Brother can you spare a dime?

Laura and I are now facing the prospect of soon being homeless, and it’s all because of a terrorist group in the Middle East, a spilled bowl of water and the power of the internet.

Shortly after the tragic events of Sept.11, 2001, interest rates were slashed as a way to restore consumer confidence in a stumbling economy.

As a result of those slashed rates, the real estate market went absolutely crazy. Just about every homeowner I know, including me and Laura, refinanced their mortgages to capitalize on the lower rates. Meanwhile, property values in southern Maine skyrocketed.

Faithful readers of this column already know that Laura and I live in a relatively small home (with the emphasis placed on the word “small.”) Since we have two dogs, two cats, two rats, two aquariums, two children and two bedrooms, we knew from the day we met that we would soon need a bigger home.

But we were scared by the skyrocketing housing market. So we spent the first several months of our marriage on repairing our credit scores and fixing up our home to increase its value.

During the past two years, I’ve made more trips to Home Depot, Deering Lumber, Moody’s Nursery and Andy’s Agway than I want to talk about.

We first put up a storage shed and then spent several months and many precious weekends painting, tiling and shoveling. We worked our butts off, making our little bungalow more pleasing to the eye and comfortable to live in.

But then tragedy struck. While walking toward the washing machine late one night, I tripped over the dogs’ water dish, spilling the water all over the hardwood floors and soaking my socks. I thought I could make the trip without turning on the lights.

As I went to clean up the water, I leaned over to grab the mop (which is wedged behind the washing machine, which is wedged behind the dining room table) and stepped on a Bionical toy (which is relatively inexpensive, small, plastic and sharp as a razor.)

The pain made me scream, which is pretty normal in my house. No one stirred, not even the rats. I marched (actually limped) into our master bedroom, which measures three feet by six feet, and told my lovely wife that I was ready to snap.

Laura lifted her head from the pillow and said (with her eyes closed) “well then do something about it,” before immediately falling back into a deep slumber. I grabbed a flashlight and made my way toward the computer, which is wedged behind the kitchen sink (right next to the water heater).

I began using the internet to research interest rates, mortgage companies and real estate brokers. I got more e-mail messages in the next three days than you could shake a stick at, and our phone started ringing off the hook.

Within 72 hours, a smiling real estate agent was sitting in our living room (which measures 11 inches by 14 inches). He recommended a mortgage broker he knows and told us what he thought our home was worth. We smiled, too.

There were papers to sign and brochures to read. The whole process took 15 minutes. The broker stepped outside, grabbed a “For Sale” sign and tore up a small section of my beloved front lawn. That was last Wednesday (April 21) at approximately 7:30 p.m.

Within 17 hours, my cell phone chirped. It was my smiling broker. “We have an offer,” he said. “It’s for more than you wanted,” he added, spelling out the details.

Laura and I wanted to sell our home on a contingent basis, which would allow us adequate time to close on a new home. The buyer, apparently, did not want to wait. We had a decision to make. My father always said “a bird in the hand is worth a lot more than President Bush,” so we accepted the offer.

The real estate agent came back to our home that night with a much bigger smile than before. There was more paperwork and lots of questions about how many lead pencils we keep near the desk.

Suddenly, we were faced with a very big dilemma. We had barely started our search for a new home, and we now have less than six weeks to find one, have it inspected and move our 13 tons of belongings into it.

How do you spell stress?

We spent the weekend looking at homes. It’s not so bad, really. There are many affordable properties out there for people in our income range. It’s just that commuting from Caribou is going to mean I’ll be spending a lot more on gas and turnpike tolls.