The new year was supposed to be a time of less stress. With no more baking class 15 hours a week, I was looking forward to having more time to read, cook, create bellydance costumes out of the boxes of fabric I've accumulated.
How was I to know that there would be a hitch in that lovely plan?
Over the holiday break, He Who Puts Up With Me and I had been discussing the fact that we were getting tired of renting, in spite of the fact that we have a patio with such an excellent view of Elliot Bay (really, about the only thing our building has going for it, other than that it allows dogs). But the price of house in Seattle sent shivers up our spines. The solution, we decided? Build our own house.
The plan was to find a small lot, small enough that it was 1) not attractive to developers looking to put up more than one townhome on it, and 2) not big enough to appeal to anyone wanting to build a big house attached to a big yard.
Just a small house, we thought, with just the features we really want, and nothing we don't need. So we talked to our loan officer about construction and regular loans. Frankly, we were a bit surprised about how much we qualified for. And a little scared at how big of an mortgage payment that would entail.
Then, two days later, we were rudely awoken at 5 a.m. on a SATURDAY (!) by the fire alarms going off in our building. Another false alarm, as always. And yes, this happens a lot. So we grabbed a few more hours of unsatisfying sleep, then hauled our tired carcases out to peruse some lots for sale, mostly in Southeast Seattle.
We took an unexpected detour down a random street to avoid a police patrol car (we were driving around with expired tags...naughty, naughty), and saw a house. A lovely Dutch Colonial house with a blank slate of a yard that made my garden-loving hands start twiching with possibilities.
So much for a life of less stress. More on this later (I promise!).