I'm pretty sure that no one at my gigantic mortgage company reads my blog, so I think I can say, without fear of reprisal, that there's a real possibility that I have just made my last mortgage payment. No, it's not paid off. I'm just broke. So unless I can pull a rabbit out of my ass here in the next couple of months, I'm done.
The good news is that there is a young couple mighty interested in the property, with everything hingeing on whether or not the golf course and the homeowners association will let them fence all or a portion of the yard for their dog. That's a secret, too. If you apply and say it's for a dog, it is less likely that the plan will be approved. The only fences allowed are wrought iron or electronic. The young couple claims that electronic fences don't work for their beagle, which is yet another secret. If neighbors' approval is required, the neighbors may not appreciate the existence of the beagle. The other good news is that my mortgage payments have actually decreased for the next year by almost $1,000 thanks to an adjustable rate that actually adjusted downward. No one I know has ever had that happen. I am framing the letter informing me of this, just in case someone disputes it.
The bad news is that every time I think I have the house and yard perfect, something else comes up that needs heavy lifting, hauling, or lots of dirt. I had always thought I was a fairly competent housekeeper, although in recent years I had certainly become a lot less obsessive about it. But lately cleaning up this place has completely disabused me of that notion. The week before last, I spent mostly cleaning up the garden. After the tree fell in it earlier this spring, it was a mess. It's not any more. Then last week my to-do list included cleaning the garage. One-third is dedicated to the lawn mower, a work bench, various half-full paint cans, and other household outdoor equipment. One-third is for my car. And the rest is for the toys that have accumulated for the babies. It looks like a used car lot for preschool vehicles. The other bad news is that I haven't even started on the major mess in the basement.
From what I understand of my state's laws, if the big mortgage company decides it wants to foreclose, I will still have a fairly long period of time to continue to live here and try to sell it. I have pleaded my sorry case to the mortgage company, and they have truly sympathized with me, but the fact that I don't have a steady, full-time job is a real problem for them. What they don't understand is that even if I did have a full-time real job, it would not pay me enough to continue to pay this mortgage. I would like them to let me off the hook on a couple of the payments, like maybe just tack them onto the end of the mortgage, but apparently that isn't a viable solution.
In between all the drama (mostly just going on in my mind) I do wander downstairs to work on some art. It doesn't seem serious, still just playing around, seeing what I come up with. Painting on pieces of wood or MDF or old prestretched canvases. More therapy than anything else. I know most of the readers of this sporadic blog will wish me well. . . and I thank you all in advance. I just know everything is going to turn out all right. Eventually.
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