A Real Dream

Last night I dreamt that Nikki told me that the sellers would have been happy to take just $1600 more than the last-ditch offer I had made for the house (who knows where that number came from -- the mysteries of dreams) and she refused to tell me until the deal was officially off.  I begged her to go back to them and she refused.  No mystery in this -- I so wanted the house and she so wanted me to buy anything else.  An honest real estate agent at least.

After a bout with a mild case of heat exhaustion yesterday morning (memo to Marge - don't go for a 3 mile run, especially when you've only been running two miles a couple days a week, in 85 degree, 99% humidity, weather and you're not feeling your most chipper anyhow), I spent the day second-guessing every decision I had made in my quixotic quest for the house with the view.  Well, maybe mostly just one -- should I have given them a lower final price?  If I had offered $450K, would they still have considered it?

Beyond that, my second guessing mostly involved worrying I had led the sellers on:   that I was naive about the costs, that I should never have thought I could have bought the house for more than $500K.  I imagine the white-haired, spindly couple bent over their dining room table, lamenting the loss of the sale, wondering what they'll do now, and cursing out, in the highest class style, the woman who wanted the view for dragging them through the last month of hope.  

Fortunately I talked to my friend Mary Ellen in the midst of my self-flagellation, who tilted my head a little toward another perspective.  As she said, no matter how lovely the elderly artist couple is, they didn't take care of their gorgeous house.  They patched it and band-aided it here and there, as necessary, over the years, and reorganized it, splitting apartments and setting up not-so-professional commercial space, as it suited their needs, without holding one conversation with the city to see if their actions were  legal.  As a result, they have a house that appears to be, both to them and an initial buyer like I was a few weeks ago, incredibly, stunningly, valuable -- with the gardens and the view and the swirly painted walls and the nooks and crannies -- but in fact, is a house that's a mess, a house whose value lies solely in its potential, a potential that will cost any buyer hundreds of thousands of dollars to realize.  

So now I feel less guilty, but no less sad.  As Nikki suggested, I've decided to simply enjoy Labor Day weekend with not a thought of houses, beautiful or not, with views or not, and will plot out my next steps next week.