The End of an Era… or, a few days

My house went on the market May 3. It went off the market — unofficially — today. This was not a good market.

We got an offer. It wasn’t a good offer — anyone on the receiving end of an offer in a buyer’s market knows there is no such thing as a good offer — but it was tolerable. Yes, they asked for $9k off of the price. Yes, they asked for closing costs. Yes, they asked for a short turnaround time. We negotiated all of that out, but their realtor gave the phrase to “PM this shit” whole new meaning. It was not a pleasant experience. I am still walking kind of funny.

But there was nowhere to go. After using software and detailed searches, we whittled down to about 40 houses. We looked, over the last 3-4 weeks, at every single one. Not one was a match. They were either too big, on a too-small lot; they had weird layouts (we nicknamed one the “rabbit warren”), they had updates that needed to be made (and we are not in the market for a project house), NONE seemed a better deal than staying put. As we were in the market for a house another 50% in price over mine, you’d think there would be something: there wasn’t.

People are not selling in this market unless they have to. This is what is weird: you’d think that in a buyer’s market there would be a glut of supply; a seller’s market is a glut of demand. In this case we have a glut of supply but it’s crappy corner lots, busy streets, and desperate folks.

My house is no longer staged. We celebrated one and all by NOT making our beds this morning, and I have a single dish in the sink as an homage to the sort of sloppiness we didn’t really do before staging anyway. I’ve collected all of the non-us staging articles and “staged” them in the entryway for easy retrieval. We’ve begun planning little projects here and there, I have a new idea on how to subvert the deer and grow tulips. We will relax in the comfort and confines of my 1969 rambler for another year, maybe more, and wait for the good stuff to come on the market.

I don’t need Tiffany’s — but I’m not shopping the flea market, either.

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