The Crazy Train to Selling a House

 

When a buyer’s agent shows a house there’s a form they can fill out to give you feedback on the seller’s home and it’s one of the things I thought I'd like about the Showtime app for making appointments for showings. A scant few hours after my very first showing an agent filled out the form saying the house was well maintained inside and out but her client just didn’t feel it was “The One.” How do you argue with that? I felt that way about a few of the guys I dated back in my wild and wicked twenties.

The first full day the house was on the market---the day I got my car detailed---there were back-to-back showings for five hours. The second day it was back-to-back showings for six hours and I, of course, thought the agents would be like the first one and would fill out the feedback page right away. No such luck. You let them walk all over your house and yard, snoop in your cabinets and closets and pee in your toilets---put the seat back down, guys!---and go away leaving your back door wide open for the local wildfire to roam in and hopefully back out again. (Yes, that happened.) And did I mention the agent who stood at my front door at 7:26 using the app to ask for a 7:30 showing? But here it is days later and only two agents have said boo about the house? Maybe that’s a good sign. Maybe it means they’re working on a offer. Or do they not like my two months to possession clause? Maybe it means nothing except we’ve got a bunch of inconsiderate agents in town. See where I’m going on this crazy train? You can second guest the lookers until the cows come home but at the end of the day you’re right back where you started.

At least with my first day away from the house I perfected my designed-for-comfort outfit for riding that train and it matched the book I downloaded on my Kindle, a baseball themed romantic comedy by Pippa Grant. I wore my new corral colored jersey knit baseball shirt that has a v-neck, buttons down the front and short sleeves that are long enough not to expose your pits---I hate cap sleeves that do that. Woman Within has been selling this style off-and-on for ten years and I have five---three old and two new. And, yes, they actually call them baseball shirts and when they showed up in their summer catalog I resisted the urge to buy them in all 8-10 of the colors they come in. Most. Comfortable. Tops. I’ve. Ever. Owned.

Along with the corral shirt I was wearing my running shoes that haven’t run anywhere in the five years I’ve owned them and I wear them practically every day. I know, I know, I need a new pair. And to complete my “sporty look” I feel really good about the black baseball hat that I recently acquired---after downsizing at least two dozen of my husband’s caps out of my closet. Oops! That was before the pandemic did a number on my hair and I learned the true meaning to the term, “bad hair day.” I never looked good in baseball caps with my boy-short hair but now, with longer hair I actually look good in them and I'm wishing I could go back to Goodwill and get a few of my husband's back. (Other widows know how hard it is to let go of a spouse's favorite hats and t-shirts.) Anyway, on bad hair days when my super thick pandemic inspired hair style has a mind of its own I love rocking my new hat. It makes me feel like I‘m sneaking around in a disguise. Looking for blog fodder, perhaps?

The second day when I had to stay away from home for six hours I discovered that my other new baseball shirt has a major league problem. The buttonholes are slightly too big for the buttons thus I was flashing people randomly and going forward I’ll have to wear a tank top under it. (Side note here: that night I watched my first ever baseball game on TV. I don't even know who I am anymore!)

I ran a ton of errands that second day but I ended up doing something I shouldn’t have. I stopped at a donut shop and I had been doing so well these past 4-5 weeks with eating issues. Lost a few pounds, kicked the sugar habit and it felt good to be in control again. I’ve always been a stress eater but I can’t blame my fall from diet-grace on an impulsive thought. I had a six minute car ride where my better self could have talked my bad-girl half into being a responsible eater. What happened is I was planning to sit in the park to read my Kindle but when I got there someone had rented all the tables for a party, so there was no place to sit. Almost no one will agree that this was a comfort food emergency but the screwed-up bad girl who lives in my head thought so because it was the first thing she thought when she saw the cake for the party in the park. They get gluten. I need some!

I wrote the above part of this post over the weekend and am adding the following tonight on Monday: My realtor came over to present three offers on the house that came in after 4 1/2 days on the market and 16 showings. It felt like he was talking out of both sides of his mouth because when I signed his contract he said we’d market it for a week, then look at all the offers at one time. But when I questioned why we weren't doing that, he said all three offers were too good to make solid, potential buyers wait chancing them withdrawing their offers and moving on. 

All three offers were at least $8,000 above my listing price and in the same range of one another. Two highest had the clause that could have sent them into a bidding war to add another $7,000, if I had wanted to play that game. I didn't. I didn't because in my mind that's taking a chance that the deal could fall apart if the appraisal didn't come in high enough for their lender. The pandemic held-back a glut of foreclosures that are ready to pop onto the market so time would not have be on my side if my house ended back on the market just as its flipping to a buyer's market. That factored heavily into my decision not to trigger the bidding war.

The offer I choose was $1,000 lower than the highest offer but they waved the inspections and had some serious cash in their financial disclosures and they were pre-approved for a house $30,000 higher than mine. They also waved me paying $1,000 rent for the extra 30 days possession. Plus their earnest check was $10,000 compared to the other potential bidding warrior who only offered $3,000. $3,000 isn't that much if someone wanted to walk from the deal at any point. In other words, I played it safe and stress-free. While I was working all the pros and cons of each offer I felt like I was back in my teens again sitting in front of my all-time favorite board game, Monopoly. The real-life version is scary!

The worst of the selling process is over. (I hope.) Next step: the appraisal in 10 days and the closing around August 20th. I won't breathe easy until the closing but I've done all I could to hedge my bids for a smooth outcome for selling my house.

I'm in mini-vacation mode right until the end of the week when I start planing out the next three months. Now, my only plan is to smell up the house cooking some protein on the indoor grill. ©

Photo Note: Because my blog is also my diary, I'm documenting more photos of the outside of my house plus some basement shots.

Zero steps entry

Back deck

Side deck, dog pen and 1 of my 3 white pines to the right.

My nature stripe. It goes back to the pines and is very colorful the first half of summer. To the right in front of the trees is 25-30 feet of black raspberry bushes that really brings in the wildlife this time of the year.

 

First view coming down the street

I just noticed he didn't get my cattails bog in any of the photos. It's on the left across from my dog pen  white fence and behind the rocks---but you can't see it here. Bummer! The white pine is one of three in a row that I planted when they were 5 foot babies.

The Winds of Change - Widowhood Style

 

This first paragraph below is borrowed from a post I wrote eight years ago titled Choose Your Change:

“People in the blog community occasionally feed off one another for inspiration or topics to write about. That’s what happen to me recently when I read a post by the Awkward Widow titled Sexagenarian. She was sharing some advice from Nancy Alock Hood, a woman who got married for the first time at the ripe old age of 82 years old. Nancy is quoted as saying: 'Change happens, so choose your change.' Simple but profound advice, don’t you think? She was talking about embracing change and planning what you want your future days and years to look like in retirement but it could just as easily be applied to the changes that come with widowhood, divorce, disability or the loss of a job. ‘Choose your change,’ ---that’s going to be my new mantra going forward. I don’t want to be a victim of life just drifting along, I want to be walking to and working towards something besides the grave.” 

Change is hard. Change is scary, especially when it wakes you up in the middle of the night with self-doubts. Am I doing the right thing? Did I wait too long to move into this new chapter of my life or not wait long enough? As we age we fall into a pattern of fearing change but fear alone should not determine our fate. By learning to control our fear we get to pick our change instead of just letting it happen whenever, where ever the chips might fall. It’s akin to replacing a bald tire on your car. It’s just a matter of time when a bald tire blows. It could happen in the middle of rush hour on a six lane expressway or on a quiet street within a stone’s throw of your house. We're picking out fate when we replace that tire before it has a chance to cause an accident that could kill us and/or others or at the very least make us late for something we've been looking forward to doing. 

Humans are like tires, we get old and weak and it’s foolish to think we can be as independent at 80 or 90 as we were at 40 or 50. Planning that last chapter our lives makes the same kind of sense as planning for our college years. My plan---moving into  a continuum care campus---is me putting my last chapter plan into action, and once I'm there I can party like there's no tomorrow. "Adulting" will not be required and tomorrow isn't promised to anyone so why not revert to the carefree, silliness of my youth? 

So, what have I been doing these past eight years since I first wrote about picking my change? I started by going on a quest to find friends. It took two years but it turned out good until the pandemic ended our bi-monthly luncheons with a group of six. I also spent a year or looking at smaller, stand alone houses, condos and apartments in continuum care complexes up for sale. It was a causal search, in a gathering information mode with no pressure to carry through and it was a valuable learning experience that made it possible for me to recognize what a good deal I'm getting with the non-profit CCC where I'm moving. It took an ice storm and being without heat for nearly a week in the middle of the winter to get my attention and admit that somewhere along the line I had became one of those vulnerable seniors that the newscasters tell everyone they need to check on. If not for the son of one of those friends I’d lunch with, who drove over to check on me, I would have died of hypothermia. And that's not hyperbolic. 

At almost 80 I still feel young inside my head but no one can see inside there but me to know that I’m delusional on that topic. To the rest of the world I’m a plump, white-headed senior with a bad wardrobe and a split fingernail she hasn’t been able to grow out for 4-5 years which explains why I never give anyone The Finger. I hate that nail and I hide it from the world! Just kidding, though, about why I keep my middle finger folded in my hand. I may let a few swear words slip out but rude hand gestures have never been my jam as the cool kids are saying these days. Oh dear, I shouldn't try to use urban slang. One side of my brain just informed the other side that I'm using 'not my jam' incorrectly because there is no music involved in flashing The Finger, however the other side is arguing that the phrase has evolved beyond jamming in a band.

So here I am sitting in the quiet before the storm otherwise known as the long-awaited listing of my house going live tomorrow. I’m excited mostly with a little fear thrown in to flavor the pot. All my valuables are locked up including medications because the realtor says it’s a common thing in his business to have meds stolen out of houses up for sale. People addicted to using and/or selling prescription drugs get them wherever they can. I've always kept mine in the laundry room where only my blog readers would think to look. 

Anyway, I’ve chosen my change and I’ve done everything I can do to make it work the way I want. Things out of my control will happen---like the pandemic that put a major stress on my plans---but short of another disaster of that magnitude, like the housing market flipping over night, I’ve got my plans A and B in place to cover unforeseen road blocks that could happen. After the closing and the money is in my bank I plan to sleep 24/7 for a week or maybe spend a weekend at my niece's cottage, then I'll regroup for the packing stage of the game. I’m worn out! ©

Report from House Listing City

 

The papers are signed. The Plan is in place. The listing is due to go live the 8^th of July provided the-son-I-wish-I-had and I can get through our job lists in time. So much to do. If all goes well Tim’s part will be done in two days of work. He says. I say three. Got the window cleaning and house cleaning scheduled for the 5^th of July and photographs the next day. I’ll be walking around in circles all next week trying to get my part done. Paint a bench on my front patio. Purge some more stuff in my closet. Find some papers for the realtor including a death certification for my husband. I’d already registered one with the county tax office but they didn’t take his name off the registered deed. I guess that’s not uncommon with government offices to not follow through with stuff like that so you can't close without that certificate at the closing.

We’ll accept offers until the 15^th then look them over all at once. Randy, my trusty realtor---let's hope he is---thinks we’ll get multi offers with more than a few good ones. He says there's absolutely no houses in my price range in my school district for sale and that’s a major draw because I live in a School of Choice Zone between two very desirable schools. He’s also going to accent the wheelchair accessible features of the place, the 830 square feet garage and the privacy of my backyard with its nature strip which is in full bloom right now with orange lilies, Queen Ann’s Lace and yellow and hot pink flowers I’ve forgotten the names of.

My roll top desk was picked up while the realtor was here to hash out details of what I need to do and not do. That was kind of hairy, though, because the lady picking up the desk had a vehicle that wasn’t big enough and she came all the way from Maryland. The half hour pick up turned into an all afternoon deal because they had to go rent a small van and she and her partner will be driving back home separately, each taking half a desk with them. It was a hold-my-breath moment, hoping she wouldn’t ask me to cancel the e-Bay sale, return her money and leave my desk standing in parts. Hauling large object home from out-of-state was something my husband did on our vacations so I had some sympathy for the situation even though it was their own fault. But she was motivated to get the desk home and my bank account thanked her. And if she's like my husband was she'll turn the Tale of Desk Pick Up into a great story that will have everyone laughing and make her love it all the more.

Randy doesn’t believe a house needs to be so sterile that you can’t have things like my wind-chimes up or a Puff tissue box or toaster sitting on a counter top. He also doesn’t play games with bringing in rented furniture to stage a place. My house won’t be featured on a HGTV make-over show on how to make money for a staging company. And I can buy my own cinnamon bun scented candle if I want the place to smell like I just baked bread, thank you very much. Houses are selling in my area in 8 to 10 days plus he thinks the seller’s market will hold until the end of September. When banks can do foreclosures again---which they haven't been able to do because of Covid---it will be a game changer. Even if the happens soon, I should be okay because of how long the foreclosure process will take before a glut of houses will get dumped on the market all at once. Real estate boards are watching for that trigger switch to happen which can come any day now.

The number of things Randy wants Tim and I to add to our To Do List was short. But one of them took me nearly two hours to figure out where I put the instructions for adding a code to my front door key pad. I don’t have a tradition door nobs to put a lock box on. It was either add a code or buy a new deadbolt. I thought I’d put the instructions in a box I set up for the new owners. Not finding it there, I downloaded the manual online but my new computer wasn’t acquainted with my printer yet so I had to dink around with introducing the oldest machine in the house to the newest machine. And wouldn’t you know it, my old brain kicked in after all that and I remembered to look in the place I’d kept those instructions for the past decade and there it was. Oh, yes, I've got it all together. All my pickles are in the jar, all my goldfish are still swimming in their tank. If you believe all that, I have an ocean front cottage to sell you in North Dakota where the buffalo roam the sandy beach. ©

Edit to add: Foreclosures have started. And I was right about Tim. He's working his third and final day as this goes live on Wednesday---vacuuming cobwebs in the basement. I'll have to go to recycling and Goodwill on Friday but otherwise I'm ready except for the window cleaners and house cleaners on Monday while I dusting furniture.