Amazing Powers and Houses
As asked for by mostlyfoo
I'm not going to labour too long on my Amazing Butch Powers because I will probably say something horribly offensive to someone, somewhere. The ultimate point is that I don't know I have them, they just happen, and it's probably my mother's fault. I have certainly not bought off the Tomboy Disadvantage (I don't know what the fuck I'm doing with eyeshadow and fear of looking like a fucking panda has not encouraged me to experiment. This is not a void in my life) over the years and the investment in Craft (Rant) and Intimidate (or at least this is how other people have told me I spent my points) has continued as I've levelled up. They may be contributing factors, like my lack of femininity.
My lack of self-awareness on my Amazing Butch Powers does not grant me many insights of analysis, either.
But! Houses. I have lived in many of them. I have never lived in a house for more than seven consecutive years, and I don't remember most of those. Upheaval was a fairly standard part of my childhood, with schools more than houses, but that acceptance of things and people passing on and so letting them go easily - or not holding on to them so strongly in the first place - was a transferable skill. I went to university at 18. Lived in student accomodation, then two houses before I left uni. Within six months I was living in a different house - and my parents sold the house I'd lived in from age 0 to 7, then again 12 to 18 and moved a couple hundred miles away. I have not laid eyes on that house since, just as I have not laid eyes on the house in Paris since we moved fourteen years ago, just as I have not laid eyes on the holiday house in Brittany since my parents sold it about ten years ago.
For a while after that I struggled with the word 'home'. It would be almost three years before I would finally move into my current residence, before I broke the trend of moving house once every 12 months. Even though the places I lived had my stuff, my belongings, and my other half in them, they were only 'home' in the context of that being an easy word to use.
My parents moved to a great house, and one of the best things about it is that they no longer live 5 hours away on annoying roads. I sometimes still misspeak and call it 'home' - but it's not, and it never was. I don't have a room there, I have a usual guest room. I only call it home because for some reason it is still habit to refer to 'the house my parents live in' as 'home'. Since I left my parents' house, they have lived for longer in a house which was never my home. Habit remains. Illogical.
Over two years ago, my parents turned around to me and said, 'You've got a permanent job and you live in an area you're not looking to leave any time soon. You're self-sustaining and stable. We're going house hunting.' Because my parents are eminently practical people, and they have the money to back this up, and in their opinion, paying rent when one does not need to pay rent is simply money down the drain - it's not an investment, it's a large amount of money and if one can spend that money with something to show for it at the end, then that is sensible.
The house I now own and live in I actually saw on the first day of househunting. It was above my price range, but it was on the list to see because it's useful to get a look at the bracket just above and just below what you're looking for - not every house is going to be one you'll think about buying, but every house should be useful research. This house was actually the first house we saw, after a depressing morning of unsuitable flats.
It was gorgeous, and I wanted it. But I knew it was possible I was just being unduly influenced by a depressing morning, and it was £10k out of my price range. I looked at more houses. I saw some that I liked, some I didn't. When my parents suggested they come up to see some of my picks for themselves, there were four I put on the list to see. One was a house I was seriously considering, the front-runner in appeal and price. Another was a bit of a fixer-upper - but it was cheaper with it, so I'd have money to spend to make it good. A third was an outside choice where, looking back, I was entranced by a garage and a proper back garden.
The last was this house, put on there because I wanted to see it with a clear mind, with all my house viewing experience now behind me and, I think, to convince myself it wasn't all that nice after all. That I'd seen other houses. Nicer houses. There had been discussion with my parents on what the upper limit was, and it was over it, and this wasn't a birthday treat or even a car or something where, if it was right, they'd splash out a bit more. This was serious money and so even deep inside the extent to which I thought my parents might turn around and say "It's nice, it's worth spending the money on!" was about the same as the extent to which I thought I'd win the lottery.
That isn't what happened.
What happened is that the viewing of the Serious Contender was cancelled, and they refused to rearrange a viewing for when my parents would be available, even though I impressed upon them that I was seriously thinking of buying their house. That lost brownie points with me (if you want to sell your goddamn house, show it to the people who want to goddamn buy it) and put me in a serious grump. I showed my parents through the other two houses, which I suspected weren't really contenders anyway, and they pointed out all the things I knew were wrong with them anyway.
Then we came to The House, and it was gorgeous, still, and lovely, still, and I mentioned in earshot of the sales agent that it was just a shame it was the price it was. And he looked at me funny and said, "Didn't you know? They had to drop the price because it wasn't selling."
It took about ten minutes of being sat in the pub with my parents afterwards before we decided we were, in fact, thinking about it clearly and wanted it.
I suppose my point in this little tale of good fortune and coincidence is that I spent a long time having very unsentimental feelings about houses and homes. And now I have one, and it's mine through circumstances which could be called serendipitous, if one believes in that sort of thing. And when it comes to the house, I kind of do.
I am an unfussy person (in some things), and I have neglected the house in some ways. It still needs better decorating. I could generally unfuck my lifestyle and tidiness a bit better to give it the respect it deserves (Luke's the one who keeps it in good order and gives it respect). I'm looking forward to pictures going up in the coming weeks. I am sometimes (often) a slob, I am sometimes disregarding of things I should really worry more about (like that awful noise the pipes make when you flush the loo), I need to make it better (new shower, new oven, need to consider if I want to sell a kidney to make the cellar waterproof), but I feel very lucky I have this place, for having the fortune to be able to physically buy it (the house is in my name, because my parents are perfectly adept at using regular emotional blackmail instead of money to control me - I kid), and for the fortune that this place fell into my hands, and I do my utmost to not let myself forget it.
Because it is home and it is mine, every little inch of it - my stone, my soil, my wooden floor the cat will demolish over the years. And that brings with it a whole new level of glee and satisfaction, even beyond the fact that it's somewhere warm and comfy where my two most beloved living things in the world live (yes, most of you reading, I love my cat more than you) along with all my stuff. It's awfully capitalist and materialist and other petty, minor words where I'm caring about how physical things are just things and they shouldn't matter as much.
But they do. They're icing on the cake. But it's damn good icing. My stone. My soil. My roof.
I'm not going to labour too long on my Amazing Butch Powers because I will probably say something horribly offensive to someone, somewhere. The ultimate point is that I don't know I have them, they just happen, and it's probably my mother's fault. I have certainly not bought off the Tomboy Disadvantage (I don't know what the fuck I'm doing with eyeshadow and fear of looking like a fucking panda has not encouraged me to experiment. This is not a void in my life) over the years and the investment in Craft (Rant) and Intimidate (or at least this is how other people have told me I spent my points) has continued as I've levelled up. They may be contributing factors, like my lack of femininity.
My lack of self-awareness on my Amazing Butch Powers does not grant me many insights of analysis, either.
But! Houses. I have lived in many of them. I have never lived in a house for more than seven consecutive years, and I don't remember most of those. Upheaval was a fairly standard part of my childhood, with schools more than houses, but that acceptance of things and people passing on and so letting them go easily - or not holding on to them so strongly in the first place - was a transferable skill. I went to university at 18. Lived in student accomodation, then two houses before I left uni. Within six months I was living in a different house - and my parents sold the house I'd lived in from age 0 to 7, then again 12 to 18 and moved a couple hundred miles away. I have not laid eyes on that house since, just as I have not laid eyes on the house in Paris since we moved fourteen years ago, just as I have not laid eyes on the holiday house in Brittany since my parents sold it about ten years ago.
For a while after that I struggled with the word 'home'. It would be almost three years before I would finally move into my current residence, before I broke the trend of moving house once every 12 months. Even though the places I lived had my stuff, my belongings, and my other half in them, they were only 'home' in the context of that being an easy word to use.
My parents moved to a great house, and one of the best things about it is that they no longer live 5 hours away on annoying roads. I sometimes still misspeak and call it 'home' - but it's not, and it never was. I don't have a room there, I have a usual guest room. I only call it home because for some reason it is still habit to refer to 'the house my parents live in' as 'home'. Since I left my parents' house, they have lived for longer in a house which was never my home. Habit remains. Illogical.
Over two years ago, my parents turned around to me and said, 'You've got a permanent job and you live in an area you're not looking to leave any time soon. You're self-sustaining and stable. We're going house hunting.' Because my parents are eminently practical people, and they have the money to back this up, and in their opinion, paying rent when one does not need to pay rent is simply money down the drain - it's not an investment, it's a large amount of money and if one can spend that money with something to show for it at the end, then that is sensible.
The house I now own and live in I actually saw on the first day of househunting. It was above my price range, but it was on the list to see because it's useful to get a look at the bracket just above and just below what you're looking for - not every house is going to be one you'll think about buying, but every house should be useful research. This house was actually the first house we saw, after a depressing morning of unsuitable flats.
It was gorgeous, and I wanted it. But I knew it was possible I was just being unduly influenced by a depressing morning, and it was £10k out of my price range. I looked at more houses. I saw some that I liked, some I didn't. When my parents suggested they come up to see some of my picks for themselves, there were four I put on the list to see. One was a house I was seriously considering, the front-runner in appeal and price. Another was a bit of a fixer-upper - but it was cheaper with it, so I'd have money to spend to make it good. A third was an outside choice where, looking back, I was entranced by a garage and a proper back garden.
The last was this house, put on there because I wanted to see it with a clear mind, with all my house viewing experience now behind me and, I think, to convince myself it wasn't all that nice after all. That I'd seen other houses. Nicer houses. There had been discussion with my parents on what the upper limit was, and it was over it, and this wasn't a birthday treat or even a car or something where, if it was right, they'd splash out a bit more. This was serious money and so even deep inside the extent to which I thought my parents might turn around and say "It's nice, it's worth spending the money on!" was about the same as the extent to which I thought I'd win the lottery.
That isn't what happened.
What happened is that the viewing of the Serious Contender was cancelled, and they refused to rearrange a viewing for when my parents would be available, even though I impressed upon them that I was seriously thinking of buying their house. That lost brownie points with me (if you want to sell your goddamn house, show it to the people who want to goddamn buy it) and put me in a serious grump. I showed my parents through the other two houses, which I suspected weren't really contenders anyway, and they pointed out all the things I knew were wrong with them anyway.
Then we came to The House, and it was gorgeous, still, and lovely, still, and I mentioned in earshot of the sales agent that it was just a shame it was the price it was. And he looked at me funny and said, "Didn't you know? They had to drop the price because it wasn't selling."
It took about ten minutes of being sat in the pub with my parents afterwards before we decided we were, in fact, thinking about it clearly and wanted it.
I suppose my point in this little tale of good fortune and coincidence is that I spent a long time having very unsentimental feelings about houses and homes. And now I have one, and it's mine through circumstances which could be called serendipitous, if one believes in that sort of thing. And when it comes to the house, I kind of do.
I am an unfussy person (in some things), and I have neglected the house in some ways. It still needs better decorating. I could generally unfuck my lifestyle and tidiness a bit better to give it the respect it deserves (Luke's the one who keeps it in good order and gives it respect). I'm looking forward to pictures going up in the coming weeks. I am sometimes (often) a slob, I am sometimes disregarding of things I should really worry more about (like that awful noise the pipes make when you flush the loo), I need to make it better (new shower, new oven, need to consider if I want to sell a kidney to make the cellar waterproof), but I feel very lucky I have this place, for having the fortune to be able to physically buy it (the house is in my name, because my parents are perfectly adept at using regular emotional blackmail instead of money to control me - I kid), and for the fortune that this place fell into my hands, and I do my utmost to not let myself forget it.
Because it is home and it is mine, every little inch of it - my stone, my soil, my wooden floor the cat will demolish over the years. And that brings with it a whole new level of glee and satisfaction, even beyond the fact that it's somewhere warm and comfy where my two most beloved living things in the world live (yes, most of you reading, I love my cat more than you) along with all my stuff. It's awfully capitalist and materialist and other petty, minor words where I'm caring about how physical things are just things and they shouldn't matter as much.
But they do. They're icing on the cake. But it's damn good icing. My stone. My soil. My roof.