Lost and Found

Terrified.

I sign on the house on Friday morning and move in on Friday afternoon. And I'm scared. This is what Christian-ey people call an Act of Faith. I'm beginning to learn just how deep my faith is.

Mind Visit.

I went to a shrink today.

I haven't been to counseling since 1997. Sarah and I used to participate in this thing that my school called "Stress Group." I'm still not certain how I ended up in "Stress Group," but I know that I loved it. A handful of the "leaders" from our class would meet once a week in the guidance counselor's office to bitch about AP classes, our families, our relationships with others.

My guidance counselor had this amazing gift at making me cry. I don't know that we ever came to a conclusion as to why I was stressed, or what I could do about it.

Today, in less than an hour, my new shrink gave me an educated guess as to why I'm stressed. I can say that her suggestion would have been as valid in 1997 as it is today.

It's amazing that no matter how much I've changed in eight years, the same issues are still there. No matter how much I try to bury them.

When I left her office today, I felt like I was once more a senior in high school.

It's not a bad feeling.

Anti-climactic Purchase.

I used to spend the summers with my mom in Holland, Michigan. For roughly eight years of my life, these trips were the highlight of my year. Spending time with my mom and older sister, Mandy was truly a vacation for me. We would do things that I didn't get to do the rest of the year. We would bake cookies together, write progressive stories together, sew dresses, go to the beach. We would go grocery shopping. I could be girly with my mom and Mandy. I could be creative. I could be myself.

For about a month before my mom would show up in my driveway in her wood-paneled station wagon, I would count down the days, the hours. My bags were packed on May 1st for her June arrival. For a week, I wouldn't be able to sleep. My excitement was uncontainable. Her arrival trumped the arrival of Santa in my mind.

That eagerness, that sometimes painful feeling you have while impatiently waiting for something, has slowly dissipated in my life. I used to lie awake at nights before trips, begging the clock to move quickly, so I could get on that plane to Europe. I used to stare at my new notebooks and pretend that it was already the first day of class, and the first few pages were filled with notes about what we would learn that quarter. I used to hunger for my birthday, Christmas, a visit from a friend.

Now, while I'm still as passionate, I feel as if life has taken a turn. I'm too busy to waste hours idling in anticipation for an event. I worry, instead. Will the plane be on time? Will I get everything done before I need to leave? Will the gifts be wrapped by Christmas? I guess I'm an adult, now.

So it's kind of strange to just be floating, day by day, closer to my December 2 closing date, without feeling anything. By this time next month, I'm going to be a homeowner. How do I feel about it? Numb. I'm not necessarily looking forward to it, not really dreading it, either.

I was more excited about the first day of my Anthropology class than I am about buying my house.

Sometimes you hear about expectant mothers that aren't as giddy as the world requires them to be. I don't know if I'm the same; it's hard to tell. Instead, I'm more concerned with finding the right homeowner's insurance.

And running. I'm really excited about running tonight. And the snow. It's snowing outside and I'm excited about that. Weird.

Music Notes.

The top 25 most played songs in my iTunes are as follows. I am not actually going to list the song titles, just the artists. For whatever reason, revealing the titles of the songs seems like it would be a little too personal, show a little too much of Jill to the world. Even though I willingly tell a little too much to the world via this here blog on a weekly basis. I guess what I'm saying is that I believe that the music that I listen to bares more of my soul than what I write. Take that as you will.

1. Damien Rice
2. The Jayhawks
3. Damien Rice
4. Yeah Yeah Yeahs
5. Yo La Tengo
6. David Gray
7. Jem
8. Tom Waits
9. The Innocence Mission
10. Azure Ray
11. The Jayhawks
12. Tom Waits
13. The Jayhawks
14. Leonard Cohen
15. Yo La Tengo
16. The Innocence Mission
17. The Magnetic Fields
18. Air
19. Jeff Buckley
20. Beth Orton
21. Damien Rice
22. The Innocence Mission
23. Tom Waits
24. Tom Waits
25. The Whitlams

A note on The Jayhawks. Maya and I listened to them on the way up the West Coast. I distinctly remember listening to "Rainy Day Music" while I was in Portland, Oregon on the day that my grandmother died.

A note on the Yeah Yeah Yeahs. I think that I accidentally had this song on repeat while I left my apartment one day.

A note on Yo La Tengo and "And Then Nothing Turned Itself Inside Out." This album has magical powers. No matter what state of distress I may be in, this album seems to find me and provide instant calm and peace. I was in New York City with Mollie and company two years ago. It was rainy and nearing Christmas. I was soaked and somewhat concerned about something. Maybe getting together with friends or something. I can't remember. But we were in a café and this album came on. And then things were okay. My clothes dried up and everything worked out. This album found me again on Saturday night at Rossi, a posh little joint in the Short North. I was all concerned that I had been a dick to one of my roommates, and then this album came on. Instant calm.

A note on close contenders. A couple of artists are creeping their way up the list. I fully expect that if things go well, we might see Iron & Wine, Death Cab for Cutie, Andrew Bird, The Kings of Convenience, Sufjan Stevens and Feist on the list.

Bank Drama.

I just finished quietly weeping in my bank. I walked over to my branch during lunch to make a withdrawal and to get a print-out of my transactions for the last two months. It’s time for Jill to make a budget.

I really enjoy interacting with the women at my bank. While we don’t get down into the inner details of our lives, they know that I’m buying a house, and I know that they’re getting married and going to grad school for marketing, respectively. We say hi to one another when we cross paths in the shopping center. It’s nice to have friendly tellers.

I’m walking back to the store when I start to look through the papers with my account details, when I notice “Wal-mart” on the top of the list. I start to scan down further. Apparently I’ve made purchases at Wal-mart, Giant Eagle and an Exxon station multiple times in the past few days. Apparently it takes $80 to fill up my gas tank. My stomach drops. Someone has my account information, and is spending my money at places that I’m either too snobby to shop at, or morally opposed to spending money at.

I walk back up to the counter, and point at the sheet. “I don’t shop at Wal-mart. I hate Wal-mart,” I quietly whisper to her, trying not to cry.

She asks me to sit in the waiting area, and hands me a highlighter to mark all the purchases that I haven’t made. Kohl’s. Vision Specialists. Kroger in Worthington. I’m on the second page when I’m called to the desk. I can’t talk because I’m sobbing.

“So there’s something wrong,” the girl whose name I can’t remember says, as she starts looking at my account information. I nod.

“Don’t worry,” she says in a comforting voice, “We’ll get these off.”

I still am not able to talk. I’m yelling at myself for not being more protective with my account information. I’m thinking about mortgage payments, about the brakes that I wrote a check for yesterday.

And then she takes the papers.

“This isn’t your account.”

“It’s not?” I ask.

“No.”

“I don’t shop at Wal-mart,” I choke out.

“I don’t like them, either,” she whispers.

That was just one of many reasons why I wanted to hug my banker at that moment.

Wandering Eyes.

Today I paid a guy named Mike to snoop through the house that I may buy at the end of the month. Together, Mike and I climbed into the attic and looked at bathroom exhaust lines. We looked under the kitchen sink, behind the stove, under the deck, on the roof.

A house is not unlike the human body. Our wrinkles, scars, coloring and stretch marks tell a story. Our outward appearance gives a clue to the quality of the inner workings. I paid Mike to look out the outward symptoms and give a guess as to what was inside. We saw the marks of a leak from the 1970’s. We saw where previous owners had done a good job with upkeep, and where they had failed. Each corner told a story. I found myself asking questions.

Why would you put in new windows and paint them shut? When did this wall come up? What is it covering? Who decided to add the sandbox? Did the current owners do the landscaping?

I spent the three hours half listening to Mike talk about plumbing while trying to determine what the current owners were like. They have two children, twins. A boy and a girl. Judging from the birthday cards, they are two years old. The adults are Christians – active Christians – not the angel magnet / cross stitched wall hanging / Christmas / Easter variety, but the kind that read books about God, the kind that leave their Bible on the floor next to their unmade bed. She likes country décor and watches home design shows on cable. He has a trophy on his desk. They have a lot of wine glasses. They take pride in the work that they do. They feed their children pop tarts. They’re building a new house in the country.

Someday, I’ll meet them face-to-face. It will be strange. I know not only problems with their house, but I know the way they live. I’ve walked through their messes and know what kind of dishwashing soap they use.

But they’ll know almost nothing about me. They’ll know that I’m a 26-year-old single woman buying their home.

When you buy a home from someone, you’re customarily not supposed to like him or her. You’re supposed to critique their style behind their backs, and be nitpicky about things that are wrong with the house. You’re supposed to assume that they’re trying to screw you over, that they’re hiding something. You pay people like Mike to find this stuff out.

While I’m not a huge fan of the country décor, I can say that I think that I like the owners. I suppose we do have at least one thing in common, besides Bible on the floor thing. We both fell in love with the same house.

Not A Juxtaposition.

I just forwarded liberal propaganda to my church's college e-mail list, to show the other views on tomorrow's election issues. (An e-mail with a conservative slant had been sent earlier today.)

Now I feel sick.

I have two passions: a) God and b) the liberal agenda in politics. The two shouldn't be mutually exclusive, but our culture generally paints them as opposites.

This is what I've learned today: I'm just as nervous telling liberals about God as I am telling Christians about liberal issues. The sad thing is that when it comes down to it, if you actually read the Bible and study Christ, liberals and Christians should get along. Christ was a rebel that cares about the poor. So is that dude beating the drums down in Goodale Park.

When I look at how much I separate the two passions, I realize that I'm very close-minded and riddled with disbelief at the collision of my worlds. If I'm passionate about something, I shouldn't stifle that feeling. My belief in issues2 through 5 on the ballot tomorrow, as well as my belief in Jesus Christ shouldn't be strong only when I'm around others who think the same way that I do. That's retarded. I have an opportunity to sway votes in the election and votes for God. But I'm too terrified to do either. When I sit down and think aout it, I'm one flawed character.

That's when I thank God that my flaws are okay in His eyes.

Please Write.

I just wrote the first of many checks. I now have a mortgage company, and am officially "under contract." Starting today, I will be poor for the next 30 years.

But I'll own a sump pump.

I've decided to organize a collection of paragraphs, short stories and tips about homeownership. I really have no common sense, and know nothing about how to operate a house. For example, my friend Sarah, who owns a house in Clintonville, told me over a beer this week that if you don't run the fan in the bathroom, mold will grow all over the surfaces of the room, and there's no feasible way to remove it. This was helpful information.

So. Here's my plea. Talk to your friends, family members, neighbors. Get them to write essays about the first time the second floor bathtub fell through the kitchen ceiling. Make sure that the essays include what they learned from the event. Send the essays to me. I will then read and compile them into a booklet for first-time homeowners.

It will be fantastic.

Maybe someone will write an essay about a sump pump. Then I'll know what one is, and what it does.

Closing Costs.

Somewhere out there, there are tiny little rich gnomes that climb into your bedroom at night and whisper into your ear, “You should buy a house.” They do this to all sorts of people during the twilight hours. Generally, they stick to people in the suburbs, but occasionally they hit people like me. Like a visit from Santa Claus, these nocturnal visits leave you feeling warm and happy.

“Yes,” you think to yourself upon waking, “I should buy a house.”

Meanwhile, as you find yourself on the county auditor’s website looking at property values, the tiny little rich gnomes are working their day jobs. The rich gnomes work for mortgage companies, title companies, lenders, home owners insurance companies and some of them work at a place called “escrow.”

When you blindly and numbly hand over all the money you have to them, they pretend like they’ve never seen you before.

But they have. They’ve snuck into your room, whispered in your ear, gingerly dabbed the drool off of your pillow and ever so subtly tricked you into giving them everything you have.

Suck.