There I go again, all teasing snippets of information and allusions to mortgages, without actually telling you the biggest news of an already-huge year.
T. and I have bought a house! It's big(ish) and beautiful, and in Waterloo, Ont., a rockin' place full of science and tech nerds, arty writer types, and -- come October -- us!
We hadn't intended on this so soon, but opportunity more than knocked. It barrelled down our door and stood in our hallway, stomping its boots and glaring at us without pause.
It all began during My Year of Enforced Respite. The government took away my ability to work, and in doing so broke my bonds with Toronto. I didn't notice at the time, but it is strange indeed to spend a year in this city without disposable income, without a place to go each day, without after-work-drinks and informal networking catch-ups. We got through largely oblivious to the break, then I stepped back into The Globe for this two-month contract and it's becoming glaringly apparent that I'm no longer a part of the cycle here. I'm a spinning cog, desperately wheeling away in the hope of locking on to something that fits.
This is a town for both a certain stage of life -- drinking and travelling and other filling of funnels -- and a certain level of income. And I suspect I've moved out of both. I used to be on top of the latest bars, bands, and all that jazz, not because I went out that much but because I was still paying attention. In the past year, I stopped paying attention and the city has moved on without me. Plus, I have been increasingly itchy for my own piece of space. Our own home. I'm 32. It's probably time I could paint my own walls with abandon. In this town, we'd be lucky to afford a shoebox.
Which all leads me to the idea of Kitchener-Waterloo, twin cities 100km west of Toronto. T. is from there, his boys live there, and we stay there every second weekend. We started looking at open houses a few months ago, partly to fill in the time when the boys are busy, and partly "just to get an idea of the market". We looked mostly in Kitchener -- the grittier, hard-working big brother to shiny, popular Waterloo -- because it's eminently more affordable.
And then, last month, we happened to drive by a private sale in the best neighbourhood in Waterloo. The house was big but largely unadorned; a blank canvas. It stood solid and dark, but with a welcoming air, as if it was the only immovable thing in a swirling world. There was a man on the landing. He waved, led us through, chatting all the while about the house. His name is John and this is his childhood home, built in 1926, he said. His 93-year-old mother moved in to the house in 1949 and has now had to go to a nursing home.
She had some shocking taste in wallpaper. Her husband lovingly maintained the original woodwork until his death. They've never used pesticides on the huge back yard. It is perfect.
We dropped the boys off that Sunday night and started the drive back to Toronto. Our conversation was a tap dance, all staccato bursts and perky silence. When we left KW, we were hesitantly ruminating on crazy possibility. By the time we got to TO, we had decided to make an offer.
Tuesday morning, as we were sat at the bank getting pre-approval for a home loan, someone else made an offer on the house. The old lady accepted it.
We let it go. A couple of days later, as we walked through our lovely near-downtown neighbourhood to get some dinner, T. and I were laughing about how we had almost bought a house. Crazy timing, we laughed. Nothing arranged. Too soon. At least we know we're game.
And then, two weeks later, opportunity came storming back into our lives to see if we were more than just talk. That other deal fell through. If we were still interested, the house was available.
We sat silent in the kitchen for a while, looking at each other. I wasn't game to put my thoughts into words, partly because I wasn't quite sure what would come spilling out of my mouth. It felt like a dare. Were we going to do this? This was a test of my most fundamental life belief: Plan enough so you can be ready to grab the unexpected. If it comes, be ready to jump. If it frightens you, that's all the more reason to do it.
Finally, after repeatedly soliciting each other's opinion and skirting anything definitive, I said "I think we should do this."
"So do I," T. replied.
We grinned crazy grins.
An hour later, the forms were printed up (thank you, High Park Library) and we were sitting in The Film Buff, drinking coffee, filling out the offer of purchase.
T. drove it to Waterloo that afternoon, en route to pick up the boys for the weekend. The family said they'd get back to us Saturday. I worked that night, tense and excited and giddy, and was brutally tense when T. came back to get me Saturday morning. I couldn't sit still for long, had packed hours early, flitted from one task to another. In the car, I distracted myself with lengthy analyses of media. I probably looked pale.
We got to KW and went to a Tim's to await our 1:45 p.m. meet-up at the house. Coffee and a bagel. Mum and Dad would have been proud.
Got to the house, received the counter-offer from John and his sister. The mum wanted $8,000 more than we'd offered. It was starting to drizzle as we took the papers out to the car and sat at the kerb. We looked out at the house, watching it, wondering what price to put on our possible future there.
We went up $3,000 and hoped for the best. The neighbour, Julian, signed as our witness. John and his sister drove off to see their mum.
We stayed at the house, walking from room to room, actually paying attention to what we were seeing. The house has flaws for which I'd automatically discounted other properties: bedrooms too small, not enough closets, will need a new kitchen eventually. But for some reason, that didn't matter with this house. Even the random toilet in the corner of the laundry didn't bother me. It all just felt good, and right, and full of potential.
About 20 minutes later, John and his sister got back. We heard them climb the stairs, then come to the front door. John poked his head in. "Better take my shoes off in your house," he said with a grin.
I couldn't speak for ages. My head just froze in shock as T. and I signed the papers. She'd accepted the offer, after making sure from her children that we were "a nice couple". It was ours.
As we stood on the front footpath afterwards, me having partially regained the ability to speak, T. and I wrapped each other in a long, close hug. I started to cry.
"Thanks for coming on this crazy adventure with me," T. said.
We held each other, shared a teary, smiley kiss, and then stood gazing at the house as the light rain drizzled down.
Let the adventures begin!
