We could have sold the property, but we refused at the price offered.  I've learned much in the first skirmish.  Not to be so nice for one thing.  Not to be mean but not to try so hard.  When they made their very first ridiculously low offer, in an effort to help them achieve their dream and, of course, to sell the property, we 'met them halfway'. 

That was a mistake.  Our definition of halfway and their definition of halfway were very different.  They wanted half of a half of a half.  Which is why we refused.

Then I lay awake last night thinking that the contract we had signed (and which they refused) would be held in reserve to hold us to it even if we refused their newest offer.  Over a barrel, as it were so that we wouldn't be free to negotiate with anyone else.  I almost snatched the contract out of the realtor's hand to see what had been done to the price.  Happy Day!  They'd crossed out the $402,000 and written $379,500.  It was the original contract.  There was no new contract.  We were free!

When I said this to the realtor he looked at me like I was nuts.  This is normal he said.  And there I was thinking we'd have all kinds of trouble with these people if we did sell to them.  Dealing with them felt like trying to run through treacle.

I don't have the temperament to be a realtor or deal in the property market.  I work very hard on 'letting go' and living in the moment.  Very hard.  Am not very successful.

So now there's another possible buyer waiting in the wings, one who already has an unconditional contract on their home, who has two horse mad teenage daughters (currently attending a dressage school, lucky sods), and who thinks our house at first look was 'everything they were looking for'. 

The father is coming back Thursday, sans daughters, for another look.  The daughters will probably come later, for final approval.  A point in our favour is that the parents know the daughters are poised on the edge of leaving the nest so there is no point in getting a large house. 

I am going to the Tweed on Friday to look at two properties.  The Nobby Creek property, which has the most stunning views one could wish for but is 35 minutes away from the sea, and the Burringbar property, which is close to the sea but may need a bit of tweaking (dog fences, horse shelters, etc.).  The Nobby Creek property has everything even including a bunny pen (one can keep rabbits in NSW, not that we'll get any).  Richard is very much in favour of the NC property.  It IS very neat and tidy and any trees on the 6 acres are well away from the house.  I dislike the huge cavernous living room with kitchen in one corner.  Butt ugly.  And the green paint job is icky too but it does have all wood floors.

Oh, I could go on and describe the two properties for what good it will do.  Must see them.  I'm just glad to have a break away, maybe get a good nights sleep.  Can't remember when I've slept well.  Partly due to Richard, partly due to worry.  And, if I'm honest, partly due to a particularly large and heavy Siamese sleeping on my legs. 

Fingers Crossed

Ongoing saga of the house sale.  The realtor rang yesterday.  The potential buyers asked the realtor to make a contract for us to sign.  Unfortunately the contract had the previous price.  Told D that we're not selling for that and not to waste their time, or ours, by putting it together.  But he was adamant.  They are serious sellers.  They are selling their house and have a buyer.  It's only $7000 less (so why don't we take the money and run?).

Richard thinks they won't accept our counter, original proposal.  I think they will.  Who blinks first?

We sign the contract tomorrow and then pass it to the realtor to pass to them.  Then we wait.

Such a small thing on the scale of the really big things in the world.  But in our world it is a big thing.  Moving.  Moving close to the sea.  Going for a coffee on the beach.  Taking the dogs for a walk on the beach.  Humidity.  Mangoes and bananas.  Yoga classes.  Art.  Tree hugging environmentalists.  Dreadlocks and surfing.  Sunglasses and sarongs.   Views across the treetops.  Views.  Mount Warning and the sea.  Breathing.   Taking deep breaths and letting go the past.

I walk the dogs in the afternoon and see the cows and horses that in a few months will be thin and rough-coated.  A few months after that they'll be RSPCA ready.  And the phone call to say what the cows and horses can't say for themselves and then the watching to see if anything is done. Oh, they visit, the RSPCA, but how much good does it do?  I think they are so short-staffed that follow up visits are only a pipe dream.  Not sure about that but haven't heard anything to the contrary

And then, following the skeletal animals comes the fires.  Every spring the fires.  And the birds and skinks and snakes and lizards and anything that can't get out of the way.  They die.  Burnt to death.  Adult birds fly.  Babies sizzle.

So I hope, oh how I hope we sell the house, that the people sign the contract and that we can begin the shift to a new locale and a new outlook - one where fires are the outrageous rarity and not the norm.  And the animals are better looked after.  And where we can drive a few minutes to the beach to have that coffee and watch the sun come up.

Here's hoping.              

Another boring non-productive chapter in how not to sell a house

Answer?  Stick to your guns and don't listen to wheedling realtors or prospective clients who hope you're going to cave just to make a sale.

Sitting with my muzzle buried in the warm fur of Siamese cat Matisse who's on the desk just at the right height while my fingers move over the keyboard.  Yes, it's bloody cold.  2 degrees this morning, and this house is like a fridge.   It takes forever to warm up.  But at least my nose is warm, thanks Matisse.

Another couple coming to look at.... nope.

Next day.  Realtor rang Sunday morning. Clients cancelled.  Spoke to him today.  They looked at other properties in, lets say, the more boring side of town.  Yes, the land/houses are cheaper but the soil is poor, the land is flat and your neighbour is likely to have multiple car carcasses.  Not to be mean but that's the truth.

So then we had an email from earlier prospective buyers.  They wanted to meet with us to 'discuss the property',   Pseudo speak for 'let's cut out the realtor and make a deal between ourselves'.  Shot them back an email saying no way but very happy to answer bonafide question about house particulars.  Heard from the realtor, they made another poor offer which we promptly refused.  They are getting tiresome.

When they made their first somewhat insulting offer we made a counter offer.  Split the difference, you come up half and we'll come down half.  Instead, they keep making ridiculous offers, hoping to wear us down I suspect.  Even the realtor said today, it's only $7000.  Yes, $7000 on top of the huge reduction we already made.

They are starting to annoy me.

So we'll wait.  Surely there is someone out there who will see the very reasonable price as reasonable, see the beauty - hills and valleys and quiet, see the excellent soil, see the many improvements we have made - and not piss us about with pis-ant offers.

Can you tell I've had enough?  

Just now had a call from the realtor.  The prospective buyers want to have another look at the property before accepting our counter offer.  (They made an offer, $34,000 cheaper than we were asking.  We countered with the 'meet 'em halfway' offer).  So it could be a goer.  Gives me flutters in the stomach just thinking about it. 

And makes me restless.  Just got up and wandered around the house.  There's not much more we can do to make it presentable.  It is what it is. 

After a year and 3 months, is it possible?  Perhaps they will decide against it.  That is a distinct possibility too.

I can't sit here though.  Have to do something.  Guess I'll dust.  Raked leaves this morning, so that's good.  Can clean the shower and toilet this evening.  Doesn't need mopping again, just dusting.

Gosh, it could be actually starting to happen!

Not bad for an old chick

Conquering fear.  I am not afraid of heights but I am afraid of clambering over steep roofs, especially slippery iron roofs coated with dust that even rubber soled tennis shoes don't stick to.

We've been having problems with the fire, more smoke in the house than going up the chimney.  Last year, because of the possums exploring the chimney as a new hidey hole, sliding down into the fire box (unlit of course!) and being unable to get out again, we placed a wire mesh over the top.  Rather we had a strong young man experienced in roof walking, install it for us.  Over winter the mesh became encrusted with creosote.  Had to come off.

Rang a fellow that's done odd jobs for us before (like lifting huge rocks from the bottom of the goldfish pond - he'll have us to thank for his hemorrhoids in later life) but he couldn't come until next week.  What to do. 

Well, there's me.

So yesterday I got on the roof and realised I couldn't just climb straight up to the chimney and chisel the mesh free.  I got to the chimney but every pore of my body had turned into a suction cup and even then I was sliding down the roof.  Not a good feeling.  Had to use exposed roofing nail heads to catch (and rip) my tennis shoes on.

Thought about it overnight.  If I climbed up the ridge line and then slid down to the chimney I could brace myself either by wrapping my legs around it or propping myself with my feet, to free both hands to work the chisel.  Which is exactly what I did.

And I'm very grateful to yoga for my strength and suppleness for of course I had to climb back to the ridge line to get down again.  Hooked my hands over the rounded top, hauled myself up, swung a leg over and voila!

Not bad for an old chick.

The Email Bitch

I like to think I'm so mature, so wise, so adult but standing outside and observing my mind obsessing about trivia, about how others may or may not treat me, I realise I am just as immature as I ever was.  How disappointing.

Read somewhere, wish I could remember where, about being an 'email bitch'.  An email bitch is someone who writes well thought out emails and gets drivel in reply.  The article didn't say that email bitches also reply promptly and carefully answer any queries in emails received.  It didn't say but it goes without saying.  Sad to say, I'm an email bitch.  I address an email received, comment on all aspects, answer any questions and add some news (but not too much, don't want to be boring!) of my own - all with a less than 24 hour turnaround.  What I get in reply may be days or weeks later, short, relating little or not at all to my email and written without care or enthusiasm.

Enough.

I have had enough.  Know it's immature to care what or how other people think but just can't be bothered chasing them anymore.  Had the delight of receiving an email today referring to the poorness of our communication !?!  If people don't want to put an effort into maintaining a friendship, so be it.  Because I live with the almost saintly R who puts a huge effort into maintaining contact with people I felt I was not a 'good' person for not doing the same.  But it isn't me.  I've always been selfish and remain so.  If there is no effort and 'maintenance' going on the other side then let it go, I say.  True friends, like W, remain friends because there is interest and warmth and love on both sides.  Not just on one side, the one who paddles madly just to keep the 'friendship' afloat. 

It's being used, when they are in the mood and 'need' me for validation on how important and wonderful they are, a service I was happy to provide, but with little or no emotional renumeration in return.

And I know, I KNOW! how futile this is.  How puerile.    Someone wrote a self help book years ago, again I don't remember who.  They spoke about the futility of expecting to be 'stroked' in return for the strokes given.  Or, on a more metaphysical level, why is my happiness dependent upon the opinion or actions of others? 

Indeed.

But because I am not wise, nor transcendent or even particularly mature I have stopped being an email bitch.  I'm just being a pure and simple bitch.  I write them still but I'm in no hurry and I write pretty much how I feel.  Which, for them, is not much.

'Alone, alone, all all alone', so says the Ancient Mariner and so says me.  At least for today.  R has gone to Toowoomba to catch up with a friend.  Don't often have a chance to be on my own so am
enjoying the freedom of time squandered just as I please.  I have pleased with a ride, reading (The Good German by Joseph Kanon, a whodunnit set in postwar Berlin), yoga, lunch (leftover vegan caesar salad followed by five! homemade - by moi - almond meal cookies), while listening to the Swoon Countdown of the Top 100 on ABC. 

Coleridge's quotation from the Ancient Mariner.  Am more than a third of the way through memorizing it.  And it's true, the brain is a muscle.  Still difficult to learn each new stanza but not nearly as hard as before.  Every day or so I recite it from the beginning.  Do omit the occasional quatrain or put them in the wrong order but generally not too bad.

Began this as an exercise in memory but it has had unlooked for benefits in that I am daily transported to the horror and beauty of the Ancient Mariner.  Because I have to buckle down and really think about it I am getting much more from the poem than I did from the first casual reading. 

American education, at least the education I had in public schools in Michigan and Florida, is not heavy on the classics.  Remember being envious of a boy in my homeroom class who was taking Latin.  Girls weren't allowed.   Now I very much doubt Latin is taught at all in public.  Am Australian friend of mine  said each semester they studied a different Shakespeare play.  I never studied Shakespeare.  We learned about the man, touched upon some sonnets and moved on.   Never ever cracked a book on Coleridge.  Or Wordsworth or Byron or Shelley or Donne.  Guess it's never too late.

Just danced (because I can) to the Flower Song from Lakme.  It amazes me that we are capable of such beauty, beauty bordering on the divine, at the same time as we seem to prefer and seek out the ugly and profane (and by profane, not being Christian or religious I don't mean it in a religious sense, but as an affront to Life and the Living Force which animates us).  Wonder what the Cults of Hatred would do if they thought about their Breath, and the cessation of such.  Anyway.  Not going to dwell on that here.  Was just nice to let the music fill me with Life and Love and dance like no one was watching.  And no one was, except for Matisse and he didn't care one way or another.

Had two lots of people view the house in less than a week.  First couple totally unsuited.  The less said about them the better.  The second couple, very suitable.  Best of all they are interested.  The usual thing however, their house has to sell before they are in a position to buy ours - somewhat similar to the position we're in! 

Happily however, I've stopped stressing so much about it.  Went through a period (or several periods) of wanting the house to sell too much.  Was even going to write a post about it; is it better to just Let Go knowing all will work out as it should be, or should one utilize quantum mechanics and think (knowing thoughts are things) one's future into being.  A question for another time.