There comes a point in every boy's life when he comes to the realization that his parents aren't endless reservoirs of cash and that if he wants the new NBA Stars of Tomorrow Trapper Keeper, instead of the Lisa Frank one he picked up from the lost and found, he's gonna have to buy it himself. I came to that point in 6th grade and got a job.
It seems that every community/neighborhood has a little newspaper with some news about the community but it's basically just advertisements and coupons. It mainly just goes straight into people's trash containers. Ours was called the Good News paper and they needed someone to walk around the neighborhood, dropping the paper at people's doorsteps once a week. I was just the kid they were looking for.
The papers would be dropped off at our door and my job was to fold them, stuff them individually into plastic bags, and walk up and down two different streets, dropping them off on doorsteps. Seems pretty easy, right? I hated it. The whole process only took about 2.5 hours once a week but for those 2.5 hours, I was on somebody else's time, doing what they wanted me to do. Not even my bi-weekly check of $17 was enough to ease my hate. Battling the heat, cold, rain, and snow to deliver a paper that no one wanted was my own personal hell. But it did offer me a few life lessons. Here they are:
1. Never give more than just a passing glance into someone's window. One winter's evening, I was trudging along, earning my sweet paycheck when I stopped at a doorstep and noticed a guy walk by the front window. Naked. Full-on in the buff. He disappeared down a hallway while I stood there trying to discern if what I had just seen was real. I should have just kept walking, convincing myself that the cold was causing my rods and cones to misfire but I didn't move. Five seconds later he reversed course into my line of sight and sure enough, he was sans clothes. I got home and tried to lose myself in back-to-back episodes of Full House but the damage was done.
2. Always show dogs proper respect. I once saw a stray dog on the opposite side of the street and threw a snowball at it. I don't know why. I wasn't that kind of kid but for some reason that night, I thought it would be funny. I missed and continued on my route and forgetting my momentary lapse in judgement, made my way down the dog's side of the street. Unbeknownst to me, he had left a little "token of his appreciation" right on the sidewalk and covered it with snow, knowing I would be coming back that way. I stepped in it and knew immediately which dog had done it and that I deserved it. He's probably not still alive but if I ever see that dog again, I will give him a slight head nod that says "Well played, sir".
3. Never show your friends the $100 bill you found in a bush. This really happened. As I was walking up to a front door, something in the middle of a bush caught my eye. I reached in and pulled out a $100 bill. I couldn't believe it. It was as much as 3 months of my paychecks! I put it in my pocket and continued on my route. A few blocks down, I ran into a couple friends of mine playing basketball and excitedly showed them my windfall. Big mistake. My "friends" followed me along the remaining part of my route, hiding behind parked cars and getting closer by the minute. Luckily I made it home before they got me but to this day I am convinced they would have done me serious harm. $100 bucks split between two 12 year olds is enough incentive to get them to throw off all societal restraints to secure their small fortune.
4. Never lie to your parents and tell them you did your route unless you have a good hiding spot for your undelivered papers. I was invited to go to a friend's house one night but couldn't go until my route was done so I did what any "smart" middle schooler would do. I dumped all the papers in the garage behind my parents' car and stayed out there for about 20 minutes. I came in the house, pretending to be winded and asked my dad to drive me to my friend's house. "Did you really deliver your papers in 20 minutes?", my dad asked. "Yep. I ran the whole way, hence my obvious heavy breathing". My ruse lasted all of 30 seconds until my dad went to the garage. I didn't make it to my friend's house that night or any night for about a month. I think my dad felt slightly bad about grounding an imbecile but he did it nonetheless.
So take it from me. When your kids reach the age of being able to get a job, make them do it. They will learn all kinds of life lessons. I, for example, am not a peeping tom, a liar, or a boaster of money. And I'm kind to animals. Who knows what kind of weird life I'd be leading if it wasn't for that paper route.
Real Estate Note: Foreclosure inventory is down as the market recovers from the recession but they are still out there. If you're looking for a good investment, let me know and I can send you a list of foreclosed homes that match what you're looking for.
Tuesday, March 4, 2014
Monday, February 24, 2014
Childhood Stories #1
A couple of weeks ago, Jamie was telling me about something that happened at work and it reminded me of a story from my childhood. I don't remember what the story was because it happens all the time but as usual, Jamie got quite a kick out of it. In her mind, my childhood looked exactly like a Norman Rockwell painting or The Sandlot. She may very well be right. I spent my summers running around barefoot, shooting pretend bad guys throughout the neighborhood, playing baseball with the local kids, and basically doing anything I could to make sure my bath water at the end of the day was as dark as possible. My winters had less variety but essentially mirrored my summers in that I would do anything to stay outside. After the day's sledding got boring I would sit in my snow fort for hours, planning how I was going to avoid talking to girls the next day at school.
So, at my wife's insistence, I'm starting a "Childhood Stories" series. These stories may not come across as well as they do in person but if nothing else, I'll have them written down and saved. That way, if my kids are ever wondering "Did dad ever think that spinning around 50 times and then trying to run across the yard, thereby running sideways into his friend's parents' fancy gazebo and breaking the railing was a good idea?", they can look back at this and see that yes, yes he did.
I grew up in the days when you could run around your neighborhood with fake weapons and not have the neighbors lock their doors, draw the shades, and call the cops. While other kids were inside playing F-Zero on their Super Nintendo, I was running shirtless from back yard to back yard, protecting the block from nebulous groups of pretend bad guys who for some reason wished us harm. My main instrument of defense was my trusty lever-action rifle. After watching my Davy Crockett tape, I would grab my rifle and head outside to bring what I had just seen to life. I was able to pick off bad guys hiding in trees from a long range. If the there was a greater number of bad guys than my single shot rifle could handle, my sub-machine gun was my tool of choice. I usually only used it near dusk because it was kind of a pinkish-purple color and no self-respecting defender of the people wants to be seen with that color of a gun. When the bad guys brought out the heavy machinery (usually disguised as cars passing in front of our house) I brought out my Desert Storm tripod-mounted machine gun. I called it "The Schwarzkopf" because I heard that name associated with the Gulf War all the time. I thought it was some weapon that was inflicting huge damage and helping us win the war. In reality, I guess I was right.
Now, my limited knowledge and imagination could only take me so far during these skirmishes. My enemies were usually faceless, nameless, and in retrospect, not very good at their job. I won every time. I was never even wounded and the bad guys were all eliminated in 15 minutes or so. It was when I started playing with my friend Grant that things started to get serious.
Grant had lots of guns. He could make the correct noises for each gun with his mouth. He had tactics and hand motions that we could use to communicate with each other on the battlefield. He even put a name to the nameless bad guys I had been fighting for so long on my own. Commies. We weren't totally sure who they were or what they were all about but we watched enough Chuck Norris movies to know that they needed to be dealt with, usually in sleeveless t-shirts and with a random strip of black cloth tied around our heads. We didn't win without struggle, either. Every half hour or so, one of us would take a bullet to the leg, go down, and need to be dragged back to the base (the garage). A kitchen towel tourniquet would be applied, strategy discussed, Capri Sun slammed, and then we'd be back at it because everybody knows that commies only take a break for vodka. And we didn't have any to offer.
As the years went by, sports eventually took the place of combat and it's a shame. If Uncle Sam is ever invaded and calls on me, how am I going to tell him that I let all of my combat skills atrophy? I mean, if the skills necessary to defeat the invaders is the ability to throw a ball into a hoop or throw a smaller ball over a white plate, I can definitely be a contributor to the defense of the motherland. But I doubt that will be the case. So consider this my apology. I should have never forsaken my training and duty for other activities just because girls like athletes. I pray we don't regret it.
Real Estate Note: I held an open house this weekend at one of my listings and there was a bottleneck at the door. Seriously. People were lined up outside waiting to get in. There are huge numbers of buyers out there and not enough homes for sale. If you're thinking about selling, now is a great time. I would love to help you out.
So, at my wife's insistence, I'm starting a "Childhood Stories" series. These stories may not come across as well as they do in person but if nothing else, I'll have them written down and saved. That way, if my kids are ever wondering "Did dad ever think that spinning around 50 times and then trying to run across the yard, thereby running sideways into his friend's parents' fancy gazebo and breaking the railing was a good idea?", they can look back at this and see that yes, yes he did.
I grew up in the days when you could run around your neighborhood with fake weapons and not have the neighbors lock their doors, draw the shades, and call the cops. While other kids were inside playing F-Zero on their Super Nintendo, I was running shirtless from back yard to back yard, protecting the block from nebulous groups of pretend bad guys who for some reason wished us harm. My main instrument of defense was my trusty lever-action rifle. After watching my Davy Crockett tape, I would grab my rifle and head outside to bring what I had just seen to life. I was able to pick off bad guys hiding in trees from a long range. If the there was a greater number of bad guys than my single shot rifle could handle, my sub-machine gun was my tool of choice. I usually only used it near dusk because it was kind of a pinkish-purple color and no self-respecting defender of the people wants to be seen with that color of a gun. When the bad guys brought out the heavy machinery (usually disguised as cars passing in front of our house) I brought out my Desert Storm tripod-mounted machine gun. I called it "The Schwarzkopf" because I heard that name associated with the Gulf War all the time. I thought it was some weapon that was inflicting huge damage and helping us win the war. In reality, I guess I was right.
Now, my limited knowledge and imagination could only take me so far during these skirmishes. My enemies were usually faceless, nameless, and in retrospect, not very good at their job. I won every time. I was never even wounded and the bad guys were all eliminated in 15 minutes or so. It was when I started playing with my friend Grant that things started to get serious.
Grant had lots of guns. He could make the correct noises for each gun with his mouth. He had tactics and hand motions that we could use to communicate with each other on the battlefield. He even put a name to the nameless bad guys I had been fighting for so long on my own. Commies. We weren't totally sure who they were or what they were all about but we watched enough Chuck Norris movies to know that they needed to be dealt with, usually in sleeveless t-shirts and with a random strip of black cloth tied around our heads. We didn't win without struggle, either. Every half hour or so, one of us would take a bullet to the leg, go down, and need to be dragged back to the base (the garage). A kitchen towel tourniquet would be applied, strategy discussed, Capri Sun slammed, and then we'd be back at it because everybody knows that commies only take a break for vodka. And we didn't have any to offer.
As the years went by, sports eventually took the place of combat and it's a shame. If Uncle Sam is ever invaded and calls on me, how am I going to tell him that I let all of my combat skills atrophy? I mean, if the skills necessary to defeat the invaders is the ability to throw a ball into a hoop or throw a smaller ball over a white plate, I can definitely be a contributor to the defense of the motherland. But I doubt that will be the case. So consider this my apology. I should have never forsaken my training and duty for other activities just because girls like athletes. I pray we don't regret it.
Real Estate Note: I held an open house this weekend at one of my listings and there was a bottleneck at the door. Seriously. People were lined up outside waiting to get in. There are huge numbers of buyers out there and not enough homes for sale. If you're thinking about selling, now is a great time. I would love to help you out.
Thursday, February 6, 2014
A Most Valuable Lesson
If memory serves me correctly, I've blogged before about various sicknesses I've had (it's tough to remember since I haven't written anything since early 2012). I'm about to do it again, which will definitely shed some doubt on my view that I have a really strong immune system. Be that as it may, this winter has hit me hard. Colds, a stomach virus, and influenza have been Kermit Washington to my Rudy Tomjanovich. All of this brought out a side to my wife that I had never seen before. Allow me to elaborate.
I, like most men, tend to vocalize often how awful I feel when I am sick. Jamie calls it complaining but my (self-serving) theory is that us men are used to being in such peak physical condition that when we are sick, we feel it much more than women. Again, this is just a theory. Another explanation is that the sickness affects our brain in such a way that we revert back to our childhood and subconsciously need a mother-figure to be sympathetic, tend to our every need, and basically baby us. It seems the female brain is not similarly affected. This is probably the more logical explanation but I like my theory much more.
I started off the winter with a nasty cold. A pretty common thing but it hit me hard and I as usual, consistently let Jamie know how I felt. She was gracious, compassionate, and generally took care of me (albeit with some eye-rolling, seeing as how she had the same cold). Then came the stomach virus. This was only a 24 hour bug but it was the kind that during those 24 hours you can't get warm. Then you can't cool off. Standing up only brings a near-menopausal heat wave and vomiting. The only relief is your face in the toilet followed by laying on the cool bathroom floor while you long for the sweet release of death. That may be a little dramatic but you get the idea. Again, Jamie was compassionate and caring.
As a side note, she had to go to work that day so I was in charge of taking care of 15 month old Savannah. Savannah basically took care of herself. All I did was change some diapers (one of which sent me and my face to the aforementioned toilet) and lay on the couch. She was totally fine all day, all by herself. At one point, she came to me with a banana. She can't even reach the bananas! I'll never know how she did it but I peeled it, sent her on her way, and laid back down. I'd bet that if anything ever happened to Jamie and myself, Savannah would go on just fine, finally emerging from the house at age 5 to catch the school bus for kindergarten.
Then came another cold, the presence of which I verbally made Jamie well aware. I believe this is where the cracks in her "compassion armor" started to form. One night during this cold, I started to get muscle aches so bad that I couldn't sleep. I felt my temperature rising and I developed a cough that could wake the residents of the hospital's coma ward. I stayed home from the office the next day and when Jamie got home I mentioned to her that I felt like I was getting another virus on top of my cold and that I didn't think that was possible. Apparently, neither did she.
"Just go to bed then! I don't want to hear any more complaining!"
I had finally broken her. She no longer believed me. I had made mountains out of molehills one too many times. No matter how sick I was, I was going to be getting nothing from her.
The next night, after I had to stay home during the day again, she brought me a thermometer to check my temp. I can only describe her countenance as she did this as "emotionless". There was nothing behind her eyes. No compassion. No sympathy. Not even anger. Nothing. Not even when the thermometer read 101. I had used up her generous allotment of loving care and I was on my own.
My weeks-long vocalization of sickness had pushed her over the edge of compassion, care, and sympathy into the realm of apathy and even near-mockery.For example, when I had to cancel a showing with some clients of mine (and good friends of mine and Jamie's) the wife mentioned to Jamie that she was sorry I was sick.
Jamie responded "Yeah right. Sick." with air quotes around the word "sick". One of the best parts of her wonderful nature was broken and it was all my fault. But it was soon to be made right. The solution? A diagnosis.
During day 4 of my couch-ridden ordeal, Jamie was visiting her sisters who are both nurses. She was telling them about what she was having to put up with at home and describing my "symptoms". Her sisters knew right away what it was. Influenza. They told Jamie in fairly strong terms that this year's strain is nasty and that people of all ages have been dying from it, not just the very young and the very old. The hospitals have been filled to capacity with people suffering from it. Jamie's broken sense of compassion was instantly made whole. She came home, immediately apologized, and said that she would try to make it up to me.
I was vindicated! I should have felt great about it but I didn't. Instead, I reflected on the 2 lessons I had learned. One for each gender. Here they are:
Women: If your man is sick, he will whine and constantly talk about how bad he feels. Let him. Take care of him. But when the time comes when it is just too much whining to handle, make sure he's not deathly ill. Then ignore him. Your compassionate nature will stay intact and he may learn to handle sickness better.
Men: When you're sick, SHUT UP AND DEAL WITH IT LIKE A WOMAN!
Real Estate Note: If you're looking to sell, now is a great time. Buyers are coming out like crazy and there just aren't a whole lot of homes on the market to choose from. I have quite a few buyers I've been working with who can't seem to find what they're looking for or the houses they like have been sold before they have a chance to act. With buyers competing for your home, now is a great time to get top dollar. Let me know if I can help you.
I, like most men, tend to vocalize often how awful I feel when I am sick. Jamie calls it complaining but my (self-serving) theory is that us men are used to being in such peak physical condition that when we are sick, we feel it much more than women. Again, this is just a theory. Another explanation is that the sickness affects our brain in such a way that we revert back to our childhood and subconsciously need a mother-figure to be sympathetic, tend to our every need, and basically baby us. It seems the female brain is not similarly affected. This is probably the more logical explanation but I like my theory much more.
I started off the winter with a nasty cold. A pretty common thing but it hit me hard and I as usual, consistently let Jamie know how I felt. She was gracious, compassionate, and generally took care of me (albeit with some eye-rolling, seeing as how she had the same cold). Then came the stomach virus. This was only a 24 hour bug but it was the kind that during those 24 hours you can't get warm. Then you can't cool off. Standing up only brings a near-menopausal heat wave and vomiting. The only relief is your face in the toilet followed by laying on the cool bathroom floor while you long for the sweet release of death. That may be a little dramatic but you get the idea. Again, Jamie was compassionate and caring.
As a side note, she had to go to work that day so I was in charge of taking care of 15 month old Savannah. Savannah basically took care of herself. All I did was change some diapers (one of which sent me and my face to the aforementioned toilet) and lay on the couch. She was totally fine all day, all by herself. At one point, she came to me with a banana. She can't even reach the bananas! I'll never know how she did it but I peeled it, sent her on her way, and laid back down. I'd bet that if anything ever happened to Jamie and myself, Savannah would go on just fine, finally emerging from the house at age 5 to catch the school bus for kindergarten.
Then came another cold, the presence of which I verbally made Jamie well aware. I believe this is where the cracks in her "compassion armor" started to form. One night during this cold, I started to get muscle aches so bad that I couldn't sleep. I felt my temperature rising and I developed a cough that could wake the residents of the hospital's coma ward. I stayed home from the office the next day and when Jamie got home I mentioned to her that I felt like I was getting another virus on top of my cold and that I didn't think that was possible. Apparently, neither did she.
"Just go to bed then! I don't want to hear any more complaining!"
I had finally broken her. She no longer believed me. I had made mountains out of molehills one too many times. No matter how sick I was, I was going to be getting nothing from her.
The next night, after I had to stay home during the day again, she brought me a thermometer to check my temp. I can only describe her countenance as she did this as "emotionless". There was nothing behind her eyes. No compassion. No sympathy. Not even anger. Nothing. Not even when the thermometer read 101. I had used up her generous allotment of loving care and I was on my own.
My weeks-long vocalization of sickness had pushed her over the edge of compassion, care, and sympathy into the realm of apathy and even near-mockery.For example, when I had to cancel a showing with some clients of mine (and good friends of mine and Jamie's) the wife mentioned to Jamie that she was sorry I was sick.
Jamie responded "Yeah right. Sick." with air quotes around the word "sick". One of the best parts of her wonderful nature was broken and it was all my fault. But it was soon to be made right. The solution? A diagnosis.
During day 4 of my couch-ridden ordeal, Jamie was visiting her sisters who are both nurses. She was telling them about what she was having to put up with at home and describing my "symptoms". Her sisters knew right away what it was. Influenza. They told Jamie in fairly strong terms that this year's strain is nasty and that people of all ages have been dying from it, not just the very young and the very old. The hospitals have been filled to capacity with people suffering from it. Jamie's broken sense of compassion was instantly made whole. She came home, immediately apologized, and said that she would try to make it up to me.
I was vindicated! I should have felt great about it but I didn't. Instead, I reflected on the 2 lessons I had learned. One for each gender. Here they are:
Women: If your man is sick, he will whine and constantly talk about how bad he feels. Let him. Take care of him. But when the time comes when it is just too much whining to handle, make sure he's not deathly ill. Then ignore him. Your compassionate nature will stay intact and he may learn to handle sickness better.
Men: When you're sick, SHUT UP AND DEAL WITH IT LIKE A WOMAN!
Real Estate Note: If you're looking to sell, now is a great time. Buyers are coming out like crazy and there just aren't a whole lot of homes on the market to choose from. I have quite a few buyers I've been working with who can't seem to find what they're looking for or the houses they like have been sold before they have a chance to act. With buyers competing for your home, now is a great time to get top dollar. Let me know if I can help you.
Thursday, March 22, 2012
Pass the Pepto, Please
So, my wife is pregnant. Full on, no-mistake-about-it, pregnant. I'm actually pretty nervous about it. Not the whole "being a dad" part. I think that part will come pretty easily. My job will be fairly simple regardless of the kid's gender.
If we have a boy, my job will consist of:
1. Chucking baseballs at him until he figures out how to catch them. His pro baseball salary will pay for my retirement cabin on the lake.
2. Telling him not to eat his boogers. Pick 'em then flick 'em. We gotta stay classy.
3. Showing him how to fish. There's nothing the ladies love more than a guy who smells like fish guts.
If we have a girl, my job will be:
1. Spoiling her.
2. Telling her, "Go ask your mom", when she's old enough to have "lady questions".
3. Constantly ridiculing whoever is her generation's Justin Bieber.
No, I'm not worried about any of that. I'm worried about the actual birth. How am I going to make it through that? All the blood and things of that nature, the screaming, the crying. I'm getting queasy just writing about it. I have a friend who recently hit his finger with a hammer and he showed it to me the day it happened. It wasn't bleeding anymore but it was swelled up and purple. But I knew that it had previously been bleeding and it so unnerved me that I had to sit down. Now multiply that swollen finger by a million.
I asked Jamie if it would be possible for me to be in another room while she gives birth. Nope. I don't know why she gets the final say in the matter. She'll be in so much pain and agony that she won't even notice all the "birthing stuff" that will be making my tummy queasy. She can be so selfish.
So I made a compromise with her, agreeing to be in the room and hold her hand but I will be allowed to stand with my nose against the wall. Am I going to look ridiculous? Yes, but I will look less ridiculous than if I pass out, hitting the doctor's lap with my face on the way down.
Real Estate Note: The housing market in Dane County is really heating up. In February of this year, there were 140% more homes sold than in February of 2011. A major reason is the affordability of homes, due to the historically low interest rates and low home prices. If you are looking to buy, now is the time.
If we have a boy, my job will consist of:
1. Chucking baseballs at him until he figures out how to catch them. His pro baseball salary will pay for my retirement cabin on the lake.
2. Telling him not to eat his boogers. Pick 'em then flick 'em. We gotta stay classy.
3. Showing him how to fish. There's nothing the ladies love more than a guy who smells like fish guts.
If we have a girl, my job will be:
1. Spoiling her.
2. Telling her, "Go ask your mom", when she's old enough to have "lady questions".
3. Constantly ridiculing whoever is her generation's Justin Bieber.
No, I'm not worried about any of that. I'm worried about the actual birth. How am I going to make it through that? All the blood and things of that nature, the screaming, the crying. I'm getting queasy just writing about it. I have a friend who recently hit his finger with a hammer and he showed it to me the day it happened. It wasn't bleeding anymore but it was swelled up and purple. But I knew that it had previously been bleeding and it so unnerved me that I had to sit down. Now multiply that swollen finger by a million.
I asked Jamie if it would be possible for me to be in another room while she gives birth. Nope. I don't know why she gets the final say in the matter. She'll be in so much pain and agony that she won't even notice all the "birthing stuff" that will be making my tummy queasy. She can be so selfish.
So I made a compromise with her, agreeing to be in the room and hold her hand but I will be allowed to stand with my nose against the wall. Am I going to look ridiculous? Yes, but I will look less ridiculous than if I pass out, hitting the doctor's lap with my face on the way down.
Real Estate Note: The housing market in Dane County is really heating up. In February of this year, there were 140% more homes sold than in February of 2011. A major reason is the affordability of homes, due to the historically low interest rates and low home prices. If you are looking to buy, now is the time.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Slightly Embarrassed. But Not Really
Everybody has "guilty pleasure" songs. Everybody. Don't act like you don't. I know quite a few hipsters who will talk all day about how Bob Dylan is the greatest American musician of all time (Great poet. Absolutely awful singer. Nails-on-a-chalkboard bad) and how they were fans of the Decemberists before they were popular but can't stand U2 because they are too mainstream. But if The Sign by Ace of Base comes on the radio while they are in the car, you can expect a scene like this:
Like I said, everybody has guilty pleasure songs. That is why I don't feel embarrassed sharing mine. Here are my top 5:
1. My Heart Will Go On - Celine Dion
I think this song gets a bad rap due to the fact that it was massively overplayed when Titanic was causing women to consider leaving their husbands to take a full-time job stalking Leonardo DiCaprio. But it is still a great song and every time I hear the pan flute at the beginning, I subtly turn the radio up and prepare myself for the four and a half minute emotional rollercoaster ride that I am about to embark upon.
2. Rock Your Body - Justin Timberlake
The only song that might get my uncoordinated, Scandinavian self out on the dance floor. In fact, I have a friend who was pursuing a girl and I told him that if he ever won her over, I would grab a cd player, let myself into his house, put this song on, and we would dance our faces off. All without saying a word. Kinda weird? Yes, but it would have been awesome. Sadly, it didn't happen.
3. Another Night - Real McCoy
Nineties dance music still blows away all the lame pop music out there today even though all of it followed basically the same formula: woman singing most of the song with a sort of creepy, deep-voiced guy sprinkled in. It always reminds me of being in middle school and boxing with my buddy in his basement. There was only one pair of boxing gloves so we each had only one. It worked out well because I am left-handed so I naturally took the left one and we wailed on each other. For some reason, we had dance music playing.
4. Don't Stop Believing - Journey
This song has actually gone through a popularity resurgence in recent years but I include it as a guilty pleasure because when it fades back to lameness in the collective mind of the public, I am still going to love it and anonymously request it at wedding receptions.
5. Time of My Life - Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes
In my defense, I wasn't a fan of Dirty Dancing. Patrick Swayze had this strange earnestness that creeped me out and Jennifer Grey always looked like a deer in headlights but this song sure was awesome. I was once riding in the car with my wife and mother in law and fell asleep in the backseat. I was out for only about 3 minutes but during those few minutes I dreamed that I sang this song in a duet with some girl. There was a crowd of about 500 and they were going nuts. It's one of only two dreams I've had that I actually remember and is the best one by far.
So those are my top 5 guilty pleasure songs. What are yours?
Real Estate Note: Due to low home prices and near-record low interest rates, the National Association of Realtors Housing Affordability Index hit 193.6 in October, near its record high. If you are renting right now, you could own a house and be paying less monthly than you currently are in rent. I'm going to keep bringing this up until it is no longer the perfect time to buy. Click here to see the full monthly housing affordability index:Affordability Index
Like I said, everybody has guilty pleasure songs. That is why I don't feel embarrassed sharing mine. Here are my top 5:
1. My Heart Will Go On - Celine Dion
I think this song gets a bad rap due to the fact that it was massively overplayed when Titanic was causing women to consider leaving their husbands to take a full-time job stalking Leonardo DiCaprio. But it is still a great song and every time I hear the pan flute at the beginning, I subtly turn the radio up and prepare myself for the four and a half minute emotional rollercoaster ride that I am about to embark upon.
2. Rock Your Body - Justin Timberlake
The only song that might get my uncoordinated, Scandinavian self out on the dance floor. In fact, I have a friend who was pursuing a girl and I told him that if he ever won her over, I would grab a cd player, let myself into his house, put this song on, and we would dance our faces off. All without saying a word. Kinda weird? Yes, but it would have been awesome. Sadly, it didn't happen.
3. Another Night - Real McCoy
Nineties dance music still blows away all the lame pop music out there today even though all of it followed basically the same formula: woman singing most of the song with a sort of creepy, deep-voiced guy sprinkled in. It always reminds me of being in middle school and boxing with my buddy in his basement. There was only one pair of boxing gloves so we each had only one. It worked out well because I am left-handed so I naturally took the left one and we wailed on each other. For some reason, we had dance music playing.
4. Don't Stop Believing - Journey
This song has actually gone through a popularity resurgence in recent years but I include it as a guilty pleasure because when it fades back to lameness in the collective mind of the public, I am still going to love it and anonymously request it at wedding receptions.
5. Time of My Life - Bill Medley and Jennifer Warnes
In my defense, I wasn't a fan of Dirty Dancing. Patrick Swayze had this strange earnestness that creeped me out and Jennifer Grey always looked like a deer in headlights but this song sure was awesome. I was once riding in the car with my wife and mother in law and fell asleep in the backseat. I was out for only about 3 minutes but during those few minutes I dreamed that I sang this song in a duet with some girl. There was a crowd of about 500 and they were going nuts. It's one of only two dreams I've had that I actually remember and is the best one by far.
So those are my top 5 guilty pleasure songs. What are yours?
Real Estate Note: Due to low home prices and near-record low interest rates, the National Association of Realtors Housing Affordability Index hit 193.6 in October, near its record high. If you are renting right now, you could own a house and be paying less monthly than you currently are in rent. I'm going to keep bringing this up until it is no longer the perfect time to buy. Click here to see the full monthly housing affordability index:Affordability Index
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
You Won't Leave Empty-Handed
There is one day of the year when it is socially acceptable to wait in line for hours for a store to open (You hear that, gamers? Only one day). That one day is Black Friday, which is descending upon us in a couple days. I've never actually ventured out to any stores on Black Friday but I have heard plenty of horror stories of people not being able to get what they came to buy or worse, being trampled. In order to help you get what you came for on Friday, I've come up with some methods that will ensure your success (I can't prevent you from being trampled other than telling you not to be at the front of the line) and make sure your loved ones get this year's hot fads. Let's jump right in.
1. Physical Violence: This one is simple. If you see someone snatching up the last copy of season 2 of Glee, just give 'em a right hook straight to the kisser. If you act quickly, you can snatch up the prize and head to the register before they even know what happened. Another factor working in your favor is the absolute chaos and pandemonium of Black Friday. If the punch doesn't land as true as you had hoped, tackle a random shopper and yell "Got 'em!". Since no one was able to definitively peg you as the puncher, you are instantly the hero. I'm not going to promise anything, but the appreciative management may let you into the stock room in back to shop in peace.
2. Employee Uniforms: Have one for every store you are going to on Friday. This will allow you access to anywhere in the store. Don't see any more Blu-Ray players on the shelves in Best Buy? Head into the stock room. Can't find the latest knockoff Gucci purse at K-Mart? Raid the layaway department. Just make sure to bring a different shirt to put on before heading to check out your items. An employee spending their time shopping on the busiest day of the year is sure to raise some eyebrows.
3. Teamwork: If you are a guy, have your wife or sister (actually, any willing woman will suffice) yell "Ryan Gosling!" followed by frantic screams as she runs towards the front of the store, pretending to chase him into the parking lot. This will cut the crowd down by 75%. You and the other men will be free to roam the store unencumbered. If you are a woman, your male teammate should follow nearly the same script, with "Ryan Gosling" changed to the name of your local sports star. It is absolutely vital that your "team" consists of both genders. For example, it is not believable as a woman for your female teammate to run while yelling Ryan Gosling's name without you following close behind. He is apparently that good looking.
4. Shop Online: I could've started and ended with this one but that wouldn't be any fun.
Real Estate Note: The housing market is heading upward and the media is finally starting to catch on. Here is some good news from CNN Money: Home Sales Rise in October
1. Physical Violence: This one is simple. If you see someone snatching up the last copy of season 2 of Glee, just give 'em a right hook straight to the kisser. If you act quickly, you can snatch up the prize and head to the register before they even know what happened. Another factor working in your favor is the absolute chaos and pandemonium of Black Friday. If the punch doesn't land as true as you had hoped, tackle a random shopper and yell "Got 'em!". Since no one was able to definitively peg you as the puncher, you are instantly the hero. I'm not going to promise anything, but the appreciative management may let you into the stock room in back to shop in peace.
2. Employee Uniforms: Have one for every store you are going to on Friday. This will allow you access to anywhere in the store. Don't see any more Blu-Ray players on the shelves in Best Buy? Head into the stock room. Can't find the latest knockoff Gucci purse at K-Mart? Raid the layaway department. Just make sure to bring a different shirt to put on before heading to check out your items. An employee spending their time shopping on the busiest day of the year is sure to raise some eyebrows.
3. Teamwork: If you are a guy, have your wife or sister (actually, any willing woman will suffice) yell "Ryan Gosling!" followed by frantic screams as she runs towards the front of the store, pretending to chase him into the parking lot. This will cut the crowd down by 75%. You and the other men will be free to roam the store unencumbered. If you are a woman, your male teammate should follow nearly the same script, with "Ryan Gosling" changed to the name of your local sports star. It is absolutely vital that your "team" consists of both genders. For example, it is not believable as a woman for your female teammate to run while yelling Ryan Gosling's name without you following close behind. He is apparently that good looking.
4. Shop Online: I could've started and ended with this one but that wouldn't be any fun.
Real Estate Note: The housing market is heading upward and the media is finally starting to catch on. Here is some good news from CNN Money: Home Sales Rise in October
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
My Wife Is Fascinating
Sometimes my wife surprises the living daylights out of me. For those of you who haven't had the pleasure of meeting her, she is a short, petite southern belle who loves scrapbooking, tea parties, and fashion blogs. She is a bubbly breath of fresh air when everyone else is being "Negative Nancies". The only time I ever heard her burp, a rainbow flew out of her mouth and she just giggled as she skipped away to go cheer up a sick unicorn. She loves Otis Redding and can quote the entire script of the Notebook without thinking. She lets me watch football at home on Sundays even though she hates "the violent sounds" of it and when I'm sick, she tends to all my stupid whinings and wants without rolling her eyes. She wears a sunhat. Knowing all of this about her, I am surprised when she does something that I think doesn't fall in line with my perception of her. Here a couple of examples.
Once, when we were dating, we were hanging out at her house, trying to think of something to do and she suggested that we go outside and shoot some hoops. I hesitated for a moment, thinking about how lame it would be when we had to stand no more than two feet from the basket so she could at least get the ball up to the hoop and I would have to say "Oooh, so close" every time she took a shot. I said yes because as a guy in a dating relationship, "Yes" is the answer to every one of the girl's suggestions. All you single guys need to take note of this. It is very important:
"Hey babe, do you want to have a picnic in a field of daisies, eat brie and crackers, and journal about our feelings for each other on pieces of parchment that we can bind together with wax that has been melted with a candle that we will light together, signifying the light and heat of our unity?"
"Yes."
See how easy that is? Don't put up a fight. If you do, she will be hurt and you will be back to spending your time playing Call of Duty, talking smack to 12-year olds while you wait for E-harmony to find another match for you. Anyway, we went outside and began to shoot hoops. We started playing H.O.R.S.E. and I quickly found myself worried about losing. She had the best shooting form I had ever seen! I couldn't shake her. I resorted to trick shots, such as shooting from a window on the second floor of the house. I made it and so did she. Luckily, I won (barely) but the game took forever. We haven't played since.
Another surprise came just a few years ago. A friend of mine was the lead "singer" of a scream-metal band and said I should come to one of their shows on a certain Friday night. Jamie and I had planned on going on a date that night so I asked her if it would be alright if we just stopped in and checked out a song or two before carrying on with our date. She said that would be fine and we showed up right as my friend's band was getting started. The place was tiny and the music reverberated through our heads like a jackhammer. My buddy was on the stage, screaming into the microphone as if the microphone had wronged him in the most heinous way possible as people thrashed around, throwing themselves into each other and making me nervous. If someone had slammed into Jamie, I would've felt like the lowest of the low for bringing her in there. I can't verify this, but I think I saw a cat being sacrificed in the back corner. It was an absolutely crazy scene. After the second song, I looked at Jamie with a look that said "I am infinitely sorry. Let's get out of here". She just smiled at me and yelled "This is pretty cool! Let's stay until the end". What?!!? If you brought a flower within 100 ft. of this place, it would've wilted and disappeared in a puff of smoke and dust. Yet here she was, taking it all in and having a great time. She won't watch Die Hard with me because it is too violent but if you invite her to a death-metal show complete with blood and fear, she'll ask "What time?"
She is completely and utterly fascinating.
Real Estate Note: I recently showed a house that had laundry everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE. It looked like 3,298 people were in the house before being abducted out of their clothes by aliens. Needless to say, my buyers quickly scratched the house off their list. If you are thinking about selling your home and want it to look enticing to buyers, check out these cheap ways to make it look great:
6 Cheap Ways to Stage Your Home
Once, when we were dating, we were hanging out at her house, trying to think of something to do and she suggested that we go outside and shoot some hoops. I hesitated for a moment, thinking about how lame it would be when we had to stand no more than two feet from the basket so she could at least get the ball up to the hoop and I would have to say "Oooh, so close" every time she took a shot. I said yes because as a guy in a dating relationship, "Yes" is the answer to every one of the girl's suggestions. All you single guys need to take note of this. It is very important:
"Hey babe, do you want to have a picnic in a field of daisies, eat brie and crackers, and journal about our feelings for each other on pieces of parchment that we can bind together with wax that has been melted with a candle that we will light together, signifying the light and heat of our unity?"
"Yes."
See how easy that is? Don't put up a fight. If you do, she will be hurt and you will be back to spending your time playing Call of Duty, talking smack to 12-year olds while you wait for E-harmony to find another match for you. Anyway, we went outside and began to shoot hoops. We started playing H.O.R.S.E. and I quickly found myself worried about losing. She had the best shooting form I had ever seen! I couldn't shake her. I resorted to trick shots, such as shooting from a window on the second floor of the house. I made it and so did she. Luckily, I won (barely) but the game took forever. We haven't played since.
Another surprise came just a few years ago. A friend of mine was the lead "singer" of a scream-metal band and said I should come to one of their shows on a certain Friday night. Jamie and I had planned on going on a date that night so I asked her if it would be alright if we just stopped in and checked out a song or two before carrying on with our date. She said that would be fine and we showed up right as my friend's band was getting started. The place was tiny and the music reverberated through our heads like a jackhammer. My buddy was on the stage, screaming into the microphone as if the microphone had wronged him in the most heinous way possible as people thrashed around, throwing themselves into each other and making me nervous. If someone had slammed into Jamie, I would've felt like the lowest of the low for bringing her in there. I can't verify this, but I think I saw a cat being sacrificed in the back corner. It was an absolutely crazy scene. After the second song, I looked at Jamie with a look that said "I am infinitely sorry. Let's get out of here". She just smiled at me and yelled "This is pretty cool! Let's stay until the end". What?!!? If you brought a flower within 100 ft. of this place, it would've wilted and disappeared in a puff of smoke and dust. Yet here she was, taking it all in and having a great time. She won't watch Die Hard with me because it is too violent but if you invite her to a death-metal show complete with blood and fear, she'll ask "What time?"
She is completely and utterly fascinating.
Real Estate Note: I recently showed a house that had laundry everywhere. I mean EVERYWHERE. It looked like 3,298 people were in the house before being abducted out of their clothes by aliens. Needless to say, my buyers quickly scratched the house off their list. If you are thinking about selling your home and want it to look enticing to buyers, check out these cheap ways to make it look great:
6 Cheap Ways to Stage Your Home
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Make Sure You Have A Plan
With Halloween over, it's time to start looking forward to and planning for Thanksgiving. This is typically the holiday that ushers in the Christmas season (the best time of the year by far) and is the only day in which it is acceptable for a man to wear pants with an elastic waistline while eating as much as possible. There are some who say that this is a disgusting, gluttonous example of American greed and selfishness and that we should be ashamed of it because there are starving people in the world. Normally, I would wholeheartedly agree. But on this day, when the whole point of it all is to see how much we do have and be THANKFUL for it, I say go nuts. A great way to show thankfulness for a gift is to thoroughly enjoy it. Also, someone who is truly thankful for something will be more aware of those who don't have that particular something and will be more inclined to share it because they realize that they are not entitled to it, but have been blessed with it. So, with all that in mind, take 1 day out of the 365 and relax the tension on the bungee cords of dietary self-control. Here are some different methods to make your turkey day eating a success. Some are better than others.
1. The Abstinence Method: This method is for beginners only. It seems logical when preparing to eat as much as possible to not eat anything at all in order to have a maximum of free space in the stomach. However, this actually seems to diminish the stomach's holding capacity and can leave the participant feeling full but greatly disappointed. Feel free to point and laugh.
2. The Stretch It Out Method: The exact opposite of the abstinence method. The theory behind this method is that eating a lot on Thanksgiving morning will stretch the stomach, allowing for plateful after plateful to be consumed during dinner. I can remember using this method inadvertently at the age of 6 when my dad took me to Denny's on Thanksgiving morning so that we wouldn't be in my mom's way as she prepared the dinner. I ate all the pancakes I could handle and we then took a walk through some woods where we came upon a pond. The light snow that was falling gave the scene a very Norman Rockwell-esque look. I immediately proceeded to fall in the water. I will never know whether the large amount I consumed for dinner was due to the large breakfast I had or the hypothermia I was trying to stave off. Jury's still out.
3. The Come Back Method: This involves eating a normal amount and then going back for more while everyone else is watching the football game. This is cheating and cowardly. Don't use this method and then spend Friday telling everyone how much you ate on Thursday. You didn't do it during the meal time. I didn't make this rule known at the beginning because it just seems obvious, much in the same way I don't need to tell you not to shave your grandma's head while she naps. It's obviously outside the bounds of civilized decorum.
4. The Apocalyptic Method: The is the most advanced method, requiring a great amount of mental fortitude and imagination. The user must mentally convince himself that civilization is coming to an apocalyptic end and they may have to wander the wastelands, not knowing when their next meal is going to present itself. Like a squirrel gathering nuts for winter, the user eats the Thanksgiving meal with reckless abandon, storing up energy and calories. Actors and LARP (Live Action Role Playing) players tend to be the best at this method, as fiction and reality are easily blended in their minds. This method does not provide a particularly enjoyable eating experience but the user is usually pleased with the results.
Make sure you have a plan going into Thanksgiving. Having a goal without a plan to make it happen is fruitless. I hope this helps!
Real Estate Note: I keep hammering home the point that right now the market is providing an absolutely amazing opportunity to buy a home. Case in point: Across the country, per capita income has rebounded to 2007 levels while home prices continue to hover around 2002 levels. Those factors, combined with near record low interest rates, have made this a historically great time to buy a home. To read more, check this out: KCM Blog
1. The Abstinence Method: This method is for beginners only. It seems logical when preparing to eat as much as possible to not eat anything at all in order to have a maximum of free space in the stomach. However, this actually seems to diminish the stomach's holding capacity and can leave the participant feeling full but greatly disappointed. Feel free to point and laugh.
 |
| More effective than Ambien. |
2. The Stretch It Out Method: The exact opposite of the abstinence method. The theory behind this method is that eating a lot on Thanksgiving morning will stretch the stomach, allowing for plateful after plateful to be consumed during dinner. I can remember using this method inadvertently at the age of 6 when my dad took me to Denny's on Thanksgiving morning so that we wouldn't be in my mom's way as she prepared the dinner. I ate all the pancakes I could handle and we then took a walk through some woods where we came upon a pond. The light snow that was falling gave the scene a very Norman Rockwell-esque look. I immediately proceeded to fall in the water. I will never know whether the large amount I consumed for dinner was due to the large breakfast I had or the hypothermia I was trying to stave off. Jury's still out.
3. The Come Back Method: This involves eating a normal amount and then going back for more while everyone else is watching the football game. This is cheating and cowardly. Don't use this method and then spend Friday telling everyone how much you ate on Thursday. You didn't do it during the meal time. I didn't make this rule known at the beginning because it just seems obvious, much in the same way I don't need to tell you not to shave your grandma's head while she naps. It's obviously outside the bounds of civilized decorum.
4. The Apocalyptic Method: The is the most advanced method, requiring a great amount of mental fortitude and imagination. The user must mentally convince himself that civilization is coming to an apocalyptic end and they may have to wander the wastelands, not knowing when their next meal is going to present itself. Like a squirrel gathering nuts for winter, the user eats the Thanksgiving meal with reckless abandon, storing up energy and calories. Actors and LARP (Live Action Role Playing) players tend to be the best at this method, as fiction and reality are easily blended in their minds. This method does not provide a particularly enjoyable eating experience but the user is usually pleased with the results.
Make sure you have a plan going into Thanksgiving. Having a goal without a plan to make it happen is fruitless. I hope this helps!
Real Estate Note: I keep hammering home the point that right now the market is providing an absolutely amazing opportunity to buy a home. Case in point: Across the country, per capita income has rebounded to 2007 levels while home prices continue to hover around 2002 levels. Those factors, combined with near record low interest rates, have made this a historically great time to buy a home. To read more, check this out: KCM Blog
Monday, October 31, 2011
Not My Favorite Holiday
I never got really excited about Halloween as a kid. The thought of having to get all costumed up and knock on people's doors in the dark to ask for candy never appealed to me. First of all, I was never a fan of candy. It's not that my parents were health nuts and wouldn't let me have candy, I just didn't care for it. Desserts, such as pie and ice cream, were much more up my alley. If someone was handing out French silk pies to trick-or-treaters, not only would I have slapped on a Mr. T mohawk and knocked on their door, I would've asked them to adopt me. Secondly, I wasn't a naive kid. I knew that there were weirdos out there who had the potential to do some weird/dangerous stuff to the candy they were giving out. Our neighbor, for instance, was a physicist who would periodically have all of his physicist buddies come over to get drunk and talk about physics as loudly as possible (by the age of 11 I had heard enough alcohol-induced physics arguments to get at least a C- on a college-level physics exam). No way am I taking candy from those guys.
I did go to Halloween parties at school, though. It was fun just to run around with my friends and play all the games (even though candy was the only prize). Except for "bobbing for apples." Again, I wasn't a naive kid. I understood the concept of germs. If I wanted to basically open-mouth kiss all the kids in my school, I'd want more than a "red delicious" apple for my trouble. Those are the worst kind of apples.
I could even be persuaded to put on a costume for those parties. I never cared what it was so I let my parents pick it out for me, which led to some pretty weird results. One year, I showed up to the party as Rush Limbaugh. I didn't even know who that was but my parents thought it was the funniest thing in the world. They had me put on a suit, put a pillow in my shirt, and slick my hair back. My dad even pinned a dollar bill in the shape of one of those AIDS ribbons to my suit jacket. The hilarity was lost on me and my friends but my friends' parents made me pose for roughly 10,000 pictures which took abnormally long because they were laughing too hard to hold their cameras still. The next year I dressed up as a baseball player so I wouldn't be bothered and I could devote all my time to conquering the cardboard box maze.
I even found some ways to enjoy Halloween through high school. One year, me and my friend Seth took the candy we were going to give out up to my parents' roof. When the trick-or-treaters would knock on the door, they were met with a furious hailstorm of candy. The kids loved it. Except for one kid named Stuart. He must have had a previous bad experience with flying candy because he ran out of there screaming like he was having a war flashback. We knew what his name was because his mom went crazy, running down the street hand-in-hand with her son screaming "THEY'RE SHOOTING CANDY AT STUART! THEY'RE SHOOTING CANDY AT STUART!". We thought that was going to keep all the other kids away and we were going to have to wrap it up. Instead, kids' ears turned up and they showed up like vultures to a water buffalo carcass. Our "clientele" doubled.
All that said, have a safe and happy Halloween and if you come across anybody giving out French silk pies, I need to be notified.
Real estate note: Are you wanting to refinance but are "under water" on your loan? Check out this government program that a coworker of mine, Seth Peterson, explains pretty well: http://madisonrealestatedeals.com/
I did go to Halloween parties at school, though. It was fun just to run around with my friends and play all the games (even though candy was the only prize). Except for "bobbing for apples." Again, I wasn't a naive kid. I understood the concept of germs. If I wanted to basically open-mouth kiss all the kids in my school, I'd want more than a "red delicious" apple for my trouble. Those are the worst kind of apples.
I could even be persuaded to put on a costume for those parties. I never cared what it was so I let my parents pick it out for me, which led to some pretty weird results. One year, I showed up to the party as Rush Limbaugh. I didn't even know who that was but my parents thought it was the funniest thing in the world. They had me put on a suit, put a pillow in my shirt, and slick my hair back. My dad even pinned a dollar bill in the shape of one of those AIDS ribbons to my suit jacket. The hilarity was lost on me and my friends but my friends' parents made me pose for roughly 10,000 pictures which took abnormally long because they were laughing too hard to hold their cameras still. The next year I dressed up as a baseball player so I wouldn't be bothered and I could devote all my time to conquering the cardboard box maze.
I even found some ways to enjoy Halloween through high school. One year, me and my friend Seth took the candy we were going to give out up to my parents' roof. When the trick-or-treaters would knock on the door, they were met with a furious hailstorm of candy. The kids loved it. Except for one kid named Stuart. He must have had a previous bad experience with flying candy because he ran out of there screaming like he was having a war flashback. We knew what his name was because his mom went crazy, running down the street hand-in-hand with her son screaming "THEY'RE SHOOTING CANDY AT STUART! THEY'RE SHOOTING CANDY AT STUART!". We thought that was going to keep all the other kids away and we were going to have to wrap it up. Instead, kids' ears turned up and they showed up like vultures to a water buffalo carcass. Our "clientele" doubled.
All that said, have a safe and happy Halloween and if you come across anybody giving out French silk pies, I need to be notified.
Real estate note: Are you wanting to refinance but are "under water" on your loan? Check out this government program that a coworker of mine, Seth Peterson, explains pretty well: http://madisonrealestatedeals.com/
Friday, October 7, 2011
Staying in America From Now On
I usually travel pretty well. I can sit in a plane, car, or train for hours and thoroughly enjoy every minute of it. This has been true since the day I was born. My parents and I used to make the 9 hour trek up to northern Minnesota to visit relatives every year and I would sit in the back, silently contemplating the deep mysteries of existence and looking forward to the day when I would be able to read what all the road signs said. I'm fairly certain my parents had this exchange more than once:
Dad: "Christopher hasn't made a sound in 6 hours. Take a look back there and make sure he's okay."
(Mom turns around and we make eye contact. I raise my "sippy" cup toward her in a gesture that says, "Yep. Still here. Now turn around and let me resume my nose-picking in peace.")
Mom: "He's fine. The weirdest kid ever, but fine."
This personality trait has served me well over the course of my life. I've traveled to quite a few different countries and have always enjoyed the long flights. I've even enjoyed the ridiculously long layovers in overcrowded airports (At an especially long layover at the Incheon International airport in Seoul, South Korea for instance, I parked myself on a chair that had a great view of the entrance and exit to that horizontal escalator thing that all airports have. More people have trouble getting on and off those things than you might think. The hours just flew by). I've sat in a car and driven through Illinois, Iowa, and Nebraska without wanting to fling myself out of the car just to escape the boredom. The only time I've had any traveling issues came as a result of my big mouth.
The year after I graduated from high school I went on a spontaneous road trip with my friends, Grant and Jon. We decided to pack some clothes and toiletries and just start driving. And that's exactly what we did. We started driving east and ended up going into Canada at Niagara Falls, where we encountered a very strange Canadian border patrolman:
Canuck: "What's the purpose of your visit to Canada?"
Grant: "We've never been to Canada and thought we'd check it out."
Canuck: "You've never been to Canada?"
Grant: "Nope."
Canuck (now strangely angry and red in the face): "YOU'VE NEVER BEEN TO CANADA?!!?"
Anyway, we spent a few days making our way through Toronto (probably the most beautiful city I've ever seen), Ottawa, and Montreal and decided to re-enter the US in eastern Maine. It was late at night, possibly very early morning, when we came to the border crossing. We were extremely tired and I was not handling it well. You know when you're overly tired and everything makes you laugh as hard as you do when you see a video montage of old people losing their balance on America's Funniest Home Videos? That's how I was that night. We pulled up to the border patrol station and a soldier with a machine gun slung over his back took our passports and began grilling us with questions. Most of the questions revolved around where we worked and it was obvious he was suspicious of us doing a late-night drug run. The air was thick with tension and Grant and Jon were obviously nervous. My sleep-deprived delirium did not allow me to be nervous, leading to this exchange:
Soldier: "What are the chances, if I searched your car, of finding drugs, weapons, or other illegal paraphernalia?"
Me (leaning from the passenger seat to the driver's side window): "Oh jeez. I don't know. I'd say slim to none."
Slim to none?!!? The soldier's eyes instantly widened and he turned his back, speaking into his radio. Grant and Jon were furiously apologizing on behalf of their momentarily deranged friend as other soldiers appeared, guns no longer confined to their backs. One of them searched underneath the car while another one came to my window, asking what kind of drugs they had a "slim to none" chance of finding. I'm pretty sure a german shepherd was sniffing around as well. After not finding anything, the soldiers came to the conclusion that Grant and Jon were making a seemingly good point about their idiot friend and decided to let us go.
As we pulled away, Grant turned to Jon and said, "What are the chances we let Chris talk to anybody else on this trip?"
Jon replied, "I'd say slim to none."
Real Estate Note: Do you know of anyone looking for a gorgeous, unique home on Madison's east side? Check this out: http://717woodlawndr.com
Dad: "Christopher hasn't made a sound in 6 hours. Take a look back there and make sure he's okay."
(Mom turns around and we make eye contact. I raise my "sippy" cup toward her in a gesture that says, "Yep. Still here. Now turn around and let me resume my nose-picking in peace.")
Mom: "He's fine. The weirdest kid ever, but fine."
This personality trait has served me well over the course of my life. I've traveled to quite a few different countries and have always enjoyed the long flights. I've even enjoyed the ridiculously long layovers in overcrowded airports (At an especially long layover at the Incheon International airport in Seoul, South Korea for instance, I parked myself on a chair that had a great view of the entrance and exit to that horizontal escalator thing that all airports have. More people have trouble getting on and off those things than you might think. The hours just flew by). I've sat in a car and driven through Illinois, Iowa, and Nebraska without wanting to fling myself out of the car just to escape the boredom. The only time I've had any traveling issues came as a result of my big mouth.
The year after I graduated from high school I went on a spontaneous road trip with my friends, Grant and Jon. We decided to pack some clothes and toiletries and just start driving. And that's exactly what we did. We started driving east and ended up going into Canada at Niagara Falls, where we encountered a very strange Canadian border patrolman:
Canuck: "What's the purpose of your visit to Canada?"
Grant: "We've never been to Canada and thought we'd check it out."
Canuck: "You've never been to Canada?"
Grant: "Nope."
Canuck (now strangely angry and red in the face): "YOU'VE NEVER BEEN TO CANADA?!!?"
Anyway, we spent a few days making our way through Toronto (probably the most beautiful city I've ever seen), Ottawa, and Montreal and decided to re-enter the US in eastern Maine. It was late at night, possibly very early morning, when we came to the border crossing. We were extremely tired and I was not handling it well. You know when you're overly tired and everything makes you laugh as hard as you do when you see a video montage of old people losing their balance on America's Funniest Home Videos? That's how I was that night. We pulled up to the border patrol station and a soldier with a machine gun slung over his back took our passports and began grilling us with questions. Most of the questions revolved around where we worked and it was obvious he was suspicious of us doing a late-night drug run. The air was thick with tension and Grant and Jon were obviously nervous. My sleep-deprived delirium did not allow me to be nervous, leading to this exchange:
Soldier: "What are the chances, if I searched your car, of finding drugs, weapons, or other illegal paraphernalia?"
Me (leaning from the passenger seat to the driver's side window): "Oh jeez. I don't know. I'd say slim to none."
Slim to none?!!? The soldier's eyes instantly widened and he turned his back, speaking into his radio. Grant and Jon were furiously apologizing on behalf of their momentarily deranged friend as other soldiers appeared, guns no longer confined to their backs. One of them searched underneath the car while another one came to my window, asking what kind of drugs they had a "slim to none" chance of finding. I'm pretty sure a german shepherd was sniffing around as well. After not finding anything, the soldiers came to the conclusion that Grant and Jon were making a seemingly good point about their idiot friend and decided to let us go.
As we pulled away, Grant turned to Jon and said, "What are the chances we let Chris talk to anybody else on this trip?"
Jon replied, "I'd say slim to none."
Real Estate Note: Do you know of anyone looking for a gorgeous, unique home on Madison's east side? Check this out: http://717woodlawndr.com
Friday, September 30, 2011
I Know I'm Not the Only One
I'm fairly certain that I am a pretty manly guy. I am a great driver (no implied offense to the ladies, but us men take a lot of pride in our driving abilities), I consider a t-bone steak and a cold beer to be a well-balanced meal, and I have broken a remote control in a stupid burst of rage when the Packers have stunk up the joint. I can even sit down and not talk or even think for hours and be totally content, a trait that women, for the most part, do not possess and completely baffles my wife. But there is one area where my manliness takes quite a hit. It's something that those closest to me know about me, but I thought I'd share it here in case another guy out there who is in the same boat as I and needs to know that he is not alone. Here it is: I love chick flicks.
I should quantify this a little bit. I don't like the depressing sap-fests that exist solely to make you cry and make you feel worse at the end than you did at the beginning. There are a few exceptions, though. Hope Floats had just enough feel-good material in it to make it worth my while. In fact, that movie was the first chick flick that I remember liking and also the only movie to make me actually cry (other movies have made my eyes well up but Hope Floats made the tears flow like a Fargo flood). I saw it at the age of 13 with my girl cousins who were making out with their boyfriends for the whole movie and there I am, sitting by myself, crying my eyes out. Probably an odd scene to walk into.
Romantic comedies are where it's at for me. Light movies that make you feel good. Is this shallow and very un-hipster-like of me? Yes. I don't care. You can go on and on about how Fight Club was a brilliant social commentary that was one of the best movies ever made and I would probably agree with you. But every time I watch it I am left feeling like I just spent a week in the dark and slightly depressed. Give me While You Were Sleeping or Notting Hill, a steak, and a beer and I'm on cloud nine. What's there not to like? Boy meets girl in some cute way at the beginning, something goes wrong in the middle, and they end up together at the end. And as a bonus, there's always some goofball supporting actor/actress (Spike in Notting Hill, for instance) who more often than not delivers the most memorable lines of the whole movie. I know it's a movie-making formula that has been done to death and there are some who wonder how those movies continue to get the green light from studios. The answer is people like me. And I am now "out and proud" about it.
Now, in the interest of full disclosure, romantic comedies aren't the only kind of movies that I like. Braveheart and Gladiator are two of my all-time favorites, for example. They stir up the testosterone in me, making me want to go find an injustice and beat the crap out of whoever is perpetuating that injustice. In fact, whenever someone has asked me what my favorite movie is, my answer has always been "Oooh. That's tough. Probably a tie between Braveheart and Gladiator". That was never a lie. But it was never the whole truth, either. My answer should have been (and will be from now on) "Oooh. That's tough. Probably a tie between Braveheart, Gladiator, and You've Got Mail. Now wipe that smirk off your face before I do it for you."
Real Estate Note: Want to purchase a home but don't have enough income to qualify for a regular loan? Check out this program that some of our clients (who never thought they were able to buy a house) have used: http://www.rurdev.usda.gov/LP_Subject_HousingAndCommunityAssistance.html
I should quantify this a little bit. I don't like the depressing sap-fests that exist solely to make you cry and make you feel worse at the end than you did at the beginning. There are a few exceptions, though. Hope Floats had just enough feel-good material in it to make it worth my while. In fact, that movie was the first chick flick that I remember liking and also the only movie to make me actually cry (other movies have made my eyes well up but Hope Floats made the tears flow like a Fargo flood). I saw it at the age of 13 with my girl cousins who were making out with their boyfriends for the whole movie and there I am, sitting by myself, crying my eyes out. Probably an odd scene to walk into.
Romantic comedies are where it's at for me. Light movies that make you feel good. Is this shallow and very un-hipster-like of me? Yes. I don't care. You can go on and on about how Fight Club was a brilliant social commentary that was one of the best movies ever made and I would probably agree with you. But every time I watch it I am left feeling like I just spent a week in the dark and slightly depressed. Give me While You Were Sleeping or Notting Hill, a steak, and a beer and I'm on cloud nine. What's there not to like? Boy meets girl in some cute way at the beginning, something goes wrong in the middle, and they end up together at the end. And as a bonus, there's always some goofball supporting actor/actress (Spike in Notting Hill, for instance) who more often than not delivers the most memorable lines of the whole movie. I know it's a movie-making formula that has been done to death and there are some who wonder how those movies continue to get the green light from studios. The answer is people like me. And I am now "out and proud" about it.
Now, in the interest of full disclosure, romantic comedies aren't the only kind of movies that I like. Braveheart and Gladiator are two of my all-time favorites, for example. They stir up the testosterone in me, making me want to go find an injustice and beat the crap out of whoever is perpetuating that injustice. In fact, whenever someone has asked me what my favorite movie is, my answer has always been "Oooh. That's tough. Probably a tie between Braveheart and Gladiator". That was never a lie. But it was never the whole truth, either. My answer should have been (and will be from now on) "Oooh. That's tough. Probably a tie between Braveheart, Gladiator, and You've Got Mail. Now wipe that smirk off your face before I do it for you."
Real Estate Note: Want to purchase a home but don't have enough income to qualify for a regular loan? Check out this program that some of our clients (who never thought they were able to buy a house) have used: http://www.rurdev.usda.gov/LP_Subject_HousingAndCommunityAssistance.html
Friday, September 23, 2011
Why Not?
This blog touts itself as having a "side of real estate." Well, for today, it will consist of some real estate with a side of......nothing. I'm putting on my real estate hat, using some exclamation points, and keeping it short and sweet.
Interest rates are at the lowest level they have ever been for a 30 year mortgage! Some of you are probably sick and tired of hearing about these historic rates from the news, realtors, etc...But it's going to continue to generate a lot of buzz so get used to it. It is absolutely crazy. With the right credit, you can get a rate of 3.875%!!!
Here's what that looks like on a monthly basis: For a $100,000 loan (which in this current market can get you a good amount of house), the monthly payment would be $470. That's near half of what most people pay in rent! If you are on the fence about buying a home, now is the time to go for it.
If you or anybody you know is thinking about buying a home, I would love to help you/them out!
Interest rates are at the lowest level they have ever been for a 30 year mortgage! Some of you are probably sick and tired of hearing about these historic rates from the news, realtors, etc...But it's going to continue to generate a lot of buzz so get used to it. It is absolutely crazy. With the right credit, you can get a rate of 3.875%!!!
Here's what that looks like on a monthly basis: For a $100,000 loan (which in this current market can get you a good amount of house), the monthly payment would be $470. That's near half of what most people pay in rent! If you are on the fence about buying a home, now is the time to go for it.
If you or anybody you know is thinking about buying a home, I would love to help you/them out!
Thursday, September 22, 2011
The Final Inning
I grew up playing baseball and absolutely loved it. I got my first glove when I was four and immediately wanted to play catch all the time. In the summer, my dad would take me to the park across the street from our house and hit pop-ups to me before he went to work. My favorite pro team was the Minnesota Twins and I can remember swinging a bat while looking at my reflection from the glass on the gun case at my grandma's house, pretending to be Kirby Puckett (If you have ever seen Kirby you know how ridiculous this must have seemed. He was a short, right-handed black man with a backside as large as a freezer. I had none of those characteristics). I was glued to the television in 1991 when the Twins made it to the World Series, when I overheard this conversation between my dad and his friend who isn't from America and didn't grow up with baseball:
Friend: "Why did that not score a point?"
Dad: "Because that other guy caught the ball"
Friend: "But he hit it."
Dad: "If the ball is caught, the batter is out."
Friend: "But he hit it."
Dad (dejectedly): "I think a documentary about Victorian doorknobs is on PBS. Let's watch that."
Needless to say, I played Little League baseball when I was old enough. I was pretty good, getting voted onto the league all-star team a number of times throughout the years as a pitcher and outfielder. I even played 4 years of varsity ball in high school. But it was during my time in Little League that I almost lost my love of this beautiful game with one swing.
It was a morning game and the temperature had already climbed into the 80s. My team was locked in battle with the best team in the league and we were more than holding our own. In fact, we were crushing 'em, carrying a 5-run lead into the final inning. Now, my good friend "Andy" was on the other team and always enjoyed letting me know that his was the better team. According to him, we had the same odds of beating them as Screech had of marrying Kelly Kapowski. So during that last inning, as I was standing in the outfield, I was giddily preparing the unending torrent of ridicule I would torment Andy with for the foreseeable future ("Hey Andy, my baseball team played an all-girls team on Saturday. Weird scheduling error I guess. How was your weekend?", etc...). But I would never get that chance.
Our pitcher gave up 2 runs to cut our lead to 3 and had the bases loaded. The best hitter in the league was up next. Gabe. That name struck more fear in opposing players' hearts than the thought of someday having to kiss a girl. This kid was huge and looked like he not only could get into a bar without being ID'd but he also earned free beer by being the bouncer. Our pitcher was visibly nervous so our coach brought me in to get that last out. Not only was our team going to win but I was going to strike out Gabe and ascend to the pinnacle of athletic success. As I ran in to the pitchers mound, I noticed that the player standing on second base was Andy. We locked eyes and I gave him a look that said "You are going to have a great view of the greatest pitching performance this field has ever seen."
Gabe fouled off my first two pitches to bring the count to 0 and 2. I was going to strike him out. I just knew it. I was already picturing being carried off the field on my teammates' shoulders and being the lead story on that night's Sportscenter. With those visions of grandeur in my head, I unleashed the third pitch. Gabe's swing on that pitch was as violent as a Kansas tornado and as smooth as a Sade record. I watched in horror as the bat made contact, sending the ball skyward. I thought, "Well, I didn't strike him out but I got him to pop out. That's good enough. I hope Bob Costas wants to interview me first. He's the best." But the ball kept going. It finally landed 30 feet past the fence. A grand slam. We had just lost by one run. I turned to see Gabe put his head down and start running the bases. Not an ounce of celebration, as if he had done this a million times before (I wouldn't be surprised if that was actually the case). Andy, however, was not quite so gracious, laughing and pointing at me as he made his way from second base to home (In all fairness, it should be noted that he turned out to be a great guy and one of my best friends. But at that moment I was hoping against all hope that he would severely roll his ankle as he turned towards home). I was crushed. Tears welled up in my eyes. I had let all my teammates down. I didn't know if I would ever want to play baseball again and thought about my retirement speech as I walked off the field with my hat in my hands. But as I reached the dugout, our first baseman handed me his pouch of Big League Chew. As I stuffed my cheek full of the grape-flavored shredded bubble gum, he said "I don't think anybody has gotten two strikes on Gabe all year. That was awesome."
I decided to postpone that retirement speech.
Real Estate Note: If you or anybody you know is interested in a great deal on Madison's west side, check out this home. It is a foreclosure that is listed at $71,000 below the assessed value. Click Here to View Listings
Friend: "Why did that not score a point?"
Dad: "Because that other guy caught the ball"
Friend: "But he hit it."
Dad: "If the ball is caught, the batter is out."
Friend: "But he hit it."
Dad (dejectedly): "I think a documentary about Victorian doorknobs is on PBS. Let's watch that."
Needless to say, I played Little League baseball when I was old enough. I was pretty good, getting voted onto the league all-star team a number of times throughout the years as a pitcher and outfielder. I even played 4 years of varsity ball in high school. But it was during my time in Little League that I almost lost my love of this beautiful game with one swing.
It was a morning game and the temperature had already climbed into the 80s. My team was locked in battle with the best team in the league and we were more than holding our own. In fact, we were crushing 'em, carrying a 5-run lead into the final inning. Now, my good friend "Andy" was on the other team and always enjoyed letting me know that his was the better team. According to him, we had the same odds of beating them as Screech had of marrying Kelly Kapowski. So during that last inning, as I was standing in the outfield, I was giddily preparing the unending torrent of ridicule I would torment Andy with for the foreseeable future ("Hey Andy, my baseball team played an all-girls team on Saturday. Weird scheduling error I guess. How was your weekend?", etc...). But I would never get that chance.
Our pitcher gave up 2 runs to cut our lead to 3 and had the bases loaded. The best hitter in the league was up next. Gabe. That name struck more fear in opposing players' hearts than the thought of someday having to kiss a girl. This kid was huge and looked like he not only could get into a bar without being ID'd but he also earned free beer by being the bouncer. Our pitcher was visibly nervous so our coach brought me in to get that last out. Not only was our team going to win but I was going to strike out Gabe and ascend to the pinnacle of athletic success. As I ran in to the pitchers mound, I noticed that the player standing on second base was Andy. We locked eyes and I gave him a look that said "You are going to have a great view of the greatest pitching performance this field has ever seen."
Gabe fouled off my first two pitches to bring the count to 0 and 2. I was going to strike him out. I just knew it. I was already picturing being carried off the field on my teammates' shoulders and being the lead story on that night's Sportscenter. With those visions of grandeur in my head, I unleashed the third pitch. Gabe's swing on that pitch was as violent as a Kansas tornado and as smooth as a Sade record. I watched in horror as the bat made contact, sending the ball skyward. I thought, "Well, I didn't strike him out but I got him to pop out. That's good enough. I hope Bob Costas wants to interview me first. He's the best." But the ball kept going. It finally landed 30 feet past the fence. A grand slam. We had just lost by one run. I turned to see Gabe put his head down and start running the bases. Not an ounce of celebration, as if he had done this a million times before (I wouldn't be surprised if that was actually the case). Andy, however, was not quite so gracious, laughing and pointing at me as he made his way from second base to home (In all fairness, it should be noted that he turned out to be a great guy and one of my best friends. But at that moment I was hoping against all hope that he would severely roll his ankle as he turned towards home). I was crushed. Tears welled up in my eyes. I had let all my teammates down. I didn't know if I would ever want to play baseball again and thought about my retirement speech as I walked off the field with my hat in my hands. But as I reached the dugout, our first baseman handed me his pouch of Big League Chew. As I stuffed my cheek full of the grape-flavored shredded bubble gum, he said "I don't think anybody has gotten two strikes on Gabe all year. That was awesome."
I decided to postpone that retirement speech.
Real Estate Note: If you or anybody you know is interested in a great deal on Madison's west side, check out this home. It is a foreclosure that is listed at $71,000 below the assessed value. Click Here to View Listings
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Seemed Like a Good Idea
My last post touted my immune system as a Herculean force that rarely gives an inch. That does not mean, however, that the other systems that make up my body are at the top of their game. My hair started fleeing like the French when I was 19, I've been getting a little soft around the edges the past few years, and I even got my first cavity recently. I can't run as fast, jump as high (although that's like saying Kathy Griffin isn't as funny as she used to be), or throw as far as I used to. I feel like I'm totally falling apart. And I'm only 28! At this rate, I'll need to hire a full-time caretaker by the time I'm 37 (Jamie, you would think, would be willing to bathe me, clothe me, push my wheelchair, and help me in the bathroom. Nope. That job's going to a professional). Father Time's hot breath has been right in my face so last week I gave him some mouthwash. I started working out.
I knew my friend Jon works out regularly and we've always thrown around the idea of working out together. So when I finally said that I was ready to make it happen, he told me to meet him the next morning at the health club at 6. In the AM! Daunted but not deterred, I showed up at 6am. I've always known that Jon's workout routine is pretty intense and fast-paced, which is probably why it took me so long to agree to do it with him, so I was a little nervous about being able to keep up. But I did. Man, I really did. I was doing all the exercises Jon was doing and keeping up beautifully, same amount of reps, same amount of time between exercises (usually about 5 seconds). I was kicking that workout right in the mouth and feeling good doing it. We ended the workout after roughly an hour, which is about when the trouble started.
I started feeling a little "off" as we walked back to the locker room. My head was spinning a little bit, my stomach was nauseous, and my whole body had a strange ache to it. Jon took a look at me and asked "Are you okay?" I nodded yes and replied that I just needed to sit down in the locker room before leaving. Five minutes of sitting down helped a little bit and I got up, bid adieu to Jon, and ventured out the door. It was during the trek across the parking lot (which felt as long as walking across Canada) that I began to realize that I was in worse shape than I thought I was. I poured myself into my car and started driving as fast as I safely could in order to get home before I either passed out or "tossed my cookies" inside my car. I wasn't gonna make it. Pulling off on a side road, I miraculously stumbled upon a park with a porta-potty. Now, I figured this porta-potty had been there all summer, marinating and steaming, and smelling like the worst thing on earth. My assumption was proved correct when I opened the door. The stench hit me like a crowbar to Nancy Kerrigan's knee. Without going into too much detail, I spent about a half hour in there and thanked God for its existence every second I was in there.
Lesson learned. I now do about 1/2 the reps Jon does, at 1/2 the speed. Any time someone stares at me as I do my lame workout, I think back to my steamy dance with the porta-potty and think "Are there worse things than being stared at for doing 5lb bicep curls? Yes. There most certainly are."
Real Estate Note: Interested in how Madison's housing market is doing compared to the rest of the U.S? Click here: http://www.zillow.com/local-info/ and scroll down until you see Madison. If you click on it, it will show up in the graph.
I knew my friend Jon works out regularly and we've always thrown around the idea of working out together. So when I finally said that I was ready to make it happen, he told me to meet him the next morning at the health club at 6. In the AM! Daunted but not deterred, I showed up at 6am. I've always known that Jon's workout routine is pretty intense and fast-paced, which is probably why it took me so long to agree to do it with him, so I was a little nervous about being able to keep up. But I did. Man, I really did. I was doing all the exercises Jon was doing and keeping up beautifully, same amount of reps, same amount of time between exercises (usually about 5 seconds). I was kicking that workout right in the mouth and feeling good doing it. We ended the workout after roughly an hour, which is about when the trouble started.
I started feeling a little "off" as we walked back to the locker room. My head was spinning a little bit, my stomach was nauseous, and my whole body had a strange ache to it. Jon took a look at me and asked "Are you okay?" I nodded yes and replied that I just needed to sit down in the locker room before leaving. Five minutes of sitting down helped a little bit and I got up, bid adieu to Jon, and ventured out the door. It was during the trek across the parking lot (which felt as long as walking across Canada) that I began to realize that I was in worse shape than I thought I was. I poured myself into my car and started driving as fast as I safely could in order to get home before I either passed out or "tossed my cookies" inside my car. I wasn't gonna make it. Pulling off on a side road, I miraculously stumbled upon a park with a porta-potty. Now, I figured this porta-potty had been there all summer, marinating and steaming, and smelling like the worst thing on earth. My assumption was proved correct when I opened the door. The stench hit me like a crowbar to Nancy Kerrigan's knee. Without going into too much detail, I spent about a half hour in there and thanked God for its existence every second I was in there.
Lesson learned. I now do about 1/2 the reps Jon does, at 1/2 the speed. Any time someone stares at me as I do my lame workout, I think back to my steamy dance with the porta-potty and think "Are there worse things than being stared at for doing 5lb bicep curls? Yes. There most certainly are."
Real Estate Note: Interested in how Madison's housing market is doing compared to the rest of the U.S? Click here: http://www.zillow.com/local-info/ and scroll down until you see Madison. If you click on it, it will show up in the graph.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
The Picture of Health. Almost.
I consider myself to be a pretty healthy guy. I've never had any serious illnesses except for raging gastrointestinal issues EVERY time I leave the country. I don't consider those issues to be a reflection of my overall bodily health. I instead chalk them up to my stupidity:
Street vendor in Russia: "Come, eat land-animal sushi!"
Me: "What?"
Vendor: "Da. Street dog. Never touch frying pan."
Me: "Sold! I'll take two."
I've always been active, either playing sports regularly or working out. I get sick maybe once a year. Got a pretty sweet immune system. When I got the chicken pox as a little kid, guess how many of the itchy red spots I got. TWO! My body conceded those two little red dots just to be nice, to allow the virus to save a little face. In fact, I think I've only been inconvenienced by two illnesses in my whole life, one minor and one major.
The minor inconvenience was the provided by a cold that I think the government slipped into my system as an experiment in biological super-weapons. It showed up a couple of hours before an appointment I had with a guy who was interviewing agents for the job of selling his house. It started off as the worst sore throat I've ever had, which for some reason made my mouth salivate like a faucet that someone forgot to turn off. It also made my brain feel like those frying eggs in the old "This is your brain on drugs" commercials. Needless to say, the listing appointment did not go well. I don't remember any of the questions that the guy asked. None of my answers, either. I do remember actually drooling on his table and apologizing while trying to explain my salivary predicament. I didn't get the listing.
The major inconvenience showed up when I was a sophomore in high school in the form of insomnia. No one really knows why this happened. But for three weeks, sleep avoided me, much in the same way that dignity avoids Lady Gaga. During the day I was a zombie, trying not to fall asleep in order preserve some semblance of a sleeping pattern in case I did fall asleep at night. But as soon as I would get in bed, I couldn't even lay still. Once every few nights I would drift off for maybe an hour only to be roused awake by......absolutely nothing. It was terrible. I kept going to school all this time, staring blankly, forgetting to keep talking while I was mid-sentence, and flunking algebra tests (That's right. I had to take algebra tests. All my teachers knew of my condition and took it easy on me. Except for my algebra II teacher. I think I wrote my name when solving for x at least three times). The first time I went to the doctor, he gave me Benadryl. Apparently he didn't notice that this insomnia was actually a physical entity that could punch a person in the face and spit on them as they lay bleeding. It wasn't until a week later that he gave me some pills that came with these instructions: "Take one. Only one. If you take two you will fall into a coma." I actually had to fight the desire to take two. Gladly, one pill did the trick.
Real estate note: If you are on the fence about selling your home, please read this:
http://kcmblog.com/2011/09/06/5-great-reasons-t-sell-your-house-today-2/
Chris
Street vendor in Russia: "Come, eat land-animal sushi!"
Me: "What?"
Vendor: "Da. Street dog. Never touch frying pan."
Me: "Sold! I'll take two."
I've always been active, either playing sports regularly or working out. I get sick maybe once a year. Got a pretty sweet immune system. When I got the chicken pox as a little kid, guess how many of the itchy red spots I got. TWO! My body conceded those two little red dots just to be nice, to allow the virus to save a little face. In fact, I think I've only been inconvenienced by two illnesses in my whole life, one minor and one major.
The minor inconvenience was the provided by a cold that I think the government slipped into my system as an experiment in biological super-weapons. It showed up a couple of hours before an appointment I had with a guy who was interviewing agents for the job of selling his house. It started off as the worst sore throat I've ever had, which for some reason made my mouth salivate like a faucet that someone forgot to turn off. It also made my brain feel like those frying eggs in the old "This is your brain on drugs" commercials. Needless to say, the listing appointment did not go well. I don't remember any of the questions that the guy asked. None of my answers, either. I do remember actually drooling on his table and apologizing while trying to explain my salivary predicament. I didn't get the listing.
The major inconvenience showed up when I was a sophomore in high school in the form of insomnia. No one really knows why this happened. But for three weeks, sleep avoided me, much in the same way that dignity avoids Lady Gaga. During the day I was a zombie, trying not to fall asleep in order preserve some semblance of a sleeping pattern in case I did fall asleep at night. But as soon as I would get in bed, I couldn't even lay still. Once every few nights I would drift off for maybe an hour only to be roused awake by......absolutely nothing. It was terrible. I kept going to school all this time, staring blankly, forgetting to keep talking while I was mid-sentence, and flunking algebra tests (That's right. I had to take algebra tests. All my teachers knew of my condition and took it easy on me. Except for my algebra II teacher. I think I wrote my name when solving for x at least three times). The first time I went to the doctor, he gave me Benadryl. Apparently he didn't notice that this insomnia was actually a physical entity that could punch a person in the face and spit on them as they lay bleeding. It wasn't until a week later that he gave me some pills that came with these instructions: "Take one. Only one. If you take two you will fall into a coma." I actually had to fight the desire to take two. Gladly, one pill did the trick.
Real estate note: If you are on the fence about selling your home, please read this:
http://kcmblog.com/2011/09/06/5-great-reasons-t-sell-your-house-today-2/
Chris
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Thanks, Sports Illustrated
Not all of my posts will be about sports, I promise. But this is currently on my brain: I never believed in the SI Cover Jinx. For those of you who aren't aware, the theory of this jinx states that any hot team or player featured on the cover of Sports Illustrated will inevitably begin a downward spiral soon after the issue is released. The rational mind immediately dismisses this theory as pure hogwash, reserved for those who believe that they have been abducted by aliens, that shaving will cause hair to grow back thicker, and that Nickelback is a great band. Not a theory I subscribe to. What I do subscribe to is SI and guess who happens to be on the cover this week: My beloved Milwaukee Brewers.
My initial reaction was one of pure excitement. How often does anyone outside of Wisconsin think about the Brewers, much less put them on the cover of the most popular sports magazine in the world? I suppose it was bound to happen due to the fact that they have been the hottest team in baseball for a little over a month. Inevitably, local whispers about the "jinx" started. My excitement soon turned to annoyance. Why can't we just enjoy this? I set out to prove the falsehood of the jinx.
The amount of evidence I used to disprove the jinx was pretty small. I usually keep issues of SI that have an athlete or team that I like on the cover. Most of these covers feature Brett Favre (I was a bigger fan before all the (un)retirement drama and the release of the infamous cell phone picture which, by the way, no woman would EVER respond positively to). I pulled out the top two from the stack that were in my drawer. Here are the results.
Cover #1: From January, 2008. The title is "Winter Wonderland". The picture is Favre in the snow against the Seahawks in a playoff game in which he led the Packers from a 14 - 0 deficit to a blowout win. The very next week? Favre throws a last-second interception against the Giants in the NFC championship game. The jinx theory? Not disproved.
Cover #2: January, 2010. The title is "Favre on Fire". Favre had just spanked the Cowboys in a playoff game with 4 touchdown passes in a blowout win. The very next week? He throws a last-second interception against the Saints in the NFC championship game. The jinx theory? Staring me right in the face.
Now, I know this is an extremely small sample to base my experiment on and Favre did have a tendency to throw heart-breaking interceptions throughout his career. But this has me on edge. What if the jinx has some actual teeth? What if I am invoking it's heinousness upon the Brewers just by writing about it? What if Nickelback is actually a great band?
Real estate note: Home prices appear to be on the rise here in Dane County. Go to wra.org/HousingStatistics/ if you would like more info.
Chris
My initial reaction was one of pure excitement. How often does anyone outside of Wisconsin think about the Brewers, much less put them on the cover of the most popular sports magazine in the world? I suppose it was bound to happen due to the fact that they have been the hottest team in baseball for a little over a month. Inevitably, local whispers about the "jinx" started. My excitement soon turned to annoyance. Why can't we just enjoy this? I set out to prove the falsehood of the jinx.
The amount of evidence I used to disprove the jinx was pretty small. I usually keep issues of SI that have an athlete or team that I like on the cover. Most of these covers feature Brett Favre (I was a bigger fan before all the (un)retirement drama and the release of the infamous cell phone picture which, by the way, no woman would EVER respond positively to). I pulled out the top two from the stack that were in my drawer. Here are the results.
Cover #1: From January, 2008. The title is "Winter Wonderland". The picture is Favre in the snow against the Seahawks in a playoff game in which he led the Packers from a 14 - 0 deficit to a blowout win. The very next week? Favre throws a last-second interception against the Giants in the NFC championship game. The jinx theory? Not disproved.
Cover #2: January, 2010. The title is "Favre on Fire". Favre had just spanked the Cowboys in a playoff game with 4 touchdown passes in a blowout win. The very next week? He throws a last-second interception against the Saints in the NFC championship game. The jinx theory? Staring me right in the face.
Now, I know this is an extremely small sample to base my experiment on and Favre did have a tendency to throw heart-breaking interceptions throughout his career. But this has me on edge. What if the jinx has some actual teeth? What if I am invoking it's heinousness upon the Brewers just by writing about it? What if Nickelback is actually a great band?
Real estate note: Home prices appear to be on the rise here in Dane County. Go to wra.org/HousingStatistics/ if you would like more info.
Chris
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Fantasy? More Like a Nightmare
I hate fantasy football. I could stop writing after that sentence and feel like everybody who reads this has all the information about me they will ever need. But for the sake of this being a blog and not a Facebook status, I'll elaborate.
I am a Green Bay Packers fan, in love with the organization that manages to be one of the most successful in sports while located in the smallest market. I love Lambeau Field, the training camp tradition of local kids bringing their bikes for the players to ride from the locker room to the practice field, the pot-bellied beer-guzzlers in the stands dressed in camouflage and blaze orange, and the fact that the team is actually owned by the fans. I love the history of the team from Curly Lambeau to Paul Hornung to the Majik Man to that Norse god who goes by the nickname "Bloodline". I even like the ugly green and "gold" (yellow) color scheme, the creation of which probably went something like this:
Guy in charge of team colors: "Man, I'm having trouble deciding on the team colors for the Packers."
Guy in bar: "Well, what did you have to eat today?"
"The usual. Cheese and asparagus."
"Problem solved."
Most of my friends profess to love the Packers as well. But I fear that a group of them is lying. The fantasy football guys. You know the sort. The guys who get together before the season to hold their fantasy draft, poring over stats and projections of no-name players from other teams. The guys who can't sit down, watch a game, and cheer their innards out for their favorite team anymore. The guys who tell me that "it makes ALL the games interesting". The guys would change the channel from the end of an important Packer game to the Bengals-Texans game because they have a receiver on their fantasy team who is on the Bengals and doesn't even start but may catch the last-second Hail Mary pass in a blowout. I hate this with a passion.
I used to go over to my friend "Robert's" (his actual name IS Robert but by using quotation marks, you will think that it's a fake name and not know who I am talking about. But I double-cross you by using his real name in the quotation marks. I should be a CIA operative) house on Sundays to watch football (Packer games) with a bunch of guys. Great guys. Some of my closest friends. But it devolved into the big screen being sectioned off into eight little squares with a different game in each square. Once in a while someone would say "Hey, my backup running back from the Jaguars just gained 8 yards. Switch to that game so I can see the replay." And you know what? Everyone was on board with this. They didn't even care. They weren't even watching the TV. Every single one of 'em had their laptops out, watching the stats and numbers accumulate. They weren't even watching the game(s)! They were watching NUMBERS pop up on a frickin' computer screen! One guy was even monitoring two laptops, one for each league he was in. Two different sets of numbers. Football "fans" not realizing that they are, in fact, huge nerds. I'd be willing to bet a million dollars that if a monk, who hadn't done anything for six years except stare at the ground, was placed in front of one of those computer screens, he would soon begin to manifest the effects of extreme boredom. I quit showing up to Robert's house on Sundays.
My plea to you is this: Decline all invitations to join a fantasy football league. Football will remain pure and fun, gut-wrenching and exhilarating, a roller-coaster of highs and lows. The highs are a pure, happy delirium and the lows, while awful, beat becoming a soul-less automaton staring at numbers on a computer screen.
Real estate note: Interest rates have dropped again. Borrowers who are able to do a conventional loan with good credit can get 4% over 30 years. A 15-year mortgage may me able to be under 4%. If you or somebody you know is thinking about buying a home, now is the time. We may not see rates like this again. Feel free to contact me anytime with referrals or questions.
Chris
I am a Green Bay Packers fan, in love with the organization that manages to be one of the most successful in sports while located in the smallest market. I love Lambeau Field, the training camp tradition of local kids bringing their bikes for the players to ride from the locker room to the practice field, the pot-bellied beer-guzzlers in the stands dressed in camouflage and blaze orange, and the fact that the team is actually owned by the fans. I love the history of the team from Curly Lambeau to Paul Hornung to the Majik Man to that Norse god who goes by the nickname "Bloodline". I even like the ugly green and "gold" (yellow) color scheme, the creation of which probably went something like this:
Guy in charge of team colors: "Man, I'm having trouble deciding on the team colors for the Packers."
Guy in bar: "Well, what did you have to eat today?"
"The usual. Cheese and asparagus."
"Problem solved."
Most of my friends profess to love the Packers as well. But I fear that a group of them is lying. The fantasy football guys. You know the sort. The guys who get together before the season to hold their fantasy draft, poring over stats and projections of no-name players from other teams. The guys who can't sit down, watch a game, and cheer their innards out for their favorite team anymore. The guys who tell me that "it makes ALL the games interesting". The guys would change the channel from the end of an important Packer game to the Bengals-Texans game because they have a receiver on their fantasy team who is on the Bengals and doesn't even start but may catch the last-second Hail Mary pass in a blowout. I hate this with a passion.
I used to go over to my friend "Robert's" (his actual name IS Robert but by using quotation marks, you will think that it's a fake name and not know who I am talking about. But I double-cross you by using his real name in the quotation marks. I should be a CIA operative) house on Sundays to watch football (Packer games) with a bunch of guys. Great guys. Some of my closest friends. But it devolved into the big screen being sectioned off into eight little squares with a different game in each square. Once in a while someone would say "Hey, my backup running back from the Jaguars just gained 8 yards. Switch to that game so I can see the replay." And you know what? Everyone was on board with this. They didn't even care. They weren't even watching the TV. Every single one of 'em had their laptops out, watching the stats and numbers accumulate. They weren't even watching the game(s)! They were watching NUMBERS pop up on a frickin' computer screen! One guy was even monitoring two laptops, one for each league he was in. Two different sets of numbers. Football "fans" not realizing that they are, in fact, huge nerds. I'd be willing to bet a million dollars that if a monk, who hadn't done anything for six years except stare at the ground, was placed in front of one of those computer screens, he would soon begin to manifest the effects of extreme boredom. I quit showing up to Robert's house on Sundays.
My plea to you is this: Decline all invitations to join a fantasy football league. Football will remain pure and fun, gut-wrenching and exhilarating, a roller-coaster of highs and lows. The highs are a pure, happy delirium and the lows, while awful, beat becoming a soul-less automaton staring at numbers on a computer screen.
Real estate note: Interest rates have dropped again. Borrowers who are able to do a conventional loan with good credit can get 4% over 30 years. A 15-year mortgage may me able to be under 4%. If you or somebody you know is thinking about buying a home, now is the time. We may not see rates like this again. Feel free to contact me anytime with referrals or questions.
Chris
Friday, August 5, 2011
Hello Blogosphere
Hi! For those of you who don't know me, I am Chris Sorenson. I am a realtor here in Madison, WI and I am new to the world of blogging. It has always seemed strange to me to share things about myself to people who aren't in vocal communication with me either face to face or on the phone. I mean, I have never really visited blogs but, to me, the whole thing has seemed self-centered and attention-seeking. Most of these thoughts, I assume, stem from my being the least introspective person that I know. It used to drive my wife, Jamie, absolutely nuts.
Jamie: "How did you feel about that movie?"
Me: "Ummm...I don't know. My popcorn was absolutely delicious, though."
Jamie: "Well, what thoughts were going through your head when the little girl was crying when her daddy left for the war?"
Me: "I think it was about then that I noticed the popcorn had left a nice buttery film on my lips so I was pretty wrapped up in that."
Jamie (dejectedly): "I should have married a woman."
Jamie has grown accustomed to me over the years and I now try to share my feelings on things with her (even if I have to make them up).
So if you need a lighter spot in the blogosphere, I hope this blog will fill some of that need. I'll share stories of things I have done or experienced, share some of the "goings on" in the real estate market, and leave the lame, "I'm currently eating mashed potatoes!" status updates to the folks on Twitter.
I'll wrap it up here with a request for your referrals: If you or anyone you know is looking to buy or sell real estate, I would love to help you/them out. We real estate agents make a lot of our living on the word of mouth from friends and family and if you are reading this blog, I consider you one or both.
Chris
Jamie: "How did you feel about that movie?"
Me: "Ummm...I don't know. My popcorn was absolutely delicious, though."
Jamie: "Well, what thoughts were going through your head when the little girl was crying when her daddy left for the war?"
Me: "I think it was about then that I noticed the popcorn had left a nice buttery film on my lips so I was pretty wrapped up in that."
Jamie (dejectedly): "I should have married a woman."
Jamie has grown accustomed to me over the years and I now try to share my feelings on things with her (even if I have to make them up).
So if you need a lighter spot in the blogosphere, I hope this blog will fill some of that need. I'll share stories of things I have done or experienced, share some of the "goings on" in the real estate market, and leave the lame, "I'm currently eating mashed potatoes!" status updates to the folks on Twitter.
I'll wrap it up here with a request for your referrals: If you or anyone you know is looking to buy or sell real estate, I would love to help you/them out. We real estate agents make a lot of our living on the word of mouth from friends and family and if you are reading this blog, I consider you one or both.
Chris
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