Right at this moment, pirateguillermo and I are trying to buy a house. We're in that supremely uncomfortable period between making an offer and having the seller accept it. It's like that period of squidgy tension between the time you propose sex to someone for the first time and the time they accept. Because they may not. And it's worse if you're already naked.
They may look at you, in all your financially-revealing nakedness, and find you wanting. They may do the real estate equivalent of pointing and laughing, regardless of the fact that both our real estate agent and our mortgage broker are out there pimping our assets like their livelihoods depend on it. Which, in fact, they do. "Aren't they cute?" the real estate agent says. "And just look at the size of those salaries," the mortgage broker puts in, nodding his head in a knowing and appreciative manner.
But it may not matter. The other bidder on this property might be cuter. Better equipped financially. Have the sort of dazzling personalities that are normally only found on television sitcoms or in the terminally ill.
And in the meantime, we're standing there, starting to go limp. Starting to think that it's not going to happen. Starting to think "That's fine. We didn't want that house anyway. Sure it looked good last night when we were all happy about things, but in the sober light of day, it's perhaps not the place of our dreams." We are starting to think uncharitable thoughts about the sellers and their breeding and lack of a proper upbringing. We are thinking that they are, perhaps, the tiniest bit uninformed about the way that this is done, and don't perhaps realize that only sadistic Fascist wolverines leave people hanging like this.
No wonder I'm distracted.