So.
I asked my insurance agent for a recommendation for a real estate agent. I have never ever used one, and have known Doug since we moved here in 1994, and so when he named this person, I was ok with it. I gave her a call, set up an appointment, and in the meantime, I dithered and fretted.
What I expected from her? A list of What-the-Fuck-Do-I-Need-To-Do. In some sort of order, even. Do this, don't worry about that, etc. A Plan of Action, in other words. Help me!
What I got? Go ahead and move, get your crappy belongings and trash out of the place, and maybe, just maybe, I can sell your house.
Maybe not in so many words, but that was the impression that I got from her. This was after I told her the history of the house, how it was built, stories about the town, la la la.
I fired her last night, and I think she was relieved.
Today, in a fit of inspiration, I decided to make a blog about this house, and I'll try to sell it that way.
The Old Hurst House.
I have pictures and stories and real-ass history. And blogger is free.
Leaving tomorrow for Missouri, a place about an hour west of St. Louis. Job interview and pee-in-a-cup scheduled for 9 am CST. I am still dithering and fretting, but I have engaged a painter/glazier/drywaller in the nonce and have set him to work. Because in the last week, I have come up with my own What-the-Fuck-Do-I-Need-To-Do list.
Where's the bleach?
4 comments:
I'll join you in that corner, moaning softly, chewing on my hair, and at least contemplating the bleach bottle.
Nancy NeverSwept
Oh. I hate moving. I hate thinking about moving, planning for moving, packing for moving, actually moving. That said, it sounds to me like you're on the right path!
I'll be following your journey avidly. Selling the house via blog just might work. $90,000? Sounds like a great deal to me. But then I live in the (still) overpriced suburbs of Washington, DC.
Yes. Get around smarter people.
Apparently, this is the year of tossing everything up in the air.
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