why inga's realtor sucks ass
So when I moved to _____ x years ago, I decided I should buy a house. In hindsight, not a great idea (total damper on the traveling, but that's a whole other bitch), but from a 'grown-up' perspective and financially, it was a great idea. I did not go to school (undergrad or grad) in ____________, so I didn't really have a feel for the neighborhoods. All I knew was I wanted to be close to campus, near enough to walk to work, and I wanted an old house, like the ones I grew up in. Easy breezy.
Ms. Realtor sweeps in. She shows me split levels (please!). She shows me houses about $20,000 more than I want to pay. She shows me houses far enough from campus that I'd have to drive every day. Just when I think it's time to find a new realtor...she shows me a house just off campus. It's perfect. It's near the lagoon! The neighborhood is a lovely mix of college faculty, students, and townies. The house is 90 years old! It has a screened-in front porch! It's not even on the market yet! It's March! So I buy the house. I move in in July.
And then it begins. Each spring, the college students come out of the woodwork; any time the weather is above 57 degrees, they multiply and appear on their porches or in their front yards, blaring music (and man, not even good music, but like, metal from the early 80s) and drinking beer. From early April til late September. All I want to do is sit on my porch, have a glass of wine, and choose the music I'm listening to! Is this too much to ask? This kind of snark, my friends, makes me feel old.
You'd think my realtor could have mentioned this. In hindsight, I should have realized she was a jerk. After my first viewing of the house, which really, I should have earned an Oscar for because it was decorated by someone who spent way too much time watching HGTV, she gushed that she knew I'd love the house because the decorating was so me. Uh huh. Anyone who knows Inga will vouch that lattice work on the dining room ceiling with fake grapes hanging down is so not Inga's style. Nor the cow-print kitchen border. Nor the sponge-painted living room walls.
Ms. Realtor sweeps in. She shows me split levels (please!). She shows me houses about $20,000 more than I want to pay. She shows me houses far enough from campus that I'd have to drive every day. Just when I think it's time to find a new realtor...she shows me a house just off campus. It's perfect. It's near the lagoon! The neighborhood is a lovely mix of college faculty, students, and townies. The house is 90 years old! It has a screened-in front porch! It's not even on the market yet! It's March! So I buy the house. I move in in July.
And then it begins. Each spring, the college students come out of the woodwork; any time the weather is above 57 degrees, they multiply and appear on their porches or in their front yards, blaring music (and man, not even good music, but like, metal from the early 80s) and drinking beer. From early April til late September. All I want to do is sit on my porch, have a glass of wine, and choose the music I'm listening to! Is this too much to ask? This kind of snark, my friends, makes me feel old.
You'd think my realtor could have mentioned this. In hindsight, I should have realized she was a jerk. After my first viewing of the house, which really, I should have earned an Oscar for because it was decorated by someone who spent way too much time watching HGTV, she gushed that she knew I'd love the house because the decorating was so me. Uh huh. Anyone who knows Inga will vouch that lattice work on the dining room ceiling with fake grapes hanging down is so not Inga's style. Nor the cow-print kitchen border. Nor the sponge-painted living room walls.
posted by lynda at 6:50 PM
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