The Joys of Real Estate

It was about four years into our marriage that Ashley and I decided that it was time to purchase a house. Our apartment was wonderful, but we wanted a place of our own. A place that we could use to entertain guests, host family dinners, and place mildly offensive signs in the yard without asking anyone’s permission. After some research, we decided that the most prudent move would be to seek pre-approval from a mortgage company so that we had a better idea of our price range.

On a recommendation from a friend, we sought the counsel of a nationally recognized lender who just happened to staff a local office. When the day of our appointment finally arrived, Ashley and I sat in the waiting room clutching the documentation that would soon be utilized to determine our financial worthiness. After about 15 minutes we were summoned to the lender’s chamber and asked to produce the requested paperwork (bank statements, paycheck stubs, autographed Frank Stallone albums) so that an accurate fiscal picture could be painted. Several minutes and 10 invasive questions later, we were given a pre-approval letter.

Now that we had our price range, we could finally use the Sunday real estate adds for something other than fueling our charcoal starter. For three consecutive weeks we ritualistically studied the cleverly captioned photos and nauseatingly memorable tag lines (break that lease and get you a piece!) until we began to perceive the existence of a cryptic realtor code:

· “Investor’s Dream!” = Crack house

· “Walkout Basement” = Would you like to be the victim of a home invasion?

· “Rolling Hills!” = Highly susceptible to erosion

· “Unique, one of a kind home!” = Original contractor is still involved in litigation

· “Old World Elegance!” = Violates multiple building codes

· “All New Flooring!” = Someone was murdered here

· “Rural Tranquility!” = Cable television and high speed internet are unavailable

· “Quiet Street” = Located in a failed subdivision

· “Separate Workshop” = Clandestine meth-lab

· “Newly Remodeled Kitchen” = Devastating grease fire

· “Motivated Seller!” = Current owner is the focus of an ongoing police investigation

· “Classic Beauty” = Seller was unable to remove the gold-leaf wallpaper in guest bathroom

· “Historic Neighborhood!” = You are within walking distance of a Gyro King

Once we consumed our Sabbath lunch and compiled listings we were interested in, we would jump in the car and proceed to hit the open houses. After speaking to several real estate agents (one of whom gleefully informed us that she could get us a deal on a particular home because the couple building it had recently met with unexpected financial ruin) we found an agent that seemed uniquely attuned to our tastes. He was laid back and unfazed by the fact we were unable to purchase a dwelling priced above $139,000. Over the next month he shuttled us in and out of several houses, but none of them was tempting enough for us to give up our apartment. Then one day, that all changed….

We saw a listing for a foreclosed two-story house located in modestly high-brow area of town and it was in our price range. It had vaulted ceilings, a quaint picket fence, and had been on the market for almost a year so it had the unmistakable scent of desperation. Aided by our new real estate guru, we performed several walkthroughs on the property and even had our parents take a look. It seemed that everything was falling into place and on the weekend of our third walkthrough we decided to put in an offer.

Ashley and I had decided to meet at the realtor’s office that Thursday afternoon in order to complete the necessary paperwork, but by Wednesday afternoon she had grown apprehensive and wanted us to go first thing in the morning. I condescendingly explained to her that any anxiety was the result of inexperience and that a seasoned property consumer, such as myself, could see that it was ridiculous to alter our plans since the home had been on the market for twelve months. Finally seeing the error of her ways, we agreed to meet at the real estate office after work the next day as we had originally planned.

The following afternoon, Ashley and I entered our agent’s office and seated ourselves opposite him at the conference table. While handing out the paperwork, he informed us that an unprecedented turn of events had occurred: an out-of-state couple had submitted an offer two hours earlier on the same house without even seeing it. Beads of sweat began to form on my brow as I caught Ashley’s head slowly rotating my direction, and just to ensure I would spend the next week on the couch, the realtor added “If only you guys had come in a few hours earlier…”

I quickly realized that if we did not get this house, I would be taking an involuntary vow of celibacy for the next several months. Despite the grim outlook, we filled out the paperwork, submitted it to the lien holder for review, and waited. A week passed, and we received word that our out-of-state rivals had submitted the winning bid and would be the proud new owners of our dream home. Crestfallen and domestically ostracized, I set about looking for another house on the Internet.

A few months later, we found a beautiful older home that offered almost 3,000 square feet and a price tag of $130,000. Several close friends of ours lived in the neighborhood, and we felt comfortable enough in dealing with the owners to forgo using an agent so it looked as though we had it in the bag. We wasted no time submitting an offer on the property, and just to guarantee we would emerge victorious, we offered to pay the asking price. It would only be a matter of days until The Taylor Family had 3,000 square feet of historic charm to explore.

Several days passed and I finally received a call from the owner. He apologized for the delay and explained that they were unable to accept our offer because another couple had delivered an identical proposal just two hours before we got there and it was only fair to give them right of first refusal. He wished me luck on our continued search and left me with, “If only you guys had come in a few hours earlier…”

We both became so disgusted with the process we almost completely stopped looking for a place of our own, although we would occasionally hit an open house in the $500,000+ range as they always had the best refreshments, and decided that it just wasn’t our time to own a piece of the American dream.

A few months later we were driving home from lunch when we spotted an open house sign. We had a few hours to kill and there was always a chance of refreshments so we decided to stop in. Coincidentally, the house was owned by a coworker, beautifully decorated, and most importantly: in our price range. We made them an offer and soon enough we found ourselves at the attorney’s office signing the closing documents.

If you have never been through this process, it is impossible to accurately describe the volume of paperwork involved or the number of outrageous fees (loan origination fee, flood-plain determination charges). Fortunately, our closing attorney had a voice so soothing that I could have easily been persuaded to sign my own death warrant. In fact, I may try to close on a tool shed next week just so I can hear him summarize the property transfer process again….

The Raccoon

One morning I awakened from my slumber to discover that our garbage bag had been hastily removed from the can and its contents strewn all over the driveway and lawn. This was made all the more distressing, since the garbage crew, apparently viewing the scattered refuse as a sign of derision, had purposefully avoided taking our trash while being uncharacteristically thorough with the can next to ours. I immediately suspected a neighborhood dog was the perpetrator and after gathering up all of the remnants in a new bag, I purposefully engaged the Rubbermaid locking lid and went back inside.

The next day, I found the “locking lid” disengaged, the garbage can on its side, and the bag I used to clean up the last disaster had suffering the same fate as its predecessor. It seemed unlikely that a mere canine was capable of such a feat, so I began to wonder if my adversary was not a more agile member of the animal kingdom like the raccoon. Given the nocturnal timetable and seemingly effortless disarming of the locking lid system, it seemed to be the logical conclusion.

I called an impromptu driveway conference with my landlord, Dave, and we spent several minutes developing a strategy. He surmised that perhaps the weakness of our trash containment system was not to be found in the lid, but in the stability of the can itself since the raccoon probably just pushed the can over and the top popped off as a result of impact. Fortunately for me, Dave was a brilliant metal worker and over the course of an afternoon he fabricated a steel enclosure that utilized welded bars to restrict the can’s movement.

Confident that we had bested the animal, I retired for the night without the slightest trepidation that my leftover spaghetti was in harm’s way. The very next morning however, I was startled to find that our welded enclosure had no effect on our furry friend’s dining habits. Worse yet, if I did not get this under control I was fairly certain that Waste Management was going to firebomb our apartment.

I decided that I had been going about this all wrong. Instead of catering to the raccoon’s formidable dexterity, I needed to exploit his weaknesses, namely, his upper body strength. I restored the garbage can to its steel ensconced perch and gathered two bricks from a stockpile beside the shop. I placed the garbage in the bottom of the can, snapped the top into place, and dramatically placed the pair of bricks on the lid. Convinced that my nemesis was witnessing this ceremony, I smiled and bowed mockingly as if to say “your move” and went back upstairs to the apartment to wait.

Later that night as my spouse and I were watching television, I perceived a dull thud originating from outside the apartment in the direction of the trash cans. I had Ashley douse the lights while I grabbed the flashlight and positioned myself at the window overlooking the garbage cans. I pulled the metal blinds up ever so slightly and clicked on the flashlight, guiding its powerful beam toward the source of the ruckus. I was unprepared for the scene unfolding in front of me: the raccoon, who was the size of an Easy Bake Oven, was actually removing the bricks one by one, and is if this wasn’t insulting enough, he was using the newly welded steel bars as leverage to do it.

Apparently while the other raccoons were out partying and updating their Twitter accounts, mine was hitting the gym and using his dramatically effective (albeit tiny) Bowflex. He even seemed grateful for the extra visibility my flashlight gave him as his went about removing the cover. He did pause briefly to look at me while tearing open the bag, and I half expected to see him elevate his furry middle finger.

My self-esteem was devastated; here I was a partially-college educated man unable to outthink a nocturnal scavenger long enough to have his refuse collected the next morning. The next day I decided to place a section of cinder block on top of the lid in addition to the pair of bricks. The weight of these objects caused the material to collapse, effectively ruining the cover’s ability to lock any more, but my only concern was proving to myself that I could guarantee the security of my food scraps for at least one night.

One Tuesday, while I was home for lunch, I brought a bag of garbage downstairs and proceeded to place it in the can while talking on the phone. I tossed the cover aside and lowered the bag into what I thought was an empty container. As I was just about to release my grip on the bag, I felt something “give” under the weight of the garbage. Assuming it was some of the remnants from my friend’s last meal, I somewhat angrily lifted the bag out and dropped it a few more times in order to compact whatever rested below it. About the fifth time I did this, I heard a fierce hissing coming from below the bag. I lifted it completely out of the trash can to get a better view; there stuffed into the bottom of the can, was an extremely wet (and rather ill-tempered) possum [see photo]. This was puzzling considering the lid had been on the can when I came out and there is no conceivable way that the possum could have placed the top on himself.

I immediately suspected that the possum had been the victim of an attempted “rub out” by the raccoon for poaching on his turf. I tipped the can over and allowed the fatigued possum to saunter out into the yard and disappear into the bushes. Rumor has it that he fell victim to a mysterious “industrial accident” a few months later …

Dave and I reconvened our driveway summit and briefly considered a series of spring loaded steel teeth designed to impale our adversary as he approached the can. The concept was tempting, but dismissed as both cruel and just as likely to impale me.

Over the next several years our delicate waltz of hatred continued, eventually I decided to omit the formality of placing the garbage in the can at all in order to make his dining easier. Our little bagged meals had apparently created such a utopian existence for him that he decided to settle down and start a family. Ashley and I came home late one night to find Flex, Mrs. Flex, and the twins making a hasty retreat from our curbside buffet.

Eventually Flex and I came to a mutual understanding, as he was a superior life-form in both strength and intelligence, and we parted ways when Ashley and I bought our first house. But if history is any indication, Flex probably helms a small investment banking firm and often reminisces about his comically one sided battled with that “lanky dim-witted fellow” and his wife.