The Offer

Hi, Nation.

Hey, remember when I said we were moving?  Back up to Michigan?  Well, a big step of that process, in addition to the packing and moving and getting jobs and all that crap, is the selling of our current house.  The housing market has improved somewhat since when we bought the house three years ago, so we were optimistic about selling our home relatively quickly.

But we had NO idea just how quickly it would go.

We hired a realtor named Ken, who came highly recommended from one of Kris' church friends and happens to be one of Central Florida's Top 100 realtors, and he came over and snooped out our house.  Now, we're not slobs or anything, but we didn't realize our house was as well-maintained and clean as it was - Ken looked around, asked some questions about the property, and informed us that our house was in amazing shape and we should be able to get what we wanted for it no problem at all.  This was indeed good news.

See, three years ago the couple that owned the home (the only people to ever live in the home, by the way - they built it) put it on the market at a pre-appraisal rate their selling agent recommended.  We checked out the home, loved it, and put in an offer for that was about two grand less than what they were asking for, as that was all we could get from our lender at the time (despite our excellent credit rating, we had no money for a deposit, having not all that much saved up at the time, thank you very much second child.)  Despite our lower offer, the elderly couple liked us, thanks to our 'adorable' little kids who we brought along with us to view the property, and accepted our offer.  When the property appraisal came in, it valued the house a little less than their initial offer, which is what we ended up paying for it.

(Hooray.)

Don't ask me what the hell's up with our tree.  I won't miss it.

Fast forward three years to Present Day.  In the couple years we've owned the joint, we've paid off about $7,000 on it, and it's valued at over thirty grand more than what it was when we bought it.  Ken decided to list it at that price, based on comparable properties in the area, and see what happens.  We figured we'd generate a few bites in the first weekend, but none of us - Ken included - dreamed of the amount of frenzy our modest, little house would generate.

The ad went up Thursday morning, and within hours Kris (who was the contact number for the property) started receiving phone calls from buying agents like crazy.  She showed the house to one set of buyers that morning, before she went to work, and scheduled six showings for the next day, during that hour between when she had to drop the kids off of school and when she went to work.  Then, on Saturday (when Yours Truly was dealing with alligators, six-year-olds, and oppressive Florida sun with the Daisies, if you'll be so good as to recall), our house was bombarded with a steady stream of buyers.  

Long story short, we received over a dozen offers - some generous, others comically awful - and lost count of how many people viewed our house, but by Sunday morning we had narrowed down all of our offers and interested parties to two buyers.  Of these two, one ended up being cleared right away, and we pounced on it.

And so, dear readers, we have now begun the so-called 'closing' process once again, this time on the other side of the bargaining table.  We'll be walking away from this whole house-thing with a considerable nest egg, having nothing more than the dumb luck of buying a house when the market sucked, taking care of the place, and selling it back when the market was awesome.

To say we're happy about this turn of events would be. . . well, one hell of an understatement.

As our good friend John "Hannibal" Smith used to say. . .

- Brian

Random Late-Winter Updates, etc.

Hey creepers,

Not much has changed over the last week or so - whenever the hell I last updated this thing, I don't know.  We're both still working a lot, keeping our heads down and killing time until those fun things on the horizon (Wicked for Kris, Italy for Yours Truly, St. Patrick's Day for all of us) finally decide to get their lazy asses in gear and show up.

The weather down here lately has been horrible - in the morning it's 40 degrees, and by noon it's in the low 80s.  There's no way in Hell one can prepare themselves for this, either physically or clothing-ly.  All this hot/cold/hot/cold crap is making everyone sick - allergies are running rampant, kids are walking around with smoker's cough, snot rags litter the floors, and nobody knows how to dress themselves.  At this point, I'd be totally cool with winter weather if it would just stay winter weather long enough so that I could get used to it.

I hate Florida.

Anyway, now that I've grumbled about the weather like some 76-year-old man, here's some random pictures from over the last two weeks or so.

Enjoy.

- Brian

Sunchild Spring 2013 Portraits 

The Little Rocks Kids Choir, performing at the Osceola County Fair (the Cannonball's the short one)

Exit, Stage Left.

I don't know who this other kid is.

After the concert. . .

I hate camels.

At the Heavy Petting Zoo. . .

Alayna, petting some kind of furry quadruped.

I'm not sure, but it looks like this cow's head is stuck. . .

Pumped.

The Cannonball apparently loved this (she's second from the back)

Alayna wanted to be dressed up like Pocahontas.  Abby just hates wearing clothes.

Alayna's last day with Ms. Virginia, the teacher who is primarily responsible for teaching her how to read.  Ms. Virginia is moving back to Ecuador, so the VPK kids are going to be getting a new teacher, who will hopefully be just as good at teaching reading and writing.

For the last few years, the kids have monopolized our living room TV - I guess that sorta thing happens when you have kids.  On Saturday, however, I wanted to use the Wii (something I never get to do anymore) while having my morning coffee, so I rigged up a VCR to an old TV we had in the garage and set the girls up in their bedroom for the morning.  This may have to be a weekend ritual from this point forward. . .

While shopping in the Loop, the girls get distracted with a fountain. . .

Seizing other folks' wishes. . .

Stopover at Menchies - the kids' favorite ice creamery 

One of our lilly clusters, back from a winter nap. . .

If you ever want to keep preschoolers occupied and out of your hair, give them a big pile of dirt and a shovel.

Field hands.

Kris wanted these plastic things gone.  Personally, I'd like to ring the smaller fruit trees with stones - not sure why the previous owner was so obsessed with all the white plastic in his backyard. . .

The Cannonball attempts to water the grass. . . which, as you can see, is REALLY thirsty.

I have a shit-load of rocks.  No idea what I'm doing with all of this crap. . .

Sunset over Ginger Mill. . .

I decided to break out the old Playmobile sets so the girls could play with something new. . . I forgot this stuff was like plastic heroin.

Back for action, after 20 years. . .

Loving sisters.

Kris should really know better, sitting in the Splash Zone. . .

The Coconut Game

It's Wednesday morning, there's a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen, the classic Muppet Family Christmas on the TV, and I'm not at work.

Nope.  I'm lounging in pajamas, at home, with both kids.  Why?

Because of the Coconut Game.

"What the hell's a Coconut Game?" you might ask.  Good question.  I honestly don't know. 

You could ask my four-year-old - it's her thing - but she probably wouldn't be able to explain it that well for ya.  From what I can gather, it's a lot like 'Duck Duck Goose'. . . which, consequently, means that it's a total blast if you're under eight years old, but pretty shitty if you're older than that.

(I mean, as much fun as I like standing up, sitting down, and being hit in the head and all. . .)

SUCKS.

Anyway, last night was Bath Night.  That means that our wind-down routine with the girls is an additional half-hour long.  Not bad, you say, but when you only have three or four hours of home time per night once one gets home from work, that's a solid chunk of time.  Now, last night, like any other Bath Night, our kids had gotten out of the bath tub and, in a nudist state of pre-pajama bliss, were growing more and more hyper as we continually asked them to dress themselves.

It was from within this moment of usual chaos that Alayna - in her infinite wisdom - suggested Abby join her in playing the Coconut Game.  As the two began jumping up and down, hitting each other (and us) on top of the head, and progressively winding themselves up into a frenzy, Abby began throwing herself back on a bean bag chair we keep in their bedroom.  Over and over again she'd jump back onto this thing, laughing hysterically. . .

. . . and then she missed it.

With a load crack, her head struck the marble sill of their bedroom window.  She began crying, and for a brief moment Kris and I shared a God, that's kid's gonna hurt herself one of these days looks.  I suggested Kris take her into the bathroom, where it was brighter, to check her head - just in case - because she hit it pretty hard. . .

Kris suddenly shrieked as blood began seeping from a large laceration across the back of Abby's head.

As we scrambled around, grabbing arbitrary items like purses, shoes, and car keys, Alayna stumbled along behind us, wailing in a miserable state of confusion and fear for her sister's bleeding head.  I loaded her into a car seat and climbed into the van, only to realize - with a small degree of modesty - that I wasn't wearing pants.  Or shoes.  I ducked inside, dressed into an outfit that modern society would deem 'legit' for public use, and grabbed my phone. 

Within seconds, we were speeding down the street to the Florida Hospital of Kissimmee.

And, of course, we hit every red light on the way there.

Abby was pretty quiet on the drive there, while I sat on the floor beside her car seat, pressing a now-ruined bath washcloth to the back of her head.  Alayna had softened her lamenting down to a pathetic whimper, but was still pretty shaken up.

Kris, mid-heart attack

When we pulled into the Hospital, Kris rushed Abby into the Emergency Room while I parked.  By the time Alayna and I came through into the waiting room, they were already wrapping up Abby's head with gauze to staunch the bleeding.  As it turns out, Abby would need several STAPLES in her head.

Kris and I, in our naivety, assumed that we wouldn't have to wait all that long to see a doctor, seeing how our child - who was two - had a severe laceration across her head. . .


But, as usual, we underestimated the stupidity of Central Floridians.


The waiting room at the Florida Hospital Emergency Room was full.  And there was one - yes, one - doctor on staff for the night.  Now, if the waiting room had been full of gun-shot victims (surprisingly enough, for Kissimmee, it wasn't), I wouldn't have minded so much. . . but instead, we found ourselves surrounded by a horde of obese ladies who were complaining about their blood sugar levels.

I'm not a diabeticologist or anything, but isn't that something where you can just eat a candy bar and shake it off?  My two-year-old is bleeding from her bashed-in head, for Christ's sake.


Anyway, we ended up waiting around for nearly three hours.  Seriously.  During that time, Kris had taken Alayna with her back to the house to pick up some books, socks and shoes, and several items we had left behind in our frantic dash out the front door. . . but even with all these new items on hand, the kids were growing restless having to sit in a chair for hour after hour. 


Even with the abundance of bizarre anecdotes on hand, courtesy of our fellow waiting room patrons. 

Finally, when the kids' patience was at critical low levels and Kris and I were ready to ask the front desk for a staple gun so we could do the job ourselves, we were finally admitted to a patient room. . .

Awaiting the staples. . .

The Cannonball tries making sense of the Weather Channel. . .

The doctor on staff last night may have passed medical school, but I'm sure she flunked Bedside Manner 210: How to Not Come Across as a Cold, Heartless Bitch.  Perhaps she couldn't make it to class on time, or she just couldn't wrap her head around the whole 'emphasize with the needs and concerns of apprehensive patients.'  Who knows.  Long story short, she treated my daughter's head like a sheet of dry wall (you staple dry wall, right?) - and sped through the process with the indifference of someone taking a crap.

. . . and she even had to pull a staple or two out, stating she "didn't like how they went in." 

For the record, toddlers LOVE getting staples shot into their skulls.

After Abby's head was mended, and all necessary paperwork and care instructions were provided, we were finally discharged.  It was after midnight, and the Houghs were officially funned out with the Florida Hospital of Kissimmee.

If you ever find yourself with a serious, Coconut Game-induced head injury, I personally recommend you skip the place all together. 

But that's just my opinion.

After nearly five hours at the hospital, the Houghs prepare to disembark. . .

- Brian

Having kids totally rules.