We heard back. Did we ever. This whole process reminds me of war. Something akin to a clunky medieval war with ineffectual weapons and a horrible lack of communication. You lob something at me. I stare at it as it smolders harmlessly at my feet. In return I chuck something back at you; something as equally harmless and ineffective. The whole process is teeth-grittingly, frustratingly unproductive. It all feels ridiculous and stupid. You want way too much for your house. $21,000 over what every other professional thinks it’s worth. As much as I love what you have to offer I’m not about to offer you that much. Not nearly. When it came down to this war of numbers I wanted to hurl something more dangerous at you, something with the bite of “final offer” because really, it’s no big deal to me if we walk away. It aint no big thing. But, my knight in shining armor wants to storm the gates. Wants to see what you are made of, one tiny ineffective barb at a time.
So, we counter like kids – our offer coming through as a game of tin can telephone – hollow and sounding all wrong. And we wait for your tin can reply.
Tag: real estate
Waking an Old Dream
Last August I wrote a lot about a little house. From the moment we drove away from its driveway I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I saw it as overly perfect and my husband saw it as overpriced. To anyone who would listen I would say, “let me tell you about this house.” And I would launch right in. For starters, there is the neighborhood. It’s not a thrustreet to anything important so no one is racing to nowhere special. There’s a park behind the house, another across the way. People walk here. You can park on the street. It’s that kind of place. Then, there is the yard. Front and back. Big enough for a patio. Future enough for a deck. One big tree to stand guard over a hazy childhood memory…From there I temporarily slip into warm fuzzy thoughts about all the trees I have climbed, the apples I have eaten…
But, back to the house. Let me tell you about this house! I like the shutters. I like the garage. I like the idea of “cute cape cod” but, but! But, it’s whats inside that really grabbed me. Like a closet for coats and boots right inside the door. Not a mudroom, per se…but a place to stand as the snow drips off your shoulders and puddles into grittiness at your feet. A place to not only shrug off your jacket but hang it up. The arched doorway lends itself to character and leads to a lovely living room, complete with fireplace and mantle. Off that, an addition built just for family and appropriately called the family room. Go figure. Circle back and walk through the dining room. Yes, a real, honest-to-goodness dining room. An adult room to with room enough to sit at a real table to eat. Not a tv tray or bar stool in sight. then, the kitchen. Ah, the kitchen! Blue counters, white cabinets. My dishes are already moved in. In a word, they match the decor. They go. They belong. There’s a cook’s bath off the kitchen, a view of the back yard while ignoring the dishwasher and washing the dishes by hand, even a shelf for diaries cookbooks… From there I can’t help but remember the dozens and dozens of cookies I just made. The smell of cookie dough and chocolate permeating every room.
But, back to the house. Let me tell you about The House! Climb the stairs to the second floor and notice the closets in the hall. The two bedrooms with built-ins and more closets. The sunny, tiled bath…upstairs is small but perfect. Plush carpet and quiet invite you to stay a little longer. My imagination has me staying forever.
This is the house I would have told you about last summer. The house that sold in the fall to someone else; to someone other than me. The one that brought tears to my eyes. The one I pictured being my first house. Home. now belonging to someone else. It has taken me forever to move on. I’ve liked disasters and I’ve liked dangerous dreams. But, I’ve never forgotten my August house.
Here’s the curious thing. We found this house. Same town. Same street. Nearly identical in architecture only backwards. Garage on the right instead of left. Family room far left instead of far right. Am I dreaming? This last Sunday, kisa and I revisted the house we already thought we knew. It’s the same house.
Tonight, we put in an offer…
and I hold my breath.
Bread and Jam
I love it when a plan comes together. Things you don’t intend to happen just do and for the better. I didn’t intend for the Sean night to be just Kisa and I but I’m glad it turned out that way. We haven’t been to see a show, just the two of us, in a really, really long time. We took the opportunity to prowl around a new town scoping out the real estate it had to offer. I didn’t intend to see a twin of my first “dream house” but there it was, in the same town on the same street. They are mirror images of one another…including the price. I dared to dream for just a minute about having a second chance at a first house.
I didn’t intend for us to stop in Albany for dinner. I mentioned a place, said I had no idea where it was or even what it was really called. Kisa pointed in Tom’s direction and said, “ask him.” Tom knew the place and even how to get there (or should that be the other way around because how to get there is a given?) and so we went. Better blog about bombing Bombers later…
I didn’t intend for us to sit front row for Sean’s show. I was hoping for a quiet corner, something with candles and coffee. Instead, we found a couch with cinnamon sweet cider and a chocolate brownie to split. Sean, as usual, was amazing. I’m never, ever disappointed after seeing a show. Here’s the setlist:
- Bluegrass Baby
- Night (awesome, awesome tune)
- Into the Mystic
- Surprise (new album song)
- The Blues (?)
- Tomorrow Loves a Long Time
- Draw the Line
- Black Lightning
Set break
- Old Black Dodge
- Trademark of Fools (still an old favorite)
- Wrong Side of the Bed (new album song)
- Jonathan (new album song – still one of my favs)
- Wet (new album song)
- Everybody’s Talking
- Check It Out
- American (new album song)
- Alone (old fav – almost didn’t think I was going to hear it!)
It’ll Be (Just Like Starting Over)
Because it is.
We walked away.
Saving Gracias
Dear You,
Thanks for the phone call. Eerie to think, but I was just thinking I needed the “phone a friend” option and there you were. I am scared of this. It almost seems to big to bear; a skeleton in every (large) closet, an issue around every joist. To make matters worse, it’s all in my head.
Thanks for the stories. That “been there, done that” reassurance goes a long way – Especially on this road I am traveling. Speaking of traveling, I hope you got there safe. But, back to me – it’s all about me, you know. This eventoops, I mean PROCESS is such a roller coaster. I’m not a lawyer but I’m beginning to see the power of negotiating. Can I negotiate a whole new house (kidding!)?
So begins a new day of the waiting game. When I get the scoop, you’ll be the first to know. Have the cell phone handy because I’ll probably give you an earful.
Love ya!
Me, myself & moi
Unassuming Assumption
This house was unassuming. It gave us the assumption we could take care of it. This house was deceiving and wily. It sat there cunning and let us come in. It let us take in its three season porch, green house, sweet bathrooms, master suite and understated kitchen. We walked around thinking average. We walked around thinking simple. We assumed it was an easy to maintain, easygoing house. Until we got home. 2,000 square feet. Great if we want to lose the cat. Great if we want to never see our guests. Was it reallllly that big, we had to ask ourselves. The house on Watson seemed so so much bigger. Was it Watson’s walk-in closets (eight!) or the dining room so big you could go bowling in it? What made “our” house seem so small in comparison (but in actuality be almost 75 sq feet larger)? As first time home buyers, shouldn’t we be more baby in our steps? I wasn’t sure. The price seemed right and the location, fair. But, to be fair it’s really hard to see “pretty” in the pouring rain. Especially in the heart of November.
So, here we are. We told our realtor we want a second showing. Something to prove it really is that big. While we are there I’ll try to lose my husband in one of the bathrooms – because if I can do that, it’s too big.
Christmas Comes Early
I got an email yesterday that made me smile. It wasn’t the email from my realtor preparing me for a showing of 11 houses today. It wasn’t the sweet comments from my friends. It wasn’t the approval to bring in volunteers (read: replacements) at work. It wasn’t my insurance agent’s new claim request. It was the announcement that my friend Rebecca will be bringing her amazing voice back to Northampton next month! She had even more good news – she doesn’t need to sell tickets in advance!
Here’s what I know: Iron Horse 12/21. More details to come.
Now I’m off to see (gulp) 11 houses.
Waiting On a Moment
I was tempted to call you. Is this how it went for you? Is this how it’s supposed to go? All of a sudden this search has become bigger than casual drive-bys and GoogleMaps. Having gone through it before you makes you the instant expert in my eyes and so I’m telling you now, prepare yourself for all the questions. Did you think yourself as crazy as I do me right now? Did you find a place on the very first try?
We met for coffee (even though he doesn’t drink it) just like you said we would. The atmosphere was calm and cool, just as you said it would be. Page by page, line by line, we were told our options. Ways to get out were just as many as ways to commit in. Did he use the cookie with you, too?
Prowling around our first house was a lesson in humor. Newlyweds I muttered. Or something he joked back. Opening cabinets, running faucets, flushing toilets. Freezing when the phone rang. We’re supposed to be here he reminded me. Oh yeah. Opening closets, flicking on lights, checking wires. Huh? one of us grunts when a switch doesn’t turn anything on or off. Weird, the other mutters. They have a dog. They need to do laundry. They have the biggest bed I have ever seen. It all seems so overly personal. Invasive.
We moved on to the next piece of property. Not so funny. I did all the squawking, “I’d be a slave in the kitchen!” “All alone” I wailed. “Look! The hall of doom.” “Nope, don’t like it.” “Who paints their bedroom sea-foam green?” “What’s with all the mirrors?” “How on earth do you get in the back yard?” “Do they have a horse or just like the horse gate?” When we started discussing chopping into load-bearing walls I shut down and closed my mind like a prison cell; clanking shut with just as little chance of it opening again. “Can we go back to the other house?” I almost whined.
You were right. I know what I like. I found what I like. I’m just waiting on the moment to say lets seal the deal. Have I gone mad?
Dare I Say It?
You know that saying, the one about sh!t and the pot…? I felt that way about the home-buying experience. As a virgin in the last realm left for me-property – I was beginning to feel that sh!torgetoffthepot urgency. Weekend after weekend, checking out open houses with closed minds, week after week of reading and deleting property updates, thinking this could work, but knowing it wouldn’t. I was getting fed up with the process because it felt like spinning wheels and wasting gas. It wasn’t enough to see the potential in a house when the neighborhood was awful (or vise versa). What, exactly, were we waiting for? Christmas in July?
Then Kisa crashed my car. Well, more accurately, some woman plowed into him. Either way, my car took the hit and couldn’t go a mile further. Either way I was rendered transportationless. It was a mental thing. I didn’t need the wheels but suddenly when I was without them, I was missing them. Big time. Somehow, in some way, being powerless to motion spurred me into action. I called a real estate agent.
I called an honest to goodness, real, realtor. It’s as if I needed a proverbial chili dog to get me moving. Dare I say it? I’m staying on the pot.
Sunday Ticket
True to my word, these are my waking thoughts.
I have decided to give myself a Sunday ticket. I’m done house hunting. I’m done house talking. I’m done house pushing. This open mind for houses is now closed. My ticket to Sunday is the freedom to do whatever I want.
It’s not that I don’t appreciate the effort we put into looking, because I do. I learned a lot. We spent a solid month opening cabinets, trudging down into dark basements, standing in backyards, peering out windows, talking the talk, walking the walk. Kicking the tires on a place called home. It was a learning experience, for sure. In every place I imagined trying to live there, trying to be happy there – asking myself what would it take? With 80% of them it was an impossible feat. It was all we could do to keep from running away. Laughing all the while, but running just the same. But, but. But! With three – only three – houses I found myself. I could see Bruno in the rocking chair. Zeke on the sun porch. Turtles lining the window sills. Cookbooks around the counters. House #1 had a foundation problem not worth looking into. House #2 had a driveway problem impossible to look into. House #3 had a price problem too tiring to look into.
So. All this looking has been fun. But, I want my Sundays back.
Sunday Morning Routine
We have settled into some semblance of a Sunday morning routine. Catching up on myself’s shows first thing in the morning. Awake but not getting out of bed, cheating morning and waking and thinking for another hour. The Food Network. Coffee. Hot and fresh brewed. I’m up but not.
Later. House hunting. We map each address in order of distance and time. Open houses. That one doesn’t start until 1pm. Let’s save it until last. Go here first. So it goes. So many questions. How is the neighborhood? Is it a hood? Can I walk the walk or will they send me running? How far from the street is it? How many cars can fit in the driveway? What if we actually (gasp) have people over? Garage? Kitchen? Counter space? Gas or electric? Can I socialize while stirring and sauteing? Will my butt hit the fridge while standing at the sink? Fireplace? Ceiling fans? Ranch? Colonial? Cape? WTF? Basements finished or frightening? Security system or do we get a dog? Closets walk in or full of skeletons? Porch, deck or patio? All three? Lawn to mow? Dude room? Workout room? Laundry room? Indiana room? Mudroom? Guest room? Gawd forbid we want someone to actually spend the night! Bathrooms 1, 1.5, or 2? Central air? Central vac? Central to work? Hardwood or wall to wall? Marble or laminate? Grand or gross?
We walk through old house after new house, roomy room after teeny-tiny room. Agents follow us with the details: one owner, built in —-, new roof, updated kitchen, close to schools…I take notes to show interest but have no intentions. No set plan. Everything has something. Nothing has nothing, well, except Sanders. Can’t decide. Don’t want to decide. Not now. No rush to move. Kisa brings up another house. I shut him down. Let’s not go there. Literally or figuratively. I’m done with the red house on the corner. We’ll keep on looking. Keep on searching.
And so next weekend we’ll watch tv in bed to wake up and catch up. Coffee and the paper. A map. More open houses. New emails. New agents. New addresses. Keeping with the new Sunday routine.
Touch-Me Houses
The houses on the Long Beach “shore” are so close together you are your own neighbor. They’re called Touch-Me houses because you could literally lean out your window and touch the house beside yours. These tiny, no privacy dwellings go for a cool million. All because of where they are, Bayside Long Beach, California. I was amazed at how tiny these houses (with gigantic price tags) really are. Each one of them different from the last, but oh so tiny! Are the people who live here happy? I mean really happy? Do they like their neighbor’s windows spying on theirs? Is the view worth it’s weight in privacy forsaken?
Looking at real estate in hotbed areas really puts the house hunting task into perspective. The lesson to be learned, if there is such a thing, is living within your means doesn’t have to mean living on top of your neighbor! No thank you.
Never Should Have
I never should have listened to you. I never should have got my hopes up or my heart set. Shame on me for being so optimistic, so g-damn hopeful.
This was her house. Sacred ground of a grandmother not mine. Home to the perfect grandparent. Cookies at Christmas instead of before-during-after cocktails amany. Real hugs and kisses instead of Don’t Muss the Makeup air fakers. She wouldn’t have bought me patent leather shoes and insisted on making us match. Twins not born on the same day, or even in the same year. I honored this woman because she was real. It would have been a real honor to live in her home. Her ghost walking my floor.
You never should have got my hopes up or my heart set. I dreamed of living with like a queen. A queen with an angel on her shoulder. You never should have convinced me this could work. the perfect lawn, the perfect garden, the perfect life – mine for the taking. I’m angry and hurtful for letting you allow me to live the American dream. I had a white picket fence in my sleep.
Disappointment hurts deep. I will walk away from the red house. Don’t hate me if I turn my back forever. Even if chance does change I won’t turn around. Condescending tones. When I was your age bullsh!t. I don’t need that. Not at my age and my intelligence. Don’t insult me further by saying there might be a chance because I’ve closed that chapter already. I’ve moved on from that nightmare. Let Grace haunt the halls for someone else.
House of Sand & Fog (w/ sorta spoiler)
Dubus III, Andre. House of Sand and Fog. New York: Vintage, 2000.
The whole time I was reading this I kept thinking two things. First, why can’t these people communicate, and how much am I missing because I’m not understanding the culture? What’s getting lost because I’m lost on the psychology? I kept mentally screaming, “you simply are not getting it!” first at one character, then another and another.
From the very beginning of this novel I felt as if I were a puppet – being played by both and all sides. I felt sorry for everyone involved and couldn’t decide who deserved my sorrow more. The Iranian family because Father had to work two jobs and they lived beyond their means behind a veil of pride and culture? The down-on-her-luck girl who lost her house because she wasn’t on top of her A game? The cop who was stuck in a loveless marriage and displayed Robin Hood crookedness whenever he saw fit? Everyone in our society who can’t pronounce Middle Eastern names? The drowning in paperwork county that messed everything up in the first place?
It’s the story of misunderstanding. When Kathy Nicolo loses her house to the country for owed taxes on a business she never had the miscommunications begin. When her house is sold to Massoud Amir Behrani the misunderstandings continue. Things become further complicated by Lester Burdon, a deputy sherrif who does things his own way. Caught in the web are Behrani’s family. Innocent and slightly less obsessed.
When people start to die, I decided I was sorry for everyone involved. Most of all I was sorry for the lack of communication whether it was complicated by culture or not.
BookLust Twist: From More Book Lust (p.129): Included in the chapter “It Was a Dark & Stormy Novel.”
~*LunaSea*~ 
