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
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