Market’s Slow, But She Enjoys ‘New’ Home

I already knew my own joints were creaking a little, a few years past mid-life crisis, but I hadn’t observed the same phenomenon in the sagging garage door.

We had lived comfortably together, this old house and I, for almost 30 years. So what’s a few loose screws between friends?

I had now endured the silence accompanying the empty nest syndrome and widowhood. I had already contended with the passing, one way or the other, of numerous neighbors and friends to distant places.

I felt it was my turn to leave. If not now, when? Besides I was discontent with large, empty rooms and tired of always being the one left behind.

So I was excited and optimistic when they planted a “For Sale” sign on my front lawn. After years of procrastination, new ground was finally broken. Plus there was a promise of new territory to be claimed. Along with their over-blown equities, my neighborhood had grown to take me for granted.

So what if I was the only one on the street with a listing. Everyone else, it seemed, had the soft-market blues.

Besides, I had done my homework, studying real estate sections, even attending The Times’ Home Buyers and Sellers Fair in the spring. I had learned a lot. There is a difference between “pre-qualified” and “pre-approved,” but don’t ask me what it is.

Still it would have helped if the strangers had labeled themselves with name tags before they were paraded through my house during the ensuing brokers’ preview, open house and showings.

I even consented to what is called, in the vernacular, “pre-showing,” This comes early on, just after the paint dries. What it really means is that a single daughter with children decides your house is in a good neighborhood to raise her kids, but her mother, who is putting up the money and will be relegated to the back bedroom and baby-sitting, balks.

Then there is the wife who comes alone, adores everything she sees and can’t wait to show it to her husband. Enter Mr. Know-It-All on leaky faucets, sliding closet doors bent out of shape and aging tree roots. Believe me, the second coming is not what it’s cracked up to be.

They tell you to pick your real estate agent carefully. I wanted one without the Mercedes and cellular phone, because I don’t like feeling responsible for another’s indebtedness.

So I picked the real estate lady who advised me to spend the least amount of money on remodeling because I would never get it back. I already knew that if I ever got an automatic garage door, a long-postponed dream, I would never leave home and not just because I would have trouble remembering to carry the electric opener.

Just about the time I considered advertising for a live-in handyman, a retired neighbor, who had never before been on my Christmas card list, came down and replaced the garage door springs. He was quickly followed by other longtime residents’ husbands. Soon my house never looked better.

I began to wonder if there would be real live people like this in the condo community where I hoped to head. If I was going to leave California and retire to some exotic place like Bellingham, Wash., or even Murray, Ky., it would be easier. No, I wasn’t ready to be described in the listing as “highly motivated seller, anxious to leave state.”

Short of this, I did everything else for a quick sale. All the Mrs. Cleans I have ever known came through to review possible eyesores and make recommendations. I bought the prescribed new shower rod, the bedroom drapes and even the questionable mini-blind for the kitchen window.

Then there were the daily forays into various home centers. At this point, it wasn’t so much the coming and going as it was the buying and then hanging on to the receipt to take it back. The typical card-carrying senior doesn’t really belong in a discount warehouse--unless she or he learns to stride purposefully through the bins unencumbered by a long list of undecipherable measurements.

I learned too that the employees (when you can find one) are not overly helpful when asked a lot of questions about wattage and voltage or male and female couplings.

They prefer to emphasize safety and non-pollutant features before disappearing into Department 23 or 44.

However, I did manage to make a lasting impression on one young man when I tried to replace my aging kitchen cabinet pulls. “Gee, lady,” he said. “I’ve never seen one like that before. Are you sure you had a lifetime warranty?”

None of this has helped my morale. While they show the house, I hover with the dog, Gypsy, in the dog run, which is newly termed “RV access.” In my spare time, I dry out old, rotten apples so there will be a pleasant scent when a prospective buyer enters. The oven and the warped bread-board are so squeaky clean, I don’t dare cook. It’s all so pristine now both Gypsy and I could eat off the floor.

On the first day of the summer of my discontent, I filed all my clutter, carefully labeling the trash bags, Clutter 1, Clutter 2 and Clutter 3. I have never seen any of it since. In the meantime, the termites are partying, without taking proper precautions, in the attic.

There is no doubt the slow market is hurting me, but I’m not going to cave in before the roof does. After the first offer (the best one they say) fell through in escrow, I felt I had been given a temporary reprieve to further enjoy the house’s rejuvenation and the friendship of helpful neighbors. All I have to do now is lower the price and hope someone out there decides to do the same for me.