Over the course of the last two months, I’ve been IMMERSED in the project of finding a new base of operations, aka a new house. While the current Chateau Wineaux has been acceptable, it has been a place I’ve only rented for the last five years, and I was feeling mildly dissatisfied and disassociated from it. So I’ve been in househunting mode for a place that is a little more accommodating for wine tasting, entertaining, relaxing, small grandchildren, life in general, and my serenity. In other words, it was time for my “forever” home that was all mine.
If you’ve ever gone through the house-buying process, you know that it’s an operation that’s meant to completely dehumanize and demoralize the innocent, wide-eyed home buyer. It will give you sleepless nights, ulcerate your tummy, destroy your self-esteem, violate your privacy, ravage your wallet, and is apparently purposely designed to do all of the above. My psyche lay bleeding more times than not. No doubt there’s a medical conspiracy in there somewhere. I longed for drugs.
Your mortgage guy turns out to be your father confessor. You have to tell him everything, things you don’t even tell your loved ones, and you can’t help but wonder if somebody in the FBI or NSA is taking notes somewhere.
All of that being said, I managed to survive the process, even that last week (which, coincidentally enough, was last week) that I affectionately call the “the other shoe” week. You know what I mean. It’s the week where you’re waiting for that one issue – like maybe that bill you forgot to pay in 1992 – to suddenly reveal its ugly face and take away your shiny new toy.
There were tiny little shoes dropped all over the place, but somehow I managed to survive, sign the paperwork – you know the 5 inch pile of “we can come get your firstborn if you don’t pay for the house” paperwork – survive the closing and recording, and finally got my key.
I walked into my beautiful new (to me) home, and along with my real estate agent, who’s a friend of many years, celebrated with a bottle of Louis Roederer Champagne which I have never done when going into a new home. I have been calling this my “Body Bag House,” because that’s the only way I’m going to be carried out of it when I am very old and very gray. Clairol notwithstanding.
Every time I go into my new home – I haven’t completely moved in yet because of painting and stuff – I am very happy and grateful and warm and fuzzy. Going to a single story from a two story home with three landings is a wonderful experience for me. If for no other reason it means that there is less of a chance of my tripping over the “girls” while I’m going down the stairs. Why is it that cats feel that they have to stop on the stair in front of you to sharpen their claws or barf on the carpet?
I have selected places where I think I’m going to place my wine coolers, but of course I’ll know for sure once everything is officially moved in. I’m still here at the old place through most of September and will be completely and officially moved in by October 1.
While I’ve missed my regular life during this time, I’ve really missed wine. I’ve been able to go to my weekly tasting group, but otherwise, between The Day Job™, The Wineaux Guy’s™ broken leg (which is worthy of a long post by itself), and new responsibilities through Toastmasters International, my life has been nuts. Which means little time for enjoying and studying wine. Didn’t think I’d miss the studying part, but I really do. By the time I get home, it’s usually up to the bedroom and pretty much crashing.
I have about four posts drafted that I’ll be publishing in rapid succession once something that resembles tranquility returns and my Zen is fully restored.
Thanks for hanging on through the journey. Now it’s time to name the new place! Chez Wineaux? Casa Renie? Wineaux Abode? Suggestions?
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