Sunday, November 24, 2013

Bless Us. Now.

Negotiations on the purchase of the house I want in New Orleans continue, with the sellers unimpressed with my big words or the fact the house is sitting on a potential cholera pit.  I wanted them to come down $35,000 on the price, they came back with an offer of $8,000.  That is not, as the real estate industry would have it, "a lot of movement."

And I am concerned my realtor may not be the pit bull negotiator one would hope for.  I know this is shallow, but the last time I saw him, he was wearing coral colored jeans and loafers with no socks.  As Super Agent Fred pointed out, he was a short step from wearing a sweater jauntily knotted about his shoulders.  So being fierce at the bargaining table, maybe, probably not.

Just in case, I have decided to create a virtual shrine to various saints and other voodoo whatnots that might be of help.

First up, we have Saint Roch, since the house is on the street named in his honor.  He's specially invoked against the plague, which is appropriate since I have AIDS and because of the raw sewage hanging around under the house.  He is also sometimes one of the Fourteen Holy Helpers.  I'm charmed by the fact that this is just a part-time gig for him.

He also would appear to be a medieval can-can dancer.  Get it on, girl.

We're also including an old favorite, Our Lady of Prompt Succor.  This is a title of the Virgin Mary and she is the patroness of New Orleans and Louisiana.  She's who you turn to when things go bad and you need help in a hurry, and god knows, that happens plenty in New Orleans.  Just as a side note, I'll admit that I've also occasionally been referred to as  Our Lady of Prompt Succor, usually at some bathhouse or the other, but that's neither here nor there.

Plus she's a snappy dresser.

St. Jude, the patron saint of lost causes is on the list, as he on plenty of others, just in case.

Besides he's kind of humpy.

Lastly, Saint Justin of DeRoy cause look how clear his skin is.  Right?

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

Schmatta. Goddam It, Schmatta.

I sort of love that they refer to these scraps of schmatta as "swimwear" when, obviously, they are go-go boy lingerie.

“Brevity is the soul of lingerie.” ― Dorothy Parker.

"Musclepussy is the raison of go-go boys." - mrpeenee.

And how do you turn off this fucking auto-correct, which has been fighting me over "schmatta" like it's a matter of honor.

It's a Perfectly Good Word.

In an email to my finance guy and my realtor, I referred to the condition of the little love nest n New Orleans I'm trying to buy as "squalorous" and the fucking autocorrect function refused to recognize the word and kept trying to change it to "squalors" and is that even a word?  Are there multiples of squalor?  Is squalor ever used as a verb?  No, I think not.  And what kind of editing software has never heard of the word "squalorous" but is okay with "fucking?"  It's a pretty cool word, even if the chances of it coming up in Boggle are tiny.

I realize I have not been including any images of attractive, scantily clad young men, so here.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Inspect This

So it all looked so innocent, just a shabby little house needing a little mrpeenee love and decorating to turn it into a swell New Orleans pied a terre.  And then came the inspection from hell.

In my post about buying the house, I mentioned I was going back for the inspection and that "unless it turns up a nest of alien invaders in one of the back rooms, I'm set."  How was I to know that would wind up being pretty much the whole truth?

My realtor, my friend Stephen, who's going to be in charge of the reno, and I met up at place with the guys who would handle the inspection, a jocular gang and who rapidly confirmed all the worst fears a prospective home owner could have.

To wit:

The electrical system consists of the knob and tube wiring from when the house was built in the early 1900s.  When I enthused over all the original fixtures being preserved in the house, I meant the pocket doors, the charming transoms, the mantles and such, but certainly not the antique wiring.  Everyone meticulously avoided the term "firetrap" but it hung unspoken in the air.   So the entire electric system needs to be replaced.

The plumbing includes a gigantic crack in the downspout from the bathrooms so that sewage flushed from them simply gushes out onto the ground under the house.  Maybe that's what's kept the whole place from burning down in a tragic electrical fire.  Who knows?  I do know the plumbing has to be replaced.

The sellers had proudly advertised the roof as new, which is true.  Unfortunately, it was installed without the proper plywood decking under the shingles and tarpaper so it turns out to be more decorative than functional.  Roof, has to be replaced, got it.

By the time the inspector even mentioned the sill, which is the beam the house rests on above the foundation piers, I assumed it would have to go.  Sure enough, but just the back one, and about a third of one of the side ones.  All right!  Only thirty per cent of the foundation!   Score!

Oddly, I'm still interested in the house.  The realtor is supposed to meet with the sellers on Monday to hash out a deal where they come down enough on the price to cover the extensive repairs.  If they do, then at least I'll know all the systems in the place are new and as good as I want them to be.  If they don't, I'll walk away from the deal and call the health department on their sorry asses.  We'll see.

At least there wasn't any nest of alien invaders in one of the back rooms.

Friday, November 8, 2013

Again, Yo.

Oh darlings, I'm so very sorry to have sort of drifted off like that.  Oops.  First there was my whirlwind tour of the south, then my computer died and then inertia won out once again.  But trust me, my thoughts were never far from you.  Except when I was thinking about snacks.

Austin was terribly amusing since I got to hang out with Diane von Austinburg and eat excellent Mexican food and I found a cock ring in a thrift store.

I visited with my white trash crazy family in Houston all of whom are still white trash, crazy and very amusing.  The less said, the better.

The night I got to New Orleans there was a parade.  Not for me, specifically, but for Halloween, but close enough.  It was the Krewe of Boo.  Is that adorable or what?

I had a lovely hotel.

And I got to visit with Jason from Night is Half Gone who took me out for the biggest banana split I have ever seen, cause the pound and a half of shrimp I had eaten for dinner shortly beforehand was apparently not enough.  He was charming as always.

Oh, and I bought a house.

My plan is to live there during the fall and winter and then flee back here to San Francisco to avoid the miserable heat, cause I have done my time with that bullshit.  It's a block over from my best friend in a terribly cool neighborhood, has a huge yard and seems structurally sound, but shabby, just the thing an elderly poof needs as a hobby.

It's been a rental for the last thirty or forty years, I'm sure we've all seen the equivalent dingy white paint and cheap bathrooms.

I intend to drag its sorry ass into the land of fagulous beauty.  My friend Stephen, who has lots of experience with renovations, is in charge of the remodeling and I've anointed myself as Queen Decorator.  Lots of turquoise.

I'm going back on Saturday for the inspection on Tuesday and unless that turns up a nest of alien invaders in one of the back rooms, I'm set.

In Which We Are Becatted

  Everybody say hello to our new cat, Octavia. I know this is not a very good picture, but it's the only one I have because immediately ...