There’s this house that Lala and I pass when we’re out in my neighborhood walking little dogs. Every time we’ve walked by it, we’ve looked and lusted. It’s a little piece of the country, set right there in Oakland. It’s perfect for us. Trust me on this. I won’t say more, lest I jinx it, but it’s perfect in its dilapidation.
Last week I saw online that it was up for sale. On Sunday we went to the open house on a wild fling. On Monday we started to write the offer. On Tuesday we presented the offer. Tuesday night, they countered (turns out that even when we thought we were recklessly overbidding, we had bid WAY lower than anyone else, but they liked our heartfelt cover letter). Today, Wednesday, we’ll accept the counter (they received fifteen offers and countered three of us) and then we’ll bite our nails and jump in very small circles and be unable to sleep.
The chances are so very, very, very slim that they’ll accept us, and IF they do, that we’ll secure the funding (we weren’t even in the market yet! We have no money! I haven’t sold the condo!), but we’re trying. If we don’t get it, we’re no worse off than we are now, which is nice, indeed. If we do, it’s our dream ramshackle-shack. I just thought it wouldn’t hurt to get all my knitter-peeps crossing their DPNs in our general direction.
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