I Just Bought My Post-Divorce House and It Feels So Weird

Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out. Don’t freak out.

It’s 7 am on Thursday. I’m downstairs, making my kids’ lunches for the day. Upstairs, I hear my soon-to-be ex-husband coughing nonstop. My blood begins to boil.

While we live together during this divorce, our school routine is for him to get the kids ready in the morning while I make their lunches. Later, I’ll be the one to pick them up from their after-school care program.

Joseph is making a throat-clearing-phlegm-dying-goat-scraping-gurgle sound upstairs. I don’t know the correct word to use on Medium when someone wakes up and clears their throat to the very base where it makes that sound like they’re getting all the mucus from the bottom of their lungs.

He isn’t sick. This is what he does. In addition to the nightly noises of passing gas so loud that even when I’m on a different floor with the doors closed, I can still hear it.

As he continues to hock up the phlegm from his throat and spit it out upstairs, I remain downstairs making lunches. My blood is officially at a boiling level. The vein in my head is about to pop. I’m digging my nails into the palms of my hands.

Joseph’s cell phone alarm goes off and he doesn’t immediately turn it off. I imagine myself going upstairs, grabbing his phone, and smashing it to a thousand pieces because every day it takes him over a minute to turn off that fucking sound.

I repeat to myself, “This will all be over soon. This will all be over soon.”

I can think that because I bought a house this week. I can finally move out of the house I’ve shared with him for almost two years while we end this marriage.

Finally.

I’m a mix of excited and a mix of annoyed.

I’m excited to finally move forward. It’s a hell of a project; it was built in 1986 and short of Patrick Nagel posters, it’s still got the same look. I’m aching to finally get out and live my life.

Living with your separated spouse is like arriving at Disneyland but only hanging out when the park is closed. You might as well not even be there.

But I’m also annoyed. I’m moving from a massive house to something a fraction of the size. There are dumb fixes the previous owners tried to do that look even worse. I have so many contractors I’m trying to schedule projects with before moving in, but I can’t get a lot done when I don’t have access to the house and it’s such a small project that many companies don’t want to bother.

The kitchen is the original gem from the eighties. But the owners tried painting over the cabinets without even cleaning them so they look like someone vomited brown paint on them. I was too scared to look inside the cabinets.

The drawers are boxes in open holes. No tracks, nothing to keep them from flopping around when open or closed. A dollhouse has drawers that work better than these splinter-causing abominations.

The microwave and stove they’re leaving behind look like appliances in zombie format. There’s a gross film that I’m too scared to touch and see if it’s sticky. I also get angry at microwaves above the stove; whoever thought that was a good idea needs to be punched in the throat.

The only hall closet is in the kitchen and can only be described as a tiny, triangular crawl space that can house Harry Potter.

The bedrooms are small. I’ll have to buy loft beds so my kids have extra floor space. I’m not a fan of doing this because they’re a pain to change the sheets but not much I can do about that.

I’m annoyed because they painted the walls but didn’t paint the ceilings, which are various shades of gross yellow.

The fireplace is brick, which they painted a gnarly shade of brown that I didn’t think was possible to ever see with my eyeballs. Which I can live with. However, there are random columns of bricks from the mantle up to the ceiling. I guess people in the eighties didn’t like artwork above the fireplace. In my case, it’s the only place on the entire first floor that can house a flatscreen. Before anyone comes at me, no I won’t be using the fireplace if I have a TV above it. I’m struggling to find contractors who will do this job because it’s small but wonky.

The laundry is in the garage and it’s not right next to the door leading to it. If you’ve never experienced indoor laundry and garage laundry let me explain: it’s like eating a gourmet burger and then eating a frozen patty cooked in the microwave. It’s not a small change; it’s night and day.

Speaking of the garage, I’m not going to be able to put my car in there. I have to turn that space into a mini living area. I’m learning all about installing garage insulation on my own.

The backyard is one-third cement and two-thirds wood chips. It’s completely unusable. When you live in southern California and real estate is at a premium, backyard space (or lack of it) is important. I can’t afford to do anything about it right away so I’ll let the rats continue to live in the overgrown ivy that has taken over one side courtesy of those neighbors. Maybe I can charge them rent because I sure as fuck need the money. The fence on the other side is so low, I could probably step over it to get into that neighbor’s yard.

The best (note sarcasm) part? There’s a homeowner’s association. It’s $70 a month. There’s no community park or pool. It’s $70 a month for someone to tell me what paint colors I can use. For real. I skimmed the association guidebook and all I can tell is that the fees go towards meeting spaces where I can only assume they discuss more paint colors. Part of me wants to join the association because being in the HOA club means I get the perk of doing what I want. But knowing me, I’ll be the asshole who constantly gets up their ass about what they’re spending membership dues on, and then they’ll make my life miserable by telling me a plant in my front yard isn’t on the acceptable list of foliage.

Oh, and the sprinklers are broken but I’m buying it as-is. All for a house that is almost one million dollars for an outdated starter home.

I’m not complaining. Okay, I’m a little complaining. But I promise you, I’m stoked to finally move forward. I’m a rip-the-bandaid-off kind of girl and if I’m going to say goodbye to a 4000 sq ft newly-renovated house with a pool, I wanted to get it over ages ago.

Paying a mortgage on my own is terrifying. But even more terrifying is how much my kids will hate going between a huge house that has room for their toys (they have a lot, courtesy of their hoarder dad) and something that can’t even fit school desks in their bedrooms. There’s no backyard for them to play in; I’m struggling to figure out where I can put all their books that is easily within reach (a bookcase in the garage doesn’t seem like an ideal spot).

It’s a short escrow. Knock on wood, I’ll get the keys in three weeks. I’ve hustled like a madman to get the endless paperwork and information to escrow, the loan folks, and my agent. It’s my new obsession and a welcome mental break from the other things that plague my brain.

With that Divorce Milestone unlocked, there’s one thing left to do: finally tell the kids about the divorce. That’s the scariest milestone in all the stages of a divorce.