The end of this month will mark a full year since my longest-running clients and I first got together. We met in March of last year, and started actively touring houses in late April or early May. They've been very close to purchasing several times, to the point of starting one offer that was never delivered, one that went all the way to being countered before it fell apart, and one that led to a contract that died after inspection. I'm still not giving up on these folks. I have truly enjoyed working with them all of this time. But I can't lie. I really want them to find their dream home, and soon. We found a pretty decent contender this morning. They have narrowed their search to three main neighborhoods. One of them only rarely sees houses hit the market. It's one of those areas where people move in to stay, and only leave when they are either moving to assisted living or leaving in a prone position. The house we toured today is a big place on a big lot. It has a lot of the bells and whistles they've been seeking or planning on installing themselves. The view of the mountains is superior. The distance between the neighbors and the detached garage where my client wants to work on vehicles is ideal. But the house itself and the landscaping show signs of deferred maintenance. There are so many pros and cons to weigh, and I am going to be on pins and needles waiting for them to decide what to do.
Driving home from the early morning (early for me) tour, I started thinking about the concept of a dream home, and almost immediately my mind went to one of my favorite memories that always provides chagrin when I think of it. When I was around seven years old, I was a serious Barbie girl. I played with Barbie and Skipper every day. I had so many dolls and accessories, but the ultimate prize that I coveted was the big pink plastic Barbie Dream Home. I wanted it so desperately. But we were living in a small on-base apartment at the time, and there really wasn't space for such a thing, nor was it wise to buy it when we would be leaving Germany to head back to the states just a few weeks past my birthday and Christmas. So when we made it to the US in the middle of winter, and spent several weeks bouncing back and forth visiting my two sets of grandparents and the one uncle who lived in Oklahoma, I finally scored my dream home. My paternal grandparents in Seminole gave it to me and I was over the moon. It was everything I wanted...for a few months. By the time we made it to our next assignment in Idaho, I was starting to cool on it a bit. By the time my next birthday rolled around, I was almost completely over Barbies, and I never really picked them up again. I don't want to draw a parallel between me losing interest in something I wanted for months and months and finally got, and my clients spending a year finding their actual dream home. But I do worry about them experiencing a let down once they finally move in. I hope I'm wrong about that.
I've made my long term regular readers wade through a lot of complaining about all the pain I've gone through with autoimmune disease and surgeries and other hospitalizations. I think it's only fair that I offer up good reports when I have them. And today was spectacular. I did okay getting up early and driving to points north and east. I came home and chilled, watching news on the iPad and soaking my feet in Epsom salts to soften things up before heading to see Slow Hand. I took a preemptive Tramadol, knowing that there was a lot of body work to do. And then I had a two hour massage that actually left me feeling virtually no pain for hours. HOURS! You can't imagine how wonderful that felt, to have a multi-hour break from the crap that follows me like PigPen's dust cloud. It was like living in a dream.
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