My house has been on the market for six months. This is not good. I was so hopeful at the beginning too, when the realtor's "sign guy" pounded my sign into the ground at 5:00 a.m. one Saturday in October and my dogs barked their faces off. The next day, like a good "Cafeteria Catholic," I buried my St. Joseph statue beside the signpost while reciting my "happy home seller" prayer, urging the little guy to do his job. No luck thus far, however; so, I sit and wait, and wait, and wait...At the time the sign went in the dirt, the market had not officially tanked yet and the whole foreclosure debacle had not kicked into high gear. In fact, looking back, I think I may have gone at least two or three weeks before I heard one foreclosure story on the news - yes, those were the days. As for short-sales - I didn't even know what that that meant; I thought it had something to do with the mall and hotpants. I wasn't really up on real estate lingo other than "offer, acceptance, points, and closing costs" - you know -- the basics. So, to me, a short sale was nothing more than someplace to go on a Saturday afternoon with my credit card. Fast-forward 180 days and you're looking at a new (less hopeful) me. I am fully educated on foreclosures, short-sales, and purchase money mortgages. In my mind this is nothing short of pathetic really, because I never wanted to know these things, and would rather have taken a class on "how to cut grass with scissors, "than survive the emotional roller-coaster of attempting to sell my home in the worst market in a ba-jillion years - and yes, that's what it feels like . . . a ba-jillion years.
Since I signed on, I've watched lots of other neighbors pound signs into the ground too - sometimes I wonder if they buried tiny little St. Joseph statues too. I think about the army of little upside-down guys in the dirt talking to each other at nighttime, either laughing at us homeowners or wondering what the heck they're supposed to do hanging out in the dirt upside down by a signpost. Seriously -think about it. Back in October when realtors called, things seemed a bit more exciting. But this was before the banks were undergoing the Federal "stress tests" and before Citigroup stock was down below $3.00. Now that things have taken a definite turn for the worse, any call from a realtor is like an announcement that the Queen herself might be coming to visit.
Because I have three dogs, I am never able to agree to the realtors' first-time requests for showings, so I make up excuses like "early appointments" to buy
myself a little extra time - not divulging that I've got a mess on my hands and 30minutes' notice from a realtor who is "around the corner" is not going to cut it. Eventually we settle on a time and then it's "go time." If I were my sister this wouldn't be a big deal because her house is realtor-ready seven days a week, 24hours a day. But my house requires at least a four-to-five-hour prep, polish, spit, shine and stashing before any realtor would want to even think about brining a client near my home. The reason for this is two teenagers, three dogs and one lazy mom who is not a big fan of housework. I must admit, I did surprise myself last week when I finished the cleaning blitz in3.5 hours, but that's only because the vacuum broke before I hit the guest bedroom. I decided to run it over the carpet anyway (unplugged) to lay a few tracks down - figuring if it was good enough for bachelors, it was good enough for realtors.
Where I usually run into real trouble during the clean-a-rama is the kids' rooms and in particular my daughter's closet. She's somewhat challenged in the hanger department, and by challenged, I mean she acts like her hands are broken when she goes near one. As a result, her clothes are over-stuffed into three giant uncovered hampers with remnants of shirts, towels and jeans twisted and trampled on the closet floor. Oddly, some of these clothes may not even have been worn since Jr. High, which was four years ago. So, when the realtors call, I spruce up her room, go into her closet, get down on all fours and create a nice clothing sculpture. I top it off by covering anything that might be offensive with a clean towel.
My son's room has more of an organic vs. textile issue. He likes to snack late at night and then fall asleep immediately afterward. It's not unusual for me to find an open bag of Cool Ranch, Original and Late-Night Taco Doritos on his desk, floor and nightstand. There is never a shortage of beverages to go along with the snacks too - last week I picked up three Sonic cups, two Gatorade bottles, one Taco Bell cup and a half-empty glass of a fuzzy molded beverage. It's sort of like a science experiment - without the smell of rotten eggs from the sulfur. One day there was an odor that I finally identified as a nasty pair of tennis shoes - sort of an "old, wet dog meets mildewed carpet" kind of smell. Once I dropped the shoes in the garage, his room was realtor ready.
Knowing all this really makes it even more impressive that I've got the cleaning down to 3.5 hours, doesn't it? The funniest thing is that I "deep clean" my house so infrequently that my dogs now know that mopping equals "car ride" because a realtor is coming! So, about an hour into the scrubbing and dusting for a realtor the three dogs start acting like Pavlov's dogs instead of mine. As soon as I Windex the glass in the dining room they begin prancing around like it's the Westminster Dog Show and they're about to go for the first prize run. If they could talk, I swear they would say, "Holy crap, did you see that? She has the Pledge and the Windex! Wait - is that the vacuum? Hey guys - CAR RIDE!" And then Maddy (the cutest dog) would call out, "Shotgun!" And the other two would start fighting about how Maddy had shotgun last time - it never fails.
Every time we go through this realtor rigmarole, I finish the cleaning spree and
then load the mutts in the car for a 1.2-mile drive to the Starbucks. I reward myself with a non-fat single shot caramel latte and the nice people at Starbucks dole out Milk Bones to enhance my dogs' drive through experience. I'm guessing you're probably beginning to feel sorry for me but also thinking my dogs are geniuses at this point. Sadly, all this cleaning, sweeping, clutter-scooping and fuzzy drink-dumping has gotten me nowhere. I've had a couple of really stupid offers that were more like61mere "suggestions." One was a lunatic from Dubai who offered me HALF of my selling price. He took discount to a whole new level. Another was a realtor who was in the process of losing his investment homes and being foreclosed upon. Not a risk to me at all -- he offered me either a) a $50,000 deposit and a monthly lease amount, or b) $100,000 more than my asking price if he could keep Maddy (the cute dog who gets shotgun on the way to Starbucks.) I said, "No deal."
Other than that, they are mostly lookers who seem to want to screw with me and stay in the house for about 10 minutes. I think the record was set by the couple who came two weeks ago who was either from the Taliban or the brother of the "shoe bomber" who tried to take the plane down a couple of years ago by lighting his tennis shoe on fire. I answered the door and saw "death" in this man's eyes. I was so freaked out I couldn't gather the dogs up quickly enough to head for Starbucks. The four of us tried to squeeze through the door at the same time and got all twisted up. Then I tried to pack all three dogs into the shotgun seat on top of each other which normally wouldn't be a big deal, except that my yellow Lab weighs 115 pounds and looks like a bus with legs - she could have squashed poor little Maddy like a bug.
I couldn't wait for Evalia their realtor to call and let me know they were finished looking, which happened before I was even done paying for my latte at the drive-through 1.2 miles away. All I could think about was how relieved I was that I had the wherewithal to stash my laptop under my bedspread on the way to answer the door when the Taliban came knocking. There's something to be said for ESP. Still, after all this, I remain hopeful that things will turn around soon and my luck will change. Maybe St. Joseph and the government's bailout plan will save the day (and my house?) Until then - I sit and wait. I stand by with my Pledge, Windex, and mop. Starbucks maintains their Milk Bone inventory for Poombah, Jet and Maddy - their furriest customers. My sign remains pounded into the ground and St. Joseph keeps his upside-down vigil in the dirt, facing my front door as my house and my sanity remain for sale.
Shelli Netko 2010 (c)
Add comment
Comments