I am not very good at waiting. From standing in line at the grocery store to sitting in traffic, from anticipating Christmas to planting spring bulbs in the garden, I am a person of little patience. I want to see results, reactions, closure, whatever. And I want it now.
This does not particularly suit me well for real estate transactions. Crafting a sales contract, dotting i's and crossing t's in a listing agreement, closing loopholes, creating others...observing the traditional dance moves of buying a house is painfully slow. Sign and initial, initial and sign endless documents that one person makes endless copies of, then passes to another person who reviews, copies, sends to clients so that they can sign and initial, initial and sign ad infinitum. Then copy again and send back to the originator to alter, initial and sign and start the entire process yet again.
When everyone tires of writing their names and initials in appropriate boxes and lines, we move on to the financial forms. More initials, more signatures, this time with numbers and percentages sprinkled through the pages. Then, whole pages of numbers assigning dollars to specific tasks and specific people at specific times. Wait to sign, wait to initial, wait for checks, wait for loan officers, wait for underwriters, wait for papers to be copied or signed or rendered useless. They should stop calling us 'clients' and start calling us 'patients'.
There are some advantages, I'll own. By doing this, we create a financial snapshot for ourselves and can see where we are. We establish some quality time together, digging through files and papers and assorted boxes of information. We spend more time at home waiting for the phone to ring, telling us of success or failure or yet another postponement while we await the arrival of yet another piece of paper or two. I've reduced my internet time by at least half. Real life is more challenging than any virtual world.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
Success?
All the effort paid off. We sold our house in less than a week, making all the sturm und drang worthwhile. One would like to say that we can now breathe again, but that would be premature. The swift passage of our house from 'on the market' to 'sold' now necessitates an equally swift purchase of a suitable abode, so that we will have somewhere to live when our purchasers take possession. Which simply means that our frenetic activity has just entered a different arena.
Now, instead of creating an alternative reality for potential purchasers, we must see through what others have created for us. Wait a minute, sir! Where is the trashcan in this kitchen? And what is that chair doing, hiding in this closet? Do you mean to say that there isn't ROOM for it out here in the open? You can't fool me; I can see that that bed in the master bedroom is a double bed and not a queen-size. I know it makes the room look bigger, but I also know that I own a queen-size bed and that it has to fit here. I see that the brick patio is weed-free. Does that mean it's set in concrete, or (more likely) that someone has spent hours weeding and followed that up with a walloping dose of Round-Up? Here I am, creator of dream worlds, dragging agents, kicking and screaming, back to the ultra-real world of the potential purchaser. How far is it to the grocery store? And I don't mean from the edge of the development...I mean from MY front door. (Two blocks from the former; more like 5 from the latter.) I can't help noticing that the uber-efficient zone heating/cooling system looks a bit long in the tooth. How old is this unit?
And so it goes...the creation and destruction of real estate-selling myths. Our minds have to entertain and distinguish between several realities, and choose which to believe. I believe I will take a nap.
Now, instead of creating an alternative reality for potential purchasers, we must see through what others have created for us. Wait a minute, sir! Where is the trashcan in this kitchen? And what is that chair doing, hiding in this closet? Do you mean to say that there isn't ROOM for it out here in the open? You can't fool me; I can see that that bed in the master bedroom is a double bed and not a queen-size. I know it makes the room look bigger, but I also know that I own a queen-size bed and that it has to fit here. I see that the brick patio is weed-free. Does that mean it's set in concrete, or (more likely) that someone has spent hours weeding and followed that up with a walloping dose of Round-Up? Here I am, creator of dream worlds, dragging agents, kicking and screaming, back to the ultra-real world of the potential purchaser. How far is it to the grocery store? And I don't mean from the edge of the development...I mean from MY front door. (Two blocks from the former; more like 5 from the latter.) I can't help noticing that the uber-efficient zone heating/cooling system looks a bit long in the tooth. How old is this unit?
And so it goes...the creation and destruction of real estate-selling myths. Our minds have to entertain and distinguish between several realities, and choose which to believe. I believe I will take a nap.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Selling the Dream
A good friend once said to me that when you sell a house, you are not selling reality, but a dream. The past two weeks have been no dream, but a nightmare instead. Fortunately, I don't have to sell those two weeks...only their end result.
I am afraid that my spouse and I would have been quite comfortable in the Victorian age. We instinctively clutter our habitat with whatever we are interested in at the time. Our house bulges with maps and books and wooden ware and Noah's arks and magazines and paper and dishes and candlesticks. Surfaces are littered with any and all of these, and boxes and bags bloom in stray corners. Laptops lie where they are most used; the afternoon mail occupies a corner of the dining room table. To eat dinner, I need to rearrange the piles of 'To Do" items that accumulate in the one place where we know they will be seen.
No more. Potential buyers apparently don't dream of our particular lifestyle, and so, for a while, we need to imitate the reality they (and we, were we to be honest) dream of. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Sleek bookcase shelves, with a smattering of books and room for well-placed objets d'art. A dining table, ready for setting. A kitchen where the maid (apparently) has just washed up and emptied the dishwasher, having stored all appliances in the ample cabinetry. A cozy fireplace, a reading nook, newspapers and magazines that miraculously disappear as soon as they are read, without spending a week or so in the limbo of an ugly recycling box parked in the hall. A cat curled on the windowsill who doesn't require unsightly kitty litter or scratching post. Man, if I could find a place like that, I'd buy it too.
And so, we have spent two weeks boxing up the books and the other excesses with which we've populated our life. We've moved furniture and doo-dads and pictures and papers until we are not sure we know where ANYTHING is. We've rearranged, reduced, and rethought every aspect of the house until it isn't really ours anymore. At times, it seems as if we have moved everything we own into storage: not an easy task. Our agent approves--up to a point. I think she would prefer that we move out bag and baggage, sleep on the floor in sleeping bags, and roll even those up each morning and put them in the car. We have taken firm stances on some things. No, I will not pack up my cookbooks in their entirety. No, we will not take off the top portion of the hutch in our entry. No, we will not empty the storage spaces in the house. But, for the most part, we oblige her in the interest of selling the place. After two intense weeks of preparation, it goes on the market tomorrow.
For sale: charming home in a secluded location in the heart of Old Town. Convenient to all, walking distance to shops, restaurants, trolley and Metro. Fireplace. Light and bright. Treehouse views from third floor, lovely walled garden. Dreamers wanted.
I am afraid that my spouse and I would have been quite comfortable in the Victorian age. We instinctively clutter our habitat with whatever we are interested in at the time. Our house bulges with maps and books and wooden ware and Noah's arks and magazines and paper and dishes and candlesticks. Surfaces are littered with any and all of these, and boxes and bags bloom in stray corners. Laptops lie where they are most used; the afternoon mail occupies a corner of the dining room table. To eat dinner, I need to rearrange the piles of 'To Do" items that accumulate in the one place where we know they will be seen.
No more. Potential buyers apparently don't dream of our particular lifestyle, and so, for a while, we need to imitate the reality they (and we, were we to be honest) dream of. A place for everything, and everything in its place. Sleek bookcase shelves, with a smattering of books and room for well-placed objets d'art. A dining table, ready for setting. A kitchen where the maid (apparently) has just washed up and emptied the dishwasher, having stored all appliances in the ample cabinetry. A cozy fireplace, a reading nook, newspapers and magazines that miraculously disappear as soon as they are read, without spending a week or so in the limbo of an ugly recycling box parked in the hall. A cat curled on the windowsill who doesn't require unsightly kitty litter or scratching post. Man, if I could find a place like that, I'd buy it too.
And so, we have spent two weeks boxing up the books and the other excesses with which we've populated our life. We've moved furniture and doo-dads and pictures and papers until we are not sure we know where ANYTHING is. We've rearranged, reduced, and rethought every aspect of the house until it isn't really ours anymore. At times, it seems as if we have moved everything we own into storage: not an easy task. Our agent approves--up to a point. I think she would prefer that we move out bag and baggage, sleep on the floor in sleeping bags, and roll even those up each morning and put them in the car. We have taken firm stances on some things. No, I will not pack up my cookbooks in their entirety. No, we will not take off the top portion of the hutch in our entry. No, we will not empty the storage spaces in the house. But, for the most part, we oblige her in the interest of selling the place. After two intense weeks of preparation, it goes on the market tomorrow.
For sale: charming home in a secluded location in the heart of Old Town. Convenient to all, walking distance to shops, restaurants, trolley and Metro. Fireplace. Light and bright. Treehouse views from third floor, lovely walled garden. Dreamers wanted.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Sandwiches
It’s almost Mothers’ Day and I’m making sandwiches. Not for my family. I have long since graduated from the PB&J level of nightly lunch preparation. Today I am preparing 25 sandwiches for the homeless.
It started when I was still working, and hadn’t the time to do much in the way of volunteering at church. Helping with the congregation’s commitment to provide sandwiches for the homeless meant making 25 sandwiches once every couple of months, and making sure they reached the church’s refrigerator before 9:30 AM on the designated day. That was easy.
Today, though, it’s hard. With Mothers’ Day looming on the horizon, I am thinking, as I lay out 25 slices of bread on my counter, of the mothers who must have done this long ago for the same people. I am thinking of the mothers among them who performed this quotidian task—and now lack the wherewithal to do it for themselves. I am remembering the thousands of times I opened my lunchbox and groaned at my mother’s bologna –with- too- much- mayonnaise and her requisite piece of cake (whose icing always stuck to the wax paper) instead of the far more desirable Tasty-Kake I coveted. How many of the people eating my homely ham and cheese wish that it were something else, a remembered sandwich from their childhood? How many had no mom-packed lunches in their past? How many had no mom at all?
It isn’t a great act of charity, twenty-five ham and cheese sandwiches this week before Mothers’ Day. But as I slide them into individual plastic sandwich bags, I remember what it means to have a mom, what it means to BE a mom. I remember that I am one of the lucky ones—with a home and a family to care for. I am lucky enough to make a sandwich or two.
It started when I was still working, and hadn’t the time to do much in the way of volunteering at church. Helping with the congregation’s commitment to provide sandwiches for the homeless meant making 25 sandwiches once every couple of months, and making sure they reached the church’s refrigerator before 9:30 AM on the designated day. That was easy.
Today, though, it’s hard. With Mothers’ Day looming on the horizon, I am thinking, as I lay out 25 slices of bread on my counter, of the mothers who must have done this long ago for the same people. I am thinking of the mothers among them who performed this quotidian task—and now lack the wherewithal to do it for themselves. I am remembering the thousands of times I opened my lunchbox and groaned at my mother’s bologna –with- too- much- mayonnaise and her requisite piece of cake (whose icing always stuck to the wax paper) instead of the far more desirable Tasty-Kake I coveted. How many of the people eating my homely ham and cheese wish that it were something else, a remembered sandwich from their childhood? How many had no mom-packed lunches in their past? How many had no mom at all?
It isn’t a great act of charity, twenty-five ham and cheese sandwiches this week before Mothers’ Day. But as I slide them into individual plastic sandwich bags, I remember what it means to have a mom, what it means to BE a mom. I remember that I am one of the lucky ones—with a home and a family to care for. I am lucky enough to make a sandwich or two.
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