the house is the house. Its condition IS its condition, and it will appeal to whomever it appeals to. Beyond that, I have little to say about when it will sell and to whom and for how much. I've been beseiged lately by certain family and friends to give accurate estimates as to when it will sell. Like most home sellers, I want an offer THIS WEEK, for FULL PRICE. ALL CASH. NO CONTINGENCIES.
And like most home sellers, I will feel a twinge of bummed for not getting all of the above. Predicting tides and lunar cycles is far more reliable. All I can say is, I will do my best to market the house, and sell it for as close to the asking price as possible. It's not a science. Wake up with a pang of anxiety coursing through your body, and you just might be more inclined that given day to make concessions. Other days, brimming with confidence, you easily resolve to stick to your terms.
What can I say? It will sell when it sells and for the price it commands. That is the only thing I can promise. And everyone involved will wake up one day and receive a call from me bearing good news. Now can't we all just get along?
Wednesday, July 16, 2003
Friday, July 04, 2003
Dia de Independence. Hehhh. The holiday with which I'm least impressed. Bemused is more like it. Nay, cynical.
An unending medley of Harleys, duellies, and sirens -- police and ambulance -- providing the background drone to my morning coffee klatsch (total attendance: 1; served in the garden) The latter, no doubt, in response to a variety of DEA intelligence reports, en route to bust yet another meth lab, as well as to ticket and transport to Mercy Medical Center the early Jack-and-12-pack imbibers who, in propelling their Dodge Ram 1500s into drainage culverts on the way to the 4-Mile Bar to shore up supplies of smooth-drinking Busch Light before gunning it out to Lake Sakakawea, have thus further thinned the fast-shrinking North Dakota population and strengthened the available gene pool.
Perhaps another nonogenarian resident of the Kensington House had played her very last game of whist, forcing the EMTs to abandon their flag-unfurling duties (temporarily, of course).
I considered darting up to Canada today to get away from all the blindly patriotic nonsense, (fer Chrissakes, how long must we Support Our Troops?! And just HOW, exactly?) but I'd have to risk taking to the highway that passes the 9-Mile Bar, the 29-Mile Bar, and the Ammex Bar (a.k.a. the 53-Mile Bar). Would my insurance and dual air bags be enough reassurance?
Anyway, I'm well stocked with Canadian pilsener, and there's a decent '98 Sonoma Cab on hand, should I choose to go that route tonight.
But what a glorious day to stay home, read, water the garden (the lettuce, arugula, turnip greens, and bok choy are all ready to be transformed into a glorious meal), and write the disclosure statement.
They (the people who predict this sort of thing for a living) say we might be in for a thunderstorm tonight, the ferocity of which would draw Clay Strauss Jenkinson to lie naked on the Prairie, the kind that might inspire a genuine fear of God.
If they are right, I'll risk the drive to the 4-Mile junction, where I'll turn south, ford the Mighty Mo (whose local floodplain is at least six miles wide), ascend to the apex of McKenzie County bluff, ("up on the Bench," in local parlance) and park it next to the rusty swing at the dilapidated but stubbornly erect Rosseland Lutheran Church. There, I'll strip to my skivvies, spread a blanket, lie down, and wait for a sign from Him (or is that just the cloud-seeders?)
If not, I'll skip the fireworks and the street dance and everything so I can bag another 50 pages in "Remains of the Day."
I'd like to say "Have a Great 4th!" but that would lack the sincerity called for on a national holiday. How about, "Stay home, skip the parade, and if you're gonna drive drunk, try not to visit any tragedy on strangers."
- Air
An unending medley of Harleys, duellies, and sirens -- police and ambulance -- providing the background drone to my morning coffee klatsch (total attendance: 1; served in the garden) The latter, no doubt, in response to a variety of DEA intelligence reports, en route to bust yet another meth lab, as well as to ticket and transport to Mercy Medical Center the early Jack-and-12-pack imbibers who, in propelling their Dodge Ram 1500s into drainage culverts on the way to the 4-Mile Bar to shore up supplies of smooth-drinking Busch Light before gunning it out to Lake Sakakawea, have thus further thinned the fast-shrinking North Dakota population and strengthened the available gene pool.
Perhaps another nonogenarian resident of the Kensington House had played her very last game of whist, forcing the EMTs to abandon their flag-unfurling duties (temporarily, of course).
I considered darting up to Canada today to get away from all the blindly patriotic nonsense, (fer Chrissakes, how long must we Support Our Troops?! And just HOW, exactly?) but I'd have to risk taking to the highway that passes the 9-Mile Bar, the 29-Mile Bar, and the Ammex Bar (a.k.a. the 53-Mile Bar). Would my insurance and dual air bags be enough reassurance?
Anyway, I'm well stocked with Canadian pilsener, and there's a decent '98 Sonoma Cab on hand, should I choose to go that route tonight.
But what a glorious day to stay home, read, water the garden (the lettuce, arugula, turnip greens, and bok choy are all ready to be transformed into a glorious meal), and write the disclosure statement.
They (the people who predict this sort of thing for a living) say we might be in for a thunderstorm tonight, the ferocity of which would draw Clay Strauss Jenkinson to lie naked on the Prairie, the kind that might inspire a genuine fear of God.
If they are right, I'll risk the drive to the 4-Mile junction, where I'll turn south, ford the Mighty Mo (whose local floodplain is at least six miles wide), ascend to the apex of McKenzie County bluff, ("up on the Bench," in local parlance) and park it next to the rusty swing at the dilapidated but stubbornly erect Rosseland Lutheran Church. There, I'll strip to my skivvies, spread a blanket, lie down, and wait for a sign from Him (or is that just the cloud-seeders?)
If not, I'll skip the fireworks and the street dance and everything so I can bag another 50 pages in "Remains of the Day."
I'd like to say "Have a Great 4th!" but that would lack the sincerity called for on a national holiday. How about, "Stay home, skip the parade, and if you're gonna drive drunk, try not to visit any tragedy on strangers."
- Air
Thursday, July 03, 2003
Monday, June 30, 2003
Next inquiry: Ronelle, or Rynae -- however you spell it -- a single mom; two kids, 2 and 7. She needs fenced yard, basement. She's already mentally placing her 7er in the attic BR. Loves the front yard; drives by every day on her way to work. So far so good. Wait, it gets better: She lives three blocks away, and her kids play in the park across the street.
Wait it gets better! Her BOSS is going to buy a house in town for her to rent! Who knew this was a company town! (For me, it's a slam dunk, but I don't have the heart, just yet, to remind her not to get caught mouthing off at the water cooler.)
Wait it gets better! Her BOSS is going to buy a house in town for her to rent! Who knew this was a company town! (For me, it's a slam dunk, but I don't have the heart, just yet, to remind her not to get caught mouthing off at the water cooler.)
Why did I spend all this time and energy on a house that would sell for less than $60K? I note the following:
1) The whole point was to learn real Bob Vila skills, which I could take with me wherever I live.
2) I always (why?!) wanted to fix up a fixer-upper (as opposed to tear-downs, which should be, uh, torn down).
3) Neither Gabi nor I had jobs, our sublet was up, and we needed to cash out of this house. AND, we both wanted a town that afforded the chance to walk to the gym every night in January in 30-below weather.
4) When I bought the house five years ago, I was working up here (20 miles E of Montana, 70 miles S of Saskatchewan, on the north bank of the Missouri River) full time, my employer was paying my mortgage, and the job was supposed to be a go for another two years.
Lesson: There are no guarantees.
1) The whole point was to learn real Bob Vila skills, which I could take with me wherever I live.
2) I always (why?!) wanted to fix up a fixer-upper (as opposed to tear-downs, which should be, uh, torn down).
3) Neither Gabi nor I had jobs, our sublet was up, and we needed to cash out of this house. AND, we both wanted a town that afforded the chance to walk to the gym every night in January in 30-below weather.
4) When I bought the house five years ago, I was working up here (20 miles E of Montana, 70 miles S of Saskatchewan, on the north bank of the Missouri River) full time, my employer was paying my mortgage, and the job was supposed to be a go for another two years.
Lesson: There are no guarantees.
Sunday, June 29, 2003
719 8th Avenue West, the beast of a house in Williston, North Dakota, is finally on the market. I bought it in May 1998, got laid off in August 1998, sold junk on eBay during the Golden Era (1999) to pay the bills, moved to California in March 2000 for a FT job, lost that job, got married, drove around the country with my wife, house sat in Marina del Rey, then came back to the Western Star in August 2002 to fix up the house. It's done, except for a P-trap I need to install in the bathroom sink.
Asking price: $59,500. About middle of the market. Fer these here parts.
Since the ad appeared, I've had five calls and have shown it to three prospective buyers. Tammy said the place was too small for herself and her three kids. Gabi said that was "bullshit," adding, "It's plenty of space."
And Gabi knows all about space.
Next up: Tracey, a single mom with two kids, said she likes the price, the house, and the hood, but wants to run it by her mom. Says she'll call me next week.
This morning, Nicole and Randy, who may or may not be married (and that, ladies and gents, is your daily tautology), love it and want to rent to own.
Here's a heads up for all you real estate moguls-in-the-making: Don't rent to own -- unless you've got a big wad of cash just sitting around to do the repairs the house will need when they move out because one of them lost their job, not to mention the insurance, mortgage, taxes, and utilities you'll have to cover while the place is getting fixed up to once again rent or sell. Oh, did I mention that if you're working FT you'll have to take some time off work (more lost income ... yea!!) to travel to your lovely property (which in my case would be about 1,500 miles from my home), hire fixer-upper types, do the work yourself, whatever. And let's not forget your travel expenses. Sure, they're deductible, but is this really how you want to spend your life?
Randy and Nicole offered me six grand down and $600 a month for one year, at which time they'll "definitely" get a loan from American State Bank for the balance.
"Why in a year?" I ask. "Won't the bank be willing to give you a loan now. And don't you want to take advantage of these interest rates?"
"Well," Randy, who works the rigs as a well plugger (whose watch-my-back brotherhood is as tight as the iron workers') explained, "We have to finish paying off the car first, before we buy a house."
I ask how much the car payments are. Not to be nosy, I add.
"Four twenty-five a month. Plus insurance." Randy.
I think we're talking a $25,000 car here. I suggest they sell the car, buy a great $8,000 car, and they'd have half the down payment in their pockets and all of a sudden, they'd qualify! Nicole opines that her grandmother, who owns real estate in Temecula and Yorba Linda, might be able to help them.
Yeah, I say helpfully. She can co-sign, give you a gift of ten grand, whatever! (What I don't say, but which obviously comes to mind, is that granny could probably get a home-equity loan on just one of her SoCal properties and pay me the whole asking price in cash. By Wednesday.)
I'm in a foul mood because of this. After spending an hour with them, I know they don't at all realize what they're asking me to do: a huge favor, let them move into the house I've spent so many months working on and agonizing over, leave ND for CA with a but a few grand in my pocket (barely enough to cover a month of expenses or, say, pay off my OWN car), the mortgage still in my name, where I have to manage the house or pay for it to be managed, where I'm responsible for the potential pinprick leaks in the plumbing and insulation, the frozen pipes and the snow removal come next winter, all the while the 1- and 2-year-olds are crayonizing the walls and the newly painted attic floors and peeing on the carpet ...
(An aside: The 2-year-old handed his mother his diaper in the dining room, neatly folded into a samosa-shaped bundle. It was truly astounding. He hadn't undone his little jumper, just somehow had slid the shitsack down a leg. the smoothest move I've seen in years; I'm saying, like, the move was so deft, a forensic scientist would have been pressed to find one single fiber of the kid's jumper on the carpet. I flashed to the scene in Jerry McGuire where the kid heaves the baseball and Tom Cruise's eyes flash dollar signs. Substitute Houdini for Tom Glavine, and you'll get the picture.)
... AND, they're gonna get a new doggie as soon as they move out of their apartment and into the house of their dreams. And it's ALL MY HEADACHE, until if'un they actually get the loan, buy the house, and so on.
On the way out, Randy mentioned a blemish on his credit report. "But it wasn't my fault at all. I bought some furniture, paid it off, mostly, and the bank and the furniture company never gave me the proper credit for it. But it's paid off."
Yeah. Nice talking with you, too. Put a deck of cards in the boy's hands, and we'll all be sitting pretty some day.
Flash to the most ignominious outcome: I have to come back here in a year, and ACTUALLY SPEND TIME HERE IN WILLISTON evicting them, pouring that six thou back into the house for repairs, and putting it on the market again in a year, when interest rates are up to 8 percent, all the Lewis and Clark hoo-hah is dying down, everyone knows who Sakakawea is, and the state's lost another 25,000 people. I'm thinking, Surefire seller's market. Buffalo Commons, bring it on.
Rest of the day: I watered the lawn, pulled weeds, cleaned the cat box, painted the bannister on the front porch, made elk stew, ate elk stew, drank three cups of wicked-strong french roast coffee, started a weblog, read 100 pages in "Lucky You" by Carl Hiassen (it's a fun read), talked to my brother, read Andrew Sullivan's blogger manifesto (see my links)vacuumed the house, brushed the cats, and taught myself how to wire a 3-way switch. Not bad for a NASCAR-free Sunday.
***
When I get this dang blogger thingy figured out, I'll find a way to get you some links to before/after photos of the house.
Asking price: $59,500. About middle of the market. Fer these here parts.
Since the ad appeared, I've had five calls and have shown it to three prospective buyers. Tammy said the place was too small for herself and her three kids. Gabi said that was "bullshit," adding, "It's plenty of space."
And Gabi knows all about space.
Next up: Tracey, a single mom with two kids, said she likes the price, the house, and the hood, but wants to run it by her mom. Says she'll call me next week.
This morning, Nicole and Randy, who may or may not be married (and that, ladies and gents, is your daily tautology), love it and want to rent to own.
Here's a heads up for all you real estate moguls-in-the-making: Don't rent to own -- unless you've got a big wad of cash just sitting around to do the repairs the house will need when they move out because one of them lost their job, not to mention the insurance, mortgage, taxes, and utilities you'll have to cover while the place is getting fixed up to once again rent or sell. Oh, did I mention that if you're working FT you'll have to take some time off work (more lost income ... yea!!) to travel to your lovely property (which in my case would be about 1,500 miles from my home), hire fixer-upper types, do the work yourself, whatever. And let's not forget your travel expenses. Sure, they're deductible, but is this really how you want to spend your life?
Randy and Nicole offered me six grand down and $600 a month for one year, at which time they'll "definitely" get a loan from American State Bank for the balance.
"Why in a year?" I ask. "Won't the bank be willing to give you a loan now. And don't you want to take advantage of these interest rates?"
"Well," Randy, who works the rigs as a well plugger (whose watch-my-back brotherhood is as tight as the iron workers') explained, "We have to finish paying off the car first, before we buy a house."
I ask how much the car payments are. Not to be nosy, I add.
"Four twenty-five a month. Plus insurance." Randy.
I think we're talking a $25,000 car here. I suggest they sell the car, buy a great $8,000 car, and they'd have half the down payment in their pockets and all of a sudden, they'd qualify! Nicole opines that her grandmother, who owns real estate in Temecula and Yorba Linda, might be able to help them.
Yeah, I say helpfully. She can co-sign, give you a gift of ten grand, whatever! (What I don't say, but which obviously comes to mind, is that granny could probably get a home-equity loan on just one of her SoCal properties and pay me the whole asking price in cash. By Wednesday.)
I'm in a foul mood because of this. After spending an hour with them, I know they don't at all realize what they're asking me to do: a huge favor, let them move into the house I've spent so many months working on and agonizing over, leave ND for CA with a but a few grand in my pocket (barely enough to cover a month of expenses or, say, pay off my OWN car), the mortgage still in my name, where I have to manage the house or pay for it to be managed, where I'm responsible for the potential pinprick leaks in the plumbing and insulation, the frozen pipes and the snow removal come next winter, all the while the 1- and 2-year-olds are crayonizing the walls and the newly painted attic floors and peeing on the carpet ...
(An aside: The 2-year-old handed his mother his diaper in the dining room, neatly folded into a samosa-shaped bundle. It was truly astounding. He hadn't undone his little jumper, just somehow had slid the shitsack down a leg. the smoothest move I've seen in years; I'm saying, like, the move was so deft, a forensic scientist would have been pressed to find one single fiber of the kid's jumper on the carpet. I flashed to the scene in Jerry McGuire where the kid heaves the baseball and Tom Cruise's eyes flash dollar signs. Substitute Houdini for Tom Glavine, and you'll get the picture.)
... AND, they're gonna get a new doggie as soon as they move out of their apartment and into the house of their dreams. And it's ALL MY HEADACHE, until if'un they actually get the loan, buy the house, and so on.
On the way out, Randy mentioned a blemish on his credit report. "But it wasn't my fault at all. I bought some furniture, paid it off, mostly, and the bank and the furniture company never gave me the proper credit for it. But it's paid off."
Yeah. Nice talking with you, too. Put a deck of cards in the boy's hands, and we'll all be sitting pretty some day.
Flash to the most ignominious outcome: I have to come back here in a year, and ACTUALLY SPEND TIME HERE IN WILLISTON evicting them, pouring that six thou back into the house for repairs, and putting it on the market again in a year, when interest rates are up to 8 percent, all the Lewis and Clark hoo-hah is dying down, everyone knows who Sakakawea is, and the state's lost another 25,000 people. I'm thinking, Surefire seller's market. Buffalo Commons, bring it on.
Rest of the day: I watered the lawn, pulled weeds, cleaned the cat box, painted the bannister on the front porch, made elk stew, ate elk stew, drank three cups of wicked-strong french roast coffee, started a weblog, read 100 pages in "Lucky You" by Carl Hiassen (it's a fun read), talked to my brother, read Andrew Sullivan's blogger manifesto (see my links)vacuumed the house, brushed the cats, and taught myself how to wire a 3-way switch. Not bad for a NASCAR-free Sunday.
***
When I get this dang blogger thingy figured out, I'll find a way to get you some links to before/after photos of the house.
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