The Dukes of NorCal
Just the Good ol’ Boys
Never meanin’ no harm
Then maybe they should’ve used a little lube. Because after a few days of the Good Ol’ Boys tearing through my neighborhood, I’m a bit chaffed. To them, it’s just a little “straightenin’ the curves, flattenin’ the hills,” but I’m going to be walking funny for weeks.
My wife and I have been looking to upgrayedd (“upgrade” for you non-Idiocracy fans) our 1,400-square-foot, two-bedroom house ever since baby made three. It was already tad small for two grown adults who waited until our mid-thirties to cohabitate, thereby accumulating two full sets of household appliances, furniture, and animals. When baby came along, I realized that not being able to park in the garage was one thing. When the man cave becomes the nursery, something’s gotta give.
Fortunately, there are some new developments being built nearby, so back in October, we decided to go check out the models the day after a phase was released. We weren’t sure we wanted to buy new, but as soon as we heard things like tankless water heater, solar lighting, and granite countertops, we stopped looking at the decade old hand-me-downs.
The kicker, when we returned the next day, was that we would be the first name on the priority list for the next phase, meaning we would have our choice of which lot we wanted. So on the list our name went. That was a rather whirlwind 36-hour period for the two of us, both of whom tend to be more methodical and analytical. Hell, we knew each other for five years before we finally decided to go out on a date. But when you see what you want, you’ve gotta grab it, right?
Silly Wombat, nothing ever falls in line that perfectly. That elation and ease of that 36-hour period found its equal-and-opposite reaction this past weekend.
In the four months since our name went first on that list, we’ve been up to the models countless times. Our daughter is a bit of a celebrity in the sales office, and I’m pretty sure she could give a tour herself. Sure, the tourers would have to pick her up off the ground continuously, and hold her pacifier when she spoke, but it could happen.
We walked the locations of the lots, too, and quickly knew which lot we wanted. An ample sized lot at the end of a cul-de-sac. We knew there would be a lot premium for it, but based on what similar lots had gone for in the previous releases, we felt we could budget for it. And being first on the priority list, the lot premium was really the only variable we were looking at. So the other three lots that our model would be on never truly entered the equation.
Can you good English students sense some foreshadowing here?
Last weekend, we again visited the models. Some of the foundations were starting to be laid. The next release seemed imminent.
“We’re still first on the priority list, right?”
“Do you know what the lot premium for Lot 66 will be yet?”
“We can’t divulge.”
“Fine, fine. No biggie. As long as it’s under $<REDACTED>, that’s the one we’ll take.”
On Tuesday, three days later, we got the e-mail. The next phase was being released. Our lot premium was actually a couple thousand under what we were budgeting for. Woo-Hoo!
The e-mail had instructions: “If you are first on the priority list, send us your choice, if you are second, give us your top two choices, and so on. Send your requests to us before 2:00 this Saturday, then come in after 3:00 with your $<REDACTED> deposit check.“
We could not respond fast enough. “Give us Lot 66. Let us know if you want us there right at 3:00 or at a later time, depending on how busy things are likely to get.”
No response from them on Tuesday night or Wednesday. Thursday comes and goes, nothing back. No biggie,they’re busy. We’ll just show up at 3:00 Saturday with our check.
Wife wanted me to double-check. Fortunately, I was home from work on Friday because our tour-guide baby has Hand-Foot-and-Mouth Disease, which has to be one of the dumbest reasons to not be allowed to go to daycare. It is literally just a rash around the mouth and some blisters on the feet and hands, yet it requires the child to be out of daycare for a week and requires a doctor’s note to let them back. I understand that it’s highly contagious, but the symptoms are all cosmetic and temporary. Ugh.
In fact, the absurdity of Hand-Foot-and-Mouth disease might very well have been the topic of this week’s blog entry if the Good Ol’ Boys network hadn’t taken this time to spin the General Lee in donuts all over precious Lot 66.
“Yeah, so sorry about what happened,” the sales lady said as I stepped inside, before I could even pose question number one about how the next day would go.
“What do you mean?”
My face looked perplexed, and her face slowly changed from confusion to something approaching guilt-shame. As surprised as I was that there was bad news coming equaled her surprise that I was unaware of it.
“Didn’t you get the e-mail?”
She then goes into a convoluted explanation that her assistant was supposed to e-mail, nay telephone, nay deliver via teleportation device the news. And, of course, said assistant will receive a very stern talking to, nay hand slapping, nay crucifixion. I fully expected the sales lady to bust into a Monty Python-esque “Bad Zoot, bad, bad Zoot” and require a spanking.
It turns out we can’t have the lot for which we were first. Why? Well, you see, there’s a priority list and then there’s a list of people they really like. The denizens of this latter list include employees of the company and friends of the owner. And anyone on this super-secret list can jump to the front of the line at any time they wish, including between Tuesday, when the list of available lots was published, and Friday, when I walked in to a mock-mortified realtor.
So, unbeknownst to us, we should have been working on a back-up plan. Kind of like, I assume, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers should be preparing their number one draft pick with the assumption that both Jameis Winston and Marcus Mariota are already off the board. Because the morning of the draft, the owners of the New York Jets might call up Roger Goodell and say they are better friends than the Tampa Bay owners. Or that they get better TV ratings. No, wait a second, giving the best draft picks to the more popular teams is the NBA’s strategy.
“So yeah, sorry,” the sales lady says, ”a friend of the owner decided to trump you some time in the last 48 hours, and my assistant was supposed to call you, but hey, now that you’re here, why don’t we take a look at these other wonderful lots you can choose from. And if you could please kinda hurry on this, because you’re now rudely holding up the line for the second and third people on the priority list, who now might have to settle for their third and fourth picks, respectively. And the fourth guy? Well, there are only three of this model available now, so fuck him.”
So here came my options. I could move across the cul-de-sac from our first choice. This would not only have the benefit of being on a lot about half the size of the house we wanted, but would also be right across the street from it, too! Oh joy! So every day for the next twenty years, I can pull out of my postage-stamp sized lot and stare across at the house I actually wanted. At least I could flip off the assholes who stole it.
Option number two was on a larger lot. Eight feet of side yard instead of the five feet on option one. Back yard a little bit deeper as well. The drawback of this lot was its location right across from the models. Sure, the models are only likely to be there for the next couple of years, but who wants to have to put pants on every time he walks out of his house? The road was also the main entryway to the neighborhood, so the amount and speed of traffic would continue to be a drawback even after the models close. Two cats would be problem enough, but I also have a future toddler that might cause issues with the 50-MPH jackass tearing through the neighborhood.
The third option was on a triangle-shaped lot formed by the arcing of a side-street. The house would be placed at the corner of the short side and the hypotenuse, right at the front of the lot. This house would therefore have very little back yard, but a long, oddly-configured side yard. The main problems with this lot were not its size, though, but its location vis-à-vis the neighbors. First, that long-side of the triangle forms our back and side yard, and it touches no fewer than five other back yards. Second, this house is lower than all of those neighbors. Our current house is at the low-water mark on our street and every time there is rain, or if people are watering their lawns, we get a wonderful coagulation of stagnant water. So we would be adding to that joy the fact that our many neighbors could look out of their bedroom windows right down into our backyard. Dammit, now I have to wear pants in the back yard, too?
The kicker of this final house is that the neighbor on the short side of the triangle is the house we wanted. So every day, they can look down on us, both literally and figuratively. Oh, and then maybe they can water their back yard and have it trickle down onto our porch. Awesome. And I can’t even throw burning feces over their fence. Too high. And they’d know which direction it’s coming from. I’d have to go all the way around the front and burn the feces on their front doorstep. Just as soon as I find some pants.
So the sales lady asks which one I want, right there on the spot, five minutes after I learned that I have to choose. Yeah, that’s not going to happen. First I have to inform my wife. Then I have to talk my wife off the ledge. Then we have to confer and spend a full night without sleeping at all. Plus find some time to slash the tires of every orange Dodge Charger I can find.
So I walked out the door with an admonishment that I have until 2:00 the following day to pick my second choice. Because darnit, the other people on the priority list are waiting to find out what lots are available to them. How rude of me to keep them waiting.
The next morning found the two of us trudging through the mud of each of these lots, working out the calculations and permutations of each. Which one could we get our minds around in the next six months as it’s being built? Was it just too raw right now, and would we get over it soon? Or would the bitterness grow to make us already hate the house by the time we moved in? I tried to determine which choice I would regret the most a year from now, but had trouble distancing myself from the emotion. I’m sure the owners were secretly hoping we’d walk away, because then the others in line would never know what happened. Maybe one small consolation is that if we picked right, and the second person now had to settle for their third choice, we’d have more neighbors to hate the company and those A-holes in Lot 66 when we moved in. Or maybe they’ll just hate us like we hate those Good Ol’ Boys.
In the end, we chose the triangular lot at the low point. We’ll just need to make sure we put some good drainage in and grow some trees to ward off nosy neighbors. I wonder if I can trim one particular tree in the shape of a middle finger.
But on further review, maybe we should’ve taken the one across the street from the models. I could forget those pants and just hang out in my front yard all day long in my holey boxers and a stained wife-beater, sunning myself on some plastic chaise lounge purchased from a Motel 6. That would do wonders for the company’s sales going forward.
Beside me would be my toddler, wearing only a saggy, very full diaper.
Does anyone know where I can get some diapers with a confederate flag on the butt?