I live in the town where I was born. No, there is no man who sailed the seas and lives in a yellow submarine. Well, if there is, I sure as shit haven't met him.
My mother grew up here. Both of my grandparents lived here. In a twisted fantasy of mine, I told myself that if either one of my grandparents' houses ever went up for sale, I would try to buy one of them.
About 2 weeks ago, I discovered that my mother's parents' house was for sale. My pulse quickened. I called the listing agent and foolishly told her my story and that I wanted to see the house. I expected the house to feel smaller than I remembered it, but was pleasantly surprised to find it not so small and
very livable for myself and my cat. It's actually a little larger than the 3 bedroom cracker box I rent now.
My grandparents were the original owners. My grand father put his own blood, sweat, and tears into the home. He poured a concrete pad in the back for a patio. He built a bar and added some wood trim in the basement from scrap lumber. He also built a workbench in another part of the basement. On that workbench, he had a board with baby food jar lids screwed to it where he attached the jars filled with spare screws and nails. Guess where he got the baby food jars? Yep, from my mother - I ate from those jars as an infant. When I looked at the house, the bar was still intact, and there was one baby food jar left. I almost started crying.
The house is in immaculate condition. The only real change is the newer carpet in the living room and the bathroom has new tile, vanity, and mirror. The back yard has fewer trees, but everything is quite pristine - the house has been well cared for in the 52 years of its existence.
I met with a mortgage broker. Despite my questionable credit history, I qualified for a zero-down loan. After changing my underwear, I went through the details. Given the fed has just jacked up interest rates recently, I felt the rate I was given was fair. Everything was good, except for the monthly payment. Granted, the amount is only $200 more than I currently pay, I am still just getting by with enough "fudge money" left over to actually have a life. Added to that, I currently do not pay for heat, water, sewer, or trash. The sad truth is: I can't afford it.
I no longer have any relatives that have any real money to speak of. I blew all my extra cash reserves to move here in November. I have unfortunately lived up to my own expectations of dying deep in debt and have about 10 grand worth of credit bills that cost me about $400 a month. I have created my own circumstances that prevent me from fulfilling this fantasy. That's not an easy pill to swallow, but it is the truth. I fucked myself.
So, I have to let the fantasy go. One thing I have learned about fantasies: they are better off in your head. Once realized, it's never been as good as it was in my mind. It's just like the best sex of your life resides between your ears and not between your legs - hey, I'm not referring to oral sex in that statement, either.
So, the realization that I really should be a more responsible adult has lead me to adjust some of my patterns of behavior. I can't live through fantasies - not that I do, but just have to keep myself in check. I have to get a better grip on my finances. So, I live a little less, but won't come to a grinding halt.
I committed myself to teach a class in the upcoming semester. That will be the first time I have ever done anything like that. The extra money won't be great, but it won't hurt, either.
It kind of sucks to have to grow up a little more when I am so close to 42. I may have had a lot of fun, but I feel like I really fucked up a lot of stuff in my previous years.
But, hey, this doesn't mean the fun will come to an end by any means. Since this summer arrived, I have re-discovered how much I love the beaches here. Swimming in the lake has brought back so many memories of my childhood that it's hard to imagine I ever got older in the first place. Of course, I did, but having that kind of fun definitely keeps me younger, and I am
all for that.
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In the past couple of days, my internet service and phone service has been royally hosed. I have noticed a phone company truck in close proximity to my house doing some kind of destruction for a week. I guess they must have been fixing someone else's stuff while destroying mine. So, sometime today between noon and the second coming of Christ, the phone company will be at my house to determine what the hell they broke.
Fortunately, this is also the last day of my frivilous time period at work. I am again alone in my office today - no co-workers, no boss, nada. Monday will be a new adventure with a new employee that I have to train. So, things are slow, yet very much in my favor for the day. I'll jet home when I get the call and get my beloved feline's kitty porn back on line.
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So, why the name "Gern" you may be asking (or not, it's not like anyone really gives a shit). My answer: Why not? Actually, Steve Martin once said his real name was Gern Blanston. I have used that alias many times in my life just to see the look on other people's faces. They don't know whether to laugh, spit, pass milk through their nostrils, or just accept it. Humans are so easily amused, and are often quite amusing themselves.
So, here it is...the new, improved, and less expensive Gern. It's really the same old shit, and the packaging hasn't really changed (unless you count the tan), but it's a bold move to change the habits of old and focus on a direction that ultimately leads to a crossroad intersection.
Ah, yes....ambiguity....gotta love it.
