Buying a house is a bit like having a child. There’s the whole miserable escrow thing that you carry around — you mention it to people, and they’re excited for you, and they ask, “when’s it going to close?” And you say, “I don’t know, hopefully a couple weeks.” And then you start going into the details, leaving out the bits about the hemorrhoids and impulse trips to NYC because “when will we ever have the chance?” — and your friend’s eyes glaze over and you realize moments after they’ve walked away that you never asked how they were doing.
So you close escrow and start renovating the place (you’ve been looking at paint chips and flooring samples for months) and you have just a few weeks to make the place livable before you have to move from your rental. Talking about renovation — you mention it to everyone — seems eerily similar to talking about newborns’ sleeping habits. Your friends have either been through it or they haven’t. Either way, unless they’re good friends, they don’t give a fuck.
You decide to stick it all in a blog. As if you’ll find the time.