick house on the lagoon that the Hubster must have. I try to rationalize the jump by listing the additional amenities and all she had to say was, "That sounds like a great deal! The people next door to me pay $3000." For the same sized bungalow in a cute suburb by LAX. Other people are matter of fact: "That's not too bad." Hmm. I guess I'm financially paranoid.
It might be a decent deal. IF we get the place. I've set myself up for disappointment already, envisioning the decor, looking online at design sites. The difference in annual rent is equivalent to a couple of fancy trips to faraway places, sitting away from the chickens, at peak periods. It's alot of boat payments (at least until the thing sells). No matter. Hubby must have his water view. I don't mind, but I worry. Recent financial struggles are fresh in my mind, but so is freezing to death in the shithole we're in. We have no place to hang coats, because the hall coat closet IS my closet.
(I don't sleep in the barn with the animals, so I guess I should be thankful.)
But what IF (we don't get the place)? Ugh! This is why I try not to get attached. My heart can't take the roller coaster effect anymore. And my petty complaints about the lack of garage and laundry room! Face it, I've been seduced by the idea of space, adequate closets, central heat, pull-out shelves in the kitchen, not having people push shopping carts down my street…
Pins and needles. Yikes! Someone make a decision so I can move the Meezers to a quiet place, where they can ponder cross-eyed at the birds and lounge about for 22 hours a day, and I can live out my days knowing my books (the few left) are dry (many boxes in the garage were destroyed by the leaky roof).
This isn't the view, but I recall living on Treasure Island with great fondness. It was second in the line of homes by the water which always managed to soothe away the stress.