Thursday, November 4, 2010

Pulling My Hair


While a review of my blog shows I haven’t added to it since July – a clear demonstration of my increasing tendency toward retirement laziness – this significant time gap is not only due to my growing lassitude but also to an admonition from my realtor shortly after my last entry when he revealed that a prospective buyer for my house found his (her?) way through Google to my blog and because of what he (she?) read here, decided not to make an offer. “Be careful what you write, “he said. “You never know who’s reading it.” Although this is obviously good advice in general, I think these specific circumstances odd since the only Phil Cooper I’ve found on Google (yes; I’ve looked for myself there, but then, who hasn’t?) owns a trailer manufacturing business in Texas, about as far, both geographically and characteristically, as one can get from this Phil Cooper on Linden Green. And even if I were on Google, how could one find his (her?) way from there to my blog, an illogical connection my realtor could not explain. But there it was, obviously the result of a search by a buyer young enough to have been born with those genes so essential to successfully disentangling cloud formations in electronic space, and I want to sell my house so I’ve followed my realtor’s advice. Now, looking back, I can’t imagine that anything I might write here would deter a legitimate buyer from at least making an offer. So, at the risk of another distress call from my realtor, here I am, back at my word processor, bringing you up to date.

Although traffic through my house has been heavy enough to re-soil the carpets I so carefully had professionally cleaned in May, that traffic has not produced any offers. The Sharon/Karen possibility fizzled out along with the enthusiasm of the young couple who still have to sell their condo. The older couple who had once moved to the country and now want to move back to the city disappeared, as did all those many who were “just at the beginning of their search.” The open houses have generated a few lookers but no takers. The big ad I insisted be placed in the local gay paper has not produced that gay couple, which might be just the “right” people to appreciate and want to live in what has been called “a very special environment.”

Through all of this, I’ve lived as if on stage where, with very short notice before the curtain must go up on yet another showing, I rush to remove the items essential to my daily routine – the toothpaste and the pills, the paper towels and soap dish, the pile of unpaid bills, my calendar, my cell phone charger, the salt box and the pepper grinder, the crock that holds my wooden spoons and whisks, the drinking glass, the dishtowel and apron hanging from the oven handle – and clean and fluff and dust and sweep and rake so a prospective buyer can visualize how he (or she) might live in my space. And then I leave so that my personality can neither influence nor inhibit a free discussion between buyer and agent about the merits of 1306 Linden Green. When I return, I turn off all the lights, left on to make the spaces seem larger, close the closet doors, rearrange the kitchen and move the turkey gravy box that holds my essential bathroom items from its hiding place in the cabinet below the sink to the counter up on top. The flaps on the carton are now bent and frayed and I fear they won’t hold the weight of the giant Costco mouthwash bottle very much longer.

The fact that my house has not yet sold (notice I say “not yet,” for my hope does spring eternal) is not due in any way to lack of effort by my agent, who has been incredibly diligent on my behalf, giving up personal plans and encouraging, I’m sure, even those with only mild interest in a “3 Br, 3 ½ B, brick townhouse hidden on a lovely terraced courtyard” to at least take a look. It’s just a very bad time in real estate. And maybe the statue of poor St. Joseph, kindly donated by a friend and so faithfully and traditionally planted upside-down in my garden for good luck, just doesn’t like it there among my tulip bulbs.

Meanwhile, The Fitzgerald has been incredibly cooperative, understanding my dilemma and continuing to extend the hold on my apartment there. But they’re ability to keep prime real estate out of inventory is limited, so as of November 1 – I’ve just received formal notice of the return of my deposit – they’ve had to put #532 back on the list of available apartments, with the understanding that when/if anyone shows serious interest in it, they will call me before letting it go. I can’t ask for more than that.

So time marches on and, as you can see, I’m pulling my hair.

Stay tuned.