Fourth verse, same as the first

I am about to put in my fourth offer on a house.

I mean, four different houses.

And, I guess, technically, third: for one of them, I was psychologically prepared to submit the offer, but the place went under contract by the time I was able to contact my realtor. ®

As those of you who might not be obsessively house-hunting may not know, rates have meanwhile climbed three-quarters of a point -- or, as I prefer to (obsessively) think of it, $169/month.

This latest entrant in the townhouse sweepstakes is in southwest DC, which shocks me a little. I mean, I was aiming for Virginia. (Even more scandalous? Built in nineteen-frickin-sixty-six. Because that was, you know, such a good decade for multistory buildings.)

There's a certain me-ness to it, though, by which I certainly hope I mean something other than that it's shabby enough that I could picture myself there, and the price is right -- or, I hope, will still be right after we finish the escalation clauses; there are at this moment four other offers on the place -- and while I hate the thought of losing walk-up access to my favorite Thai grocery store, I'll admit I'd be excited to be less than half a mile from L'Enfant Plaza metro and the Hirschhorn.

Which is really weird, because I can't remember the last time I felt the urge to go to the Hirschhorn.

I have to say, I'm losing enthusiasm for this entire enterprise. It seemed like a good idea back in January, when rates were falling and even sweet deals were sitting on the market for weeks, but I suspect there's more than a bit of bloody-mindedness driving me now.

Ugh. Once more unto the breach. But, after that, I swear, I'm moving to Oregon and opening up an artisanal cheese farm.