We never met our first realtor. The woman was a friend of Mike’s friend and worked primarily with million-dollar properties along Alki. For those of you unfamiliar with Seattle, Alki is a swank neighborhood in West Seattle that lines the beach. Alki is also a Native American word for, “You think you can live here? Paa-shaa!” It’s true. Look it up. So having never genuinely looked for a home, I believed the first realtor when she told me it was my job to look through listings and pass them onto her and she would give me her opinion. She also told me to look for a “good roof.”
And when my friend Alison suggested we check out her realtor, because what I was doing what not really the standard buyer-agent dichotomy, I figured why not. We were also unhappy with our mortgage guy who was recommended by realtor #1. It was like we were being paired with one of those Beauty and the Geek guys and instead of getting us a sweet deal on a home, he was making us memorize the first 21 numbers of pi. Plus, the loan he offered was about a percent higher than the loan we’re going with now.
At first I was feeling guilty for going behind realtor #1, but when I met our new shiny realtor who met with us in person, it was meant to be. The first lady wasn’t going to make any money off of us, which I’m sure she knew and thus, made me scramble around doing the work she was supposed to do.
So it was a good switch.
We first looked at a house that needed work, and by work, it needed new electrical and plumbing and that the new bathroom he installed wasn’t finished or built with a permit. But that’s what our new agent said after a walk-through, all I could offer was my thoughts on whether or not the seller looked like Buffalo Bill or Buffalo Bill’s dad. And our new loan guy? He was willing to meet with us on the weekend (!) and there were no crazy loans or trick questions about Stephen Hawking and he had no lint on his black sweater. None! How did he do that? I never leave the house without a flurry of bits attached to me.
And after all this time of hunting and searching and crying and hating ourselves for not having bought sooner, we made an offer.
At about 1200 sq feet, it’s not a huge home, but it’s gorgeous. There’s bamboo flooring, vaulted ceilings, granite counter tops and a little fairy that comes out to sweep all the hair I shed onto the floor. And we’re still in West Seattle with only a partial view of a crack house, which is sad because I watch Intervention and I wanted that full-throttle voyeurism.
The only thing is, I don’t think the offer will be accepted. I know they want a shorter closing date than we can offer, so if it’s a nay on this, then I’ll be okay. C’est la vie. Maybe the next place will actually come with a washer/dryer, refrigerator and a legion of hair-sweeping fairies.
I just want hardwood floors and nice neighbors, because that’s worth the closing costs alone.