Real. Estate.

So, the neighborhood has been pretty quiet.

My gun-toting neighbor hasn’t been shooting when I’m around, probably because ammunition is pretty expensive to blast off on a daily basis. I think he’s on a pension.

I also think he knows the neighborhood will call Jeffco regardless of his consideration by calling Jeffco to let them know he’ll be shooting between this-and-that time.

Turns out the Bar B is a rather sought after property. There is only one ranch property listed in ReColorado.com and it’s a shit-hole. NO fooling, it’s awful: missing walls, missing drywall, no flooring and you simply can’t live in it.

My realtor thinks it will sell for a pretty high price and I’m not sure. I just don’t see it happening at that price which I won’t mention here just yet.

Problem is what’s available down the hill? Not much. Houses are snatched up within minutes of being placed on the market. A friend bid $21K over the asking price on a house they closed on last week.

In my house-buying/selling history I’ve never offered more than $2,500 over the asking price.

I’ve actually bought and sold many properties. My ex-husband and I bought the house on Joan Street together in 1984 for $69,900. It was four bedrooms, 2 bathrooms and a full basement. We added a two-car garage and lived there for 16 years. I sold it for $176,000 which made my then ex-husband furious. He wanted his “portion” of the proceeds. I walked away with almost $110,000 in my pocket. He got nada. He should have read the divorce decree. When he hired an attorney to get his money, all my attorney did was fax one page of the divorce agreement that said he had no claim on any proceeds from the house or any inheritance I received.

That inheritance included two houses in Port Angeles, Washington when my Aunt Helen died in 2003. Helen had bought her friend a house and though it was in her name I let him keep it. I also gave her friend, a man she’d known for years, the proceeds from her house which I sold for $90,000. Today, her house, complete with ocean views of the Strait of Juan de Fuca (Juan de fuck who? is what we used to say) would be worth probably $500,000 easy.

I briefly considered living in Port Angeles and living a low-rent life (the house was paid off) that included being right next to the ocean but high enough that a tsunami wouldn’t take it out. I didn’t because her friend seemed the sort of person to try and take over my life much in the way he did with hers.

I tried cleaning out her house in the limited time I was there but he said he’d do it. A year later I been back for a visit and drove by his house and her house. All of her possessions were in black trash bags in the front yard of his house and had weathered a year of Olympic Peninsula rain. Her clothing, appliances, books, household items all lay in sodden piles. It broke my heart because what treasures were in there? That recording of my dad’s voice from 1969? The poster with all the words to “Ist das nicht ein schnitzelbank?” that hung in my grandma’s basement? Grandma’s jewelry? Photos?

One thing I do know her will was not in that pile. I had that. That’s what he was looking for and hoped to find. A document that gave him half the estate of both her and my late grandparents and the proceeds from the dairy farm in Wisconsin.

I’ve bought a condo in Highlands Ranch and the most beautiful home I’ve ever owned on the green belt at Redstone Park. It was a gorgeous house that was roasting hot in the summer, with no trees, lots of snakes and 22 children between the 6 houses in the cul-de-sac.

I paid cash for that house and the sellers wouldn’t take my bid even though I offered them $2,500 over their asking price. They told me, “Single women don’t pay cash for houses.” I told them I’d take their house without paying for it as well as the money they’d pay me for housing discrimination under Federal law.

They took my offer.

I was working at Stewart Title at the time and knew the laws around housing discrimination as well as the ins-and-outs of closing a loan. When a property of mine is closing I tell the escrow officer, “Point and shoot.” That means just tell me where to sign, I don’t need the spiel.

I lived in an apartment and a duplex (remember The Mattress? How could you forget her?) and then bought this house.

Now, I’m considering selling it but really have nowhere to go. Rent an apartment for a month? Just what do I do with 3 nearly feral cats? It’s a problem that I haven’t explained to anyone. They’d think I’m nuts; hold up a sale for cats.

When the agent was here, I took them down into the Slightly Unenchanted Forest. They got to see a deer reposed in the tall grass of Mr. I’ve Got a Gun and a Lighter’s yard. They were really surprised. They saw that the Bar B isn’t just about the house and it’s 1979 kitchen. It’s about the life the property has within it. The possibilities are endless for someone with “mad skills.” It’s just not me and I can’t trust or find decent contractors. The dream lives in the harsh reality of day.

First, things first, we have to settle on a price. Then I HAVE to decide.

I feel like I’m being led to sell, not by the agent but because 9.5 feet of snow in April sort of kicked my butt. I have trees with a new bug that’s killing them in record time. Still, it’s summer which means all my pictures and treasures at down the hill at the storage shed. That’d be $60 I didn’t have to spend – I could keep my treasures in my house – not in some dirty storage locker in Lakewood.

It’s always something at the Bar B.