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The Year of the Move, Pt. 4

So. I’m a little less poor and a little less plump and a little less rested, and I’m alive. I’ve recalibrated my scale of suffering. I’ve officially lost the only home I’ve ever had. More of my belongings are in storage than are with me. I have a dwelling, but not a home. Where the fuck am I going? I’ve been asking that question for a few years now. The answer, in short, is north.

Fly North in the Winter

As I mentioned, we knew when the Overlord took out that million-dollar mortgage that we would not be able to keep the property. Knowing this and despite our total lack of financial resources, we started looking for somewhere to go several years ago. This is how we met one last key player, who I haven’t mentioned yet. She is a real estate agent and we will call her Virgil (to our hell-wandering Dante).

Virgil covers some of the more north-lying sections of the Central California coast. She had a listing back several years ago that my parents wanted to look at, which was how we met her. Virgil went from a one-off realtor to a font of knowledge to a personal friend to a minor miracle worker. To say that I am a fan of Virgil, to say that I am grateful to her, is to vastly understate the ways in which she has saved our lives.

When the Overlord started her own search for property this year, we did not tell her about Virgil. The Overlord had her own agents to guide her. Moreover, she refused to look as far north as Virgil’s territory. Mostly, though, we did not tell the Overlord because Virgil was the one ally we had who was ours alone. The Overlord did not know we had been looking for property for years; she would not have reacted well to us finally deciding that escaping her was the only viable option. We did not know if or how we could get away from the Overlord, but Virgil kept up the search for us.

The Overlord wanted to move to the Santa Ynez Valley, that prestigious wine and ranching area in Central California. Had she lived, she would have eventually been forced to admit that she did not and would never possess the necessary money to buy up there. Not the size and sort of property she needed. Keep in mind that she had partial ownership of almost twenty horses, most of whom would need to be moved with her to a new place. (Don’t get me started on the idea of selling some off. It has been suggested. There are exactly four horses that were both owned at least partly by the Overlord and which could be sold. The rest? Retired due to health issues or mental issues or extreme old age. There are multiple horses older than I am. No, oddly enough, we wouldn’t be selling off the stock, thanks.)

The three of us, though, set our sights farther north. Keep going up the coast. Pass over a grade and drop down into the next valley. Head inland. You are now in San Luis Obispo County. Vineyards are taking over here, too, but there are still areas with horses or cattle instead of grapes. There are still places where you can get ten or twenty acres of land. There are even a few areas where you can get water to go with that land. (If you ever have occasion to buy property in California, a word of warning–the only thing that really matters is water and the one thing you probably cannot have is water.)

We look at property in agricultural valleys and we look at property up a goddamn mountain and we look at property at the bottom of a river bed. (Look, the money we have won’t go far, even up here. We need rather a lot of land for horses. This is not a favorable combination of circumstances. Sometimes, that means looking at some eccentric places.)

We look at one property near a lake nicknamed Dragon’s Breath, which is when I start to think we are on the right track. Ludicrously cheap, it has a big house and land with issues. It is inconveniently remote. It is unfenced. It needs brush clearance and roadwork. It is the loveliest thing I have ever seen. I want it more than I can stand.

We make our first offer before we have one on the Overlord’s place. The sellers refuse. They want someone with a firm date to close escrow. Two weeks later, we go into escrow on the Overlord’s property. We go to make a new offer. We find out someone else has opened escrow on the property we want. Inconsolable, we put in a backup offer, on the off-chance that their deal falls through.

The buyer there suddenly announces he wants the place fenced, even though the deal is for as-is. He asks for an extension to the inspection period. He then disappears into China for a month. We are baffled but hopeful. He misses his inspection period. He ignores the Order to Perform sent by the sellers. We are about six hours away from resorting to black magic to make this guy stay away so we can have the place. (We have no back-up property. We keep looking and not finding.) More time passes. One final notice is sent to the buyer to break off the deal. We are almost there!

He comes back. He asks for another extension. We scoff, wondering what kind of moron would give dude a second extension after this whole spectacle.

The sellers give him a second extension.

Last we hear, the buyer is actually performing, the deal is going ahead, and we are still waiting in the wings as a back-up offer but we are unlikely to get the place. Our desire to use black magic is getting worse but with slightly different goals in mind. I mean, what the actual fuck? We suspect the Universe has it out for us. More than we already thought, that is.

We look farther inland. Way, way farther inland. Like, nearly in another state, inland. We look in all directions, trying to find that one perfect spot that has land and water and places to work and actual electricity and that still doesn’t cost more than we have. It starts to feel like a riddle, like a test from a fairytale: a week when two Mondays come together; a box without hinges, key, or lid; a land fit for humans and animals and affordable for this damned family.

We lower our standards (again) (again-again). We look at land that is too small or too remote. We look at land with no house, with no electricity, with no flat areas. This is how we find it, at last, and it is none of those things.

It is perfectly flat. It is big enough for everyone and everything. It is a short drive into town. It is in an area known for better water supply than the surrounding areas. The land is perfection, a blank slate waiting for us.

It…has tenants who have destroyed the manufactured home on it. Um. Okay. So we have to think hard about this. The house is barely bigger than what we have now (what we have now does not, in fact, qualify as “bigger than a bread box”). The house looks like someone has been chewing on it. The plumbing in the master bathroom leaked and it appears someone decided to drain the accumulated water by slicing into the floor with a chainsaw. Also, it was probably the same person who kicked in all the doors. And some of the walls.

The house needs a little work, is what I’m saying. A little.

But you know what? We know how to look at the big picture. We know how to put years of work into a place to make it a home. Screw it. We want it. We will make it work. Just…um, there is water, right?

Right?

We wait through weeks of desperate hand-wringing and impatient waiting. We wait through inspections on the house and find out just how much work it is going to need to be fixed up. (We also find out that we cannot, by any stretch of the imagination, afford to have it replaced. Oh, we might be able to swing a new house. Permits, though, will add tens of thousands in costs and delay us by a few months.) We wait for word Monday, Tuesday, wait for the only Christmas gift any of us want. We don’t hear anything.

Until Friday. Oh, choirs of angels, nothing can compare to the joy and relief. The well is good. The well is fantastic. In winter, in a drought, in a state that wouldn’t know water if you lopped it off the continent and set it adrift in the ocean, we have water.

Ladies, gentlemen, and gender rebels, we have a home.

To Be Continued…

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The Year of the Move, Pt. 3

(Content Warning: The following post discusses mental health issues, self-harm, and suicidal thoughts and actions, including experiences of such by young children. Please consider your own mental health when deciding whether or not to read on.)

Last time, I summed up death, lies, outrageous lies, and taxes, the great inevitabilities of my life. I even left you with the cheerful promise of the property selling at last, a critical step in my family’s achieving escape velocity. It is hard for me to be excited or happy about this, though. It is hard for me to be much of anything by this stage. While I coped well enough with the news of needing to sell and I weathered the Overlord’s death with a face (and perhaps a heart) of stone, by August, my nervous system has had enough. It decides to go on strike.

Cabin Fever and Other Mental Health Issues

The thing you need to understand is that I have been plagued by mental health issues since childhood. It has been complicated by a series of bad diagnoses that left me without proper help or treatment while I had health care coverage. As an adult, no longer covered under my parents’ insurance, my access to health care has been restricted to the most dire of emergencies. The idea of receiving professional help now, during my most trying time, is lovely and impossible.

As a child, I swung between highs and lows with disturbing frequency and for no clear reason. I was an active child with access to tons of outdoor space, so it was not so strange that I would run until I dropped or take death- and gravity-defying leaps from rocks and trees and horses. Less normal were the nights when I couldn’t sleep and got up to watch videos at three in the morning at age 9. I was a child raised in an all-adult world with no siblings or close neighbors for company, so it was not so strange that I would be a little odd, given to old-fashioned turns of phrase and a chronic inability to relate well with my peers. Less normal were the listless days when I could not bear the thought of getting out of bed or the episodes of selective mutism or the overwhelming sense of loneliness and isolation.

At age 10, I was sent to a specialist for testing. My teacher thought I might have ADD. This was when ADD was first becoming the very popular diagnosis for any child who didn’t fit well in the conventional school system. I was told I had a mild case of it, the supposed cause of my inability to concentrate on school work. My mother refused to have me medicated, however, for which I remain grateful. No one, you see, had bothered to ask me WHY I couldn’t concentrate. I might have told someone about the crushing depression that made it impossible to care about something so trivial as math or history. I might have told them about the fevered mania that made me desperate to work on my own writing and inventing to the exclusion of all else. I was ten, though, and no one asked and I didn’t know this wasn’t what life was supposed to feel like.

Two years later, I made my first suicidal gesture. Three more years after that and I would make my most serious suicide attempt, which involved an unpleasant quantity of pills. The year after that, I would carve up and burn bits of myself as my new and marginally less hazardous coping mechanism. I have had days when I could barely get out of bed and days when I could not stop working even if I wanted to, even if my body ached and my brain buzzed and my hands shook.

Since that specialist in fourth grade, I have never been formally diagnosed with anything. (I suspect, and others agree, that I may have Bipolar II, the less-manic, more-depressed sibling of Bipolar Disorder.) I have never been medicated. I was, briefly, made to see a family councilor. Though talk of suicide had landed me in her office, she was more interested in policing my teenage use of misogynistic slang than discussing why I had lost the will to live. I was terrified I would be institutionalized and refused to open up to anyone but my close friends, who could not fix me. I became an expert at hiding wounds and I learned to wear a jacket even in the California summer to hide the scars.

I tell you all of this only to give context to what I will say next: Before 2013 started, I was doing well and I knew how to manage my symptoms on my own and I thought I had seen what rock bottom was for me.

I was wrong about that last one.

I did pretty okay through July. Hell, I released my first self-published collection in mid-August. Knowing the more vicious tendencies of my brain chemistry, I anticipated a mood crash following the weeks of frenetic work leading up to the release. Considering my high hopes, disappointment seemed inevitable.

What I actually got was about three weeks of being physically incapable of doing anything but lying in my parents’ bed, dozing and reading and sleeping and crying and sleeping some more. My chest felt tight all the time and strange fevers swept over my skin. I lost my appetite and that was a first for me. I could barely leave the house and the idea of leaving the property terrified me. When the first offer on the property came in and the conflict with the Hive Mind got more heated, my symptoms got worse. I woke up short of breath and with chest pain every morning and that wake-up came earlier every day as I became less able to sleep peacefully. My tendency towards nightmares ramped up into terrors.

I started experiencing dry heaving and vomiting every morning. I couldn’t keep food down until noon, at best. Sometimes I did not eat until evening. I could get out of bed at this point, at least, so I helped with packing and storing all our belongings on an empty stomach. I lost ten pounds in two weeks and twenty in a month. None of my clothing fit right any more. I hyperventilated on occasion, particularly when in the midst of processing paperwork into and out of the computer for the Scapegoat or when listening to her phone conversations with lawyers and agents. I would spend whole days unable to speak without stuttering, as anxiety locked up my words, and there were days when I could not speak at all.

In more romanticized ages, this all would have been called a nervous breakdown and, if I came from money, I might have been sent to live at a country estate for a rest cure. I already lived on the country estate, I had no money, and the work never stopped coming. I shook and stuttered and gasped my way though the rest of August, though September, through November. Always, I looked toward the possibility of selling the property and seeing some relief. Always, I found that each step forward brought more paperwork to get into the computer without access to a working scanner, more phone calls I couldn’t bear to hear even one side of, more nasty messages from the Hive Mind.

I moved boxes and I processed paperwork and I kept up the day-to-day chores of running a ranch that did not belong to me. I did it on an empty stomach and I did it when I could not get through a sentence without gagging on my anxiety and, finally, I did it when my body simply ran out of energy for panic or sadness or anger or any other emotion. My new anxiety disorder ran on a cycle and I longed for the days when I had maxed out on panic and could only move robotically through my tasks without the ability to be upset by anything that happened.

I thought by sixteen that I had seen the darkest desperation and the most toxic rage and the emptiest numbness I could reach. I thought I had left contemplation of suicide behind me. I thought I knew what a bad day was. I was wrong about all of it.

I became certain that the crushing weight of my sadness and my physical deterioration would kill me before anything improved. At last, though, in the first week of December, escrow closed. I received the money I was owed on that loan to the Overlord. The Scapegoat received her inherited portion of the sale proceeds. Between the two of us, we had all the money we would be able to spend on buying a new place. (Why yes, that loaned money is going to get spent again. Yes, I will be paying off my own loan for a rather long time. Yes, helping the Overlord out was the most destructive financial deal I have ever entered. No, life has not gotten easier yet.)

Please don’t think that receiving that money means the the process of finding a new home starts (or ends) at this point. Migration started years ago, truth be told, and will carry on into the new year before it is finished. A little thinner and a little shakier and a little more wary, I look to the north.

To Be Continued…

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MacGyver Approves This Story

Let me tell you a story. It’s called “I Never Asked to Be MacGyver!”

Yesterday, among other things, my father and I went to pick up materials for hooking up my travel trailer for moving to the new place. Also, we hauled up a dump trailer full of fruit trees. Long story short, though, at one point, the plug for the dump trailer was taken off the truck. We didn’t know that it never got put back. It got to drag for the rest of the day.

Fast-forward to sundown. We’ve finished all our other work and the only thing left to do in the dying light is unload the trees before heading back south.

Did you know that the worst possible thing you can hear is your travel companion saying, “Oh, damn,” followed by a frantic kind of silence?

The plug is destroyed, chewed up by the road, all mauled metal and detached wires. Without the plug, we have no running lights, brake lights, trailer brakes, or turn signals on the trailer. And it is going to be full dark soon and we are two hundred miles from where we need to be.

Cue my best (worst) MacGyverism experience ever. We’ve got the adapter for the travel trailer, which my father made himself. If we dismantle it, we can use it to replace the destroyed dump trailer plug, provided we can get the wires connected up. We have as our resources, beyond the soon-to-be-cannibalized adapter, a small pocket knife with scissors and a nail file, an iPad for a flashlight, and whatever random junk we can scrounge up from what the previous tenants left scattered outside the house.

At one point, as we tried to figure out how to keep the spliced-together wires in place in the absence of, oh, say, tape of any variety, I actually said to my father the following words:

“I don’t have tape, but I have a maxi pad. We could wrap it, adhesive side in, around the wires to hold them together.”

As it turns out, I only had to break off sections of scrap wire embedded in the garden, barehanded, to tie it up. Still, those words happened, and I think you need to recognize how completely, appallingly awesome my life is sometimes.

Oh, we also blew a fuse in the truck while making the repairs. So we had to fix that by iPad light as well. It didn’t help that I had forgotten to take off my sunglasses as it got darker. I wore sunglasses at night while MacGyvering a vehicle.

Yes, we are that badass.

It is now after seven, full dark, and my father and I have once again earned our reputations for resourcefulness in the face of Greek tragedy levels of bad luck. We unload the fruit trees, grab fuel for both the truck and ourselves, and hit the road.

Only to get pulled over by a cop. At this point, I’ve had just about enough. I no longer feel like a badass. I feel tired and sore and I am vibrating from the stress. I am telling myself, do not have a panic attack in front of this cop, you will get shot in the face, breathe like a normal human for the next three minutes. We’re thinking, naturally, that the whole mess of wire has fallen apart and we no longer have any lights.

As it turns out? One of the tail lights has a broken cover and the red nail polish we used to tint the bulb has since burned off. That is why we have been pulled over. A friendly warning, sans citation, to get it fixed. I cannot tell if this is monstrous bad luck or embarrassingly good.

Since we made it home alive, in more or less the same number of pieces as when we left, didn’t get ticketed, and came away with this story to share, I’m going to call it good.

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The Year of the Move, Pt. 2

Last time, I told you a little about the situation that got us into the mess that would be 2013. I’ve had the bomb dropped on me that I will be moving before the year is out, voluntarily or otherwise, and I will have very little choice but to go wherever I am told. It has been a couple months, though, and we are no closer to either selling or buying. The only moving we are doing is sinking deeper.

Escape Velocity

Jump ahead to March. The unthinkable happens: a freak medical emergency sends the Overlord into surgery. Multiple strokes and ten days in a coma later, she dies.

Life just got rather more complicated. Both halves of the Hive Mind and the Scapegoat are co-trustees of the Overlord’s family trust. Theft of documents, lies and accusations, and the hiring of lawyers ensues. The Hive Mind stays for a few months, takes whatever belongings they want, and then pisses off back home to another state. Now it is summer. The property has been listed for months with no offers, no serious interest.

More accusations fly. More vitriol and stupidity. The Hive Mind tries to get out of repaying me the loan I made in 2012 to the Overlord for the new well, without which the property is worthless.

(I took out a loan against my one big asset, the birthright my mother created for me as a baby, to get the money for the Overlord. If you ever wondered why, exactly, I trade favors for book editing and do all my own layouts and cover art, this is why: The money that should have gone to starting my business went to bailing out the Overlord.)

The Hive Mind tries to get out of paying taxes. The Hive Mind tries to get out of paying the fees for any professional who has the misfortune of working with this sack of feral cats. The Hive Mind implies the Scapegoat and I, by not paying all of the Overlord’s expenses, caused her death. The Hive Mind officially goes so far off the rails, their own lawyer appears to regret working with them. (She sends a slightly terrified-sounding email explaining that, oh, no, her clients totally consent to have the taxes paid, please don’t actually fuck with the IRS, despite the email the Hive Mind just sent that said, in summary, “fuck no, never pay anything ever, tell the IRS to fuck off.” It would be funny, except no.) Keep in mind, none of this is their money. This is the Overlord’s family trust’s money. Oh, but one half of the Hive Mind will inherit from whatever is left over, so of course they’ve had it earmarked since before the Overlord even died. (We will find out later they have finally, after many years of wanting to, built their dream house on their river-front property. One guess why they wanted that trust money so badly.)

Meanwhile, we are still told to look grateful. We are informed by an old friend (“friend”) that the Overlord paid for everything in the history of ever. Feed. Training. Utilities. Oh, apparently, the Overlord paid for my whole education. I wish someone had told that to the Department of Education, since I seem to have a lot of student loans for someone whose education was paid for by a fairy godmother.

We are told that our existence, our insistence on not selling our own belongings along with the property, our stubborn inability to teleport all of the horses and belongings off the property the moment a theoretical escrow closes–all of these things mean that we are destroying the value of the property. It is our fault it hasn’t sold yet. Everyone is making so many concessions for our sake.

We aren’t even allowed to ask for extra time after close of escrow to move, when an offer finally comes in for the first time. The Hive Mind tells the agent to ask only for a longer escrow (which does no good because where is the money?) and informs us after doing so that our needs would kill the deal. (It is supposed to be a unanimous decision, when there are deals to be made. The Hive Mind doesn’t care about silly rules like that, though. They can tell the agent whatever they want. Oh, you talked to the agent too? Hey, Scapegoat, that was totes illegal, you’re super awful, go sit in the corner. Yeah…)

At last, something goes right: An acquaintance in the area makes an offer and a final price is reached. On their own initiative, the buyer offers the three of us extra time after close of escrow to move. There are hiccups, to be sure, as a last-minute loan is acquired and pest treatments are done and paperwork is signed, resigned, amended, and signed some more. But sale is imminent. The price is a little low, but we can live with it. Things are looking up.

Sort of. Because, as it turns out, having your entire world upended can be kind of rough on your mental health.

To Be Continued…

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The Year of the Move, Pt. 1

In a post earlier this year, I mentioned that my grandmother had died and that I was having to move. I also mentioned that I might, at a later point, talk about those rather large pieces of news.

This is that later point. I won’t name names. I’ll maintain something approaching plausible deniability. But this, at last, will be the truth. It’s gonna take a while.

(If you don’t feel like reading this [very long, highly parenthetical] series of posts, I’ll give you the tl;dr version: my home got sold out from under me, I had a very hard time of it, I found out who my real family and friends were, and I survived long enough to make a new home. The long version is a lot longer, but possibly more interesting as well. You tell me.)

So grab a seat, have some popcorn, and listen to the shit show that was 2013 for me. The story, like all of mine, has a happy ending, but our heroes, like all of mine, have to bleed first.

Everything You Know is Gone

Here are the important players:

My grandmother, mother’s mother. Let’s call her the Overlord. (Hey, I never said I wouldn’t be editorializing the hell out of this story.)

My aunt and uncle. Let’s call them the Hive Mind.

My mother and father. Let’s call them the Scapegoat and the Whipping Boy.

And me. I’ll refrain from referring to myself with a clever title. (It would be the Paperwork Whisperer, FYI.)

The whole thing starts in January. The timeline looks something like this:

1st: Watch Rose Parade –> 2nd: Overlord: “Oh, bee-tee-dubs, I spent most of a million dollars in five years and won’t be able to pay that big-ass mortgage much longer.” –> 3rd: Prepare to become homeless

I have lived on the same piece of property my whole life. The Scapegoat has lived here forty years; the Whipping Boy, almost thirty-five. We own our house, a manufactured home that is twenty-five years old and held together by glue and wire and the Whipping Boy’s mechanical genius. But we do not own the property. The Overlord does. That, fundamentally, is where everything falls apart.

We do all the work of maintaining the property, save that which requires professionals. (Major tree trimming is not in my repertoire, thanks. Digging ditches to lay down electrical cable, however, is, as it turns out.). We do not have any hired hands. We also do all the work of the family horse business.

I have been working with the horses since, well, always. I grew up video taping show rounds and helping deliver foals and meeting with vets. I have been assisting the Scapegoat full-time since I finished college. I have been directly involved in starting the last nine horses born on the property. Several of them went to the track; one of them won his first race out. A few have been sold. Most came back home to become show horses. (The Scapegoat competes in Hunters and Jumpers. She has been winning championships and medal finals since she was a teenager.) I named most of them. I have been coach and groom and vet technician and videographer and security blanket. This is the work I do when I am not at the keyboard.

I don’t get paid. Neither do the Scapegoat or the Whipping Boy. We don’t pay rent, hurrah, but we do pay utilities. We split with the Overlord the cost of feed and vet bills and training and board at the track and entry fees. We don’t get paid. We break our bones and destroy our joints and spent thousands on medical care because this is hard work and it never, ever stops. The Whipping Boy came out of retirement to work part-time for minimum wage to make ends meet. (They don’t, but we get close.) The Whipping Boy will turn 80 next year. He will still be working.

We work every day. It never, ever stops. We don’t get paid. We are told, well, we live here, don’t we? We are told to look grateful.

Forty years is a long time. Our dead are buried here. We have bled into this dust and bedrock. We gave up having normal careers because there are not enough hours in a day to have one alongside this. We chose to stay here, a place where titles like “Scapegoat” and “Whipping Boy” are fitting ones, because this is home. We have nothing else, but we have this place.

Except we don’t, do we? We don’t own it. Possession is nine tenths of the law and 100% of our problem.

The full story of the Overlord, her relationship with the Scapegoat and the Whipping Boy and the Hive Mind and me, will have to wait for another day. It is not a happy story and I am not ready to tell it. Suffice it to say, having our continued housedness dependent upon the Overlord is a VERY BAD THING indeed. The Overlord spends money. She lies about money. She borrows money. She spends, lies, and borrows some more.

Cue the million-dollar mortgage. Cue a person spending money like she will not live another day. Cue that person staying very much alive. Cue the inevitable and looming specter of bankruptcy.

We, the three of us, knew when she took out that mortgage that we would never be able to keep the property. We could never pay off the mortgage and buy out the Hive Mind’s half. Barring a lottery win, we would one day move. Knowing, though, is no preparation at all for the process of packing up forty years’ worth of belongings and equipment and memories. It is no preparation for being told there are nine months of mortgage payments left, at best, so better pack up quickly before we end up in foreclosure.

We cannot even walk away from the situation because we have almost no money. Never paid, remember? Split all the costs, but get no income, and then try to buy property. Hell, try to buy food. It gets sort of difficult after a while. So. This is us, stuck on a sinking ship. This is us, grinning and bearing it and trying to think of some way to buy a better tomorrow.

Spend a couple months of fruitlessly looking at property in very expensive parts of California. The Overlord considers this a great opportunity to upgrade, thereby utterly missing the main feature of bankrupting oneself: life stops being marvelous fun. She refuses to look outside of the most prestigious ranching areas in the Central Coast. We are talking wine country. We are talking places where movies are filmed and movie stars vacation. She refuses to look at anything less than $800,000. She expects to get almost $3 million for the existing ranch. (No one has made any offers. A few people have looked. She won’t drop the price.)

She takes great care to consider us, of course. She looks at property with converted garages as second residences. Or converted barns. She even offers to buy us a manufactured home to put on a property she likes that doesn’t have a second residence. (We won’t get anything for the value of the house we own and we can’t take it with us.) Look grateful, remember? This is our life. We work and we do not get paid and we go where we are told and we pay what is demanded and we look grateful.

You know that happy ending I mentioned? The one that comes after the heroes bleed? We’re not there yet. We haven’t even gotten to the bleeding. We’ve gotten to March, kids.

To Be Continued…

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