THE SAGA OF REAL ESTATE WOE[CONCLUSION]

So, the wife and I woke up on Saturday morning, at the start of our sixth year of marriage, in what I now call the interregnum apartment. The Houseguest – the remarkable and altogether fascinating character that he is – was safely snuggled under blankets in his bed/couch in the guest bedroom/living room/dining room/office/library. All that remained was a bit of tidying in the old apartment. Thus, we breakfasted, gave the old place a quick scrub final pack up, and we packed our bags and took off for Ithaca. We decided it was time to visit some friends and get away form it all.

I shall largely gloss over the trip – which was entirely pleasant even though it was dotted by a steady influx of anxiety on my part. I shall make brief note of the fact that I soundly defeated both the wife and the Houseguest at a Johnny Depp-themed miniature golf course. Actually it was a Pirates of the Caribbean-esque thing, but, when it really comes down to the essentials, isn’t Johnny what matters?

But, on Monday, the three of us found our way home to return, once more, to the realtor’s office to finalize the paperwork on the new house. With only a minimum of grammatical, mathematical, and/or logical assistance for the often inappropriately dressed realtor, the wife and I finalized the contract for the new house, and, assuming the inspection would go well, were on our way to buying a house, yet again.

While we were quite happy about having a new house to look forward to, the outstanding issues with the Douche-Nozzle were still nagging at us. Exactly how much money were we going to end up losing because of the Douche-Nozzle and the Ass-Clown? How long was all of this crap – legal filings, subpoenas, court dates, etc., etc. – going to take us? What would happen if something went wrong? And, of course, the ever popular favorite, with its assumptions of metaphysical interventions, why us?

But, dear reader, Tuesday brought a ray of sunshine – on top of the continuing radiance of the Houseguest with his glorious visage and countenance – into our lives. You see, beyond all expectation, the wife and I received a phone call Tuesday morning informing us that the Douche-Nozzle had, finally, signed the release that would free us from the damnable contract. All we had to do was swing by the unremitting Ass’s office – for all of you not paying close attention, that would be the Douche-Nozzle’s realtor – to sign the document as well and the sword of Damocles would disappear in one of the puffs of smoke only seen in pre-anime cartoons.

We are not quite sure why he had chosen to sign at this point. The wife called the Litigator to inform him that we no longer have to go through with the protracted court proceedings and their associated Law and Order melodrama. While she did not actually talk to the Litigator himself – or as we had begun calling him at this point, Fat Tony [it should be noted that he isn’t actually fat, but once in a phone call he referred to himself as “the Gravedigger” with reference to his litigious prowess] – his secretary was surprised since she would not have expected Fat Tony’s threatening letters to have arrived yet. Perhaps the letter arrived more rapidly than could normally be expected of the postal service, perhaps the Douche-Nozzle simply came to his senses, but, just maybe – and this is how I like to think of it – my phone call to that recalcitrant Ass of a realtor had some effect. I have no evidence to particularly support this, but, since I feel compelled to hold on to some sense that I am not entirely impotent, I shall believe that I scared the hitherto contumacious Ass, thus causing him to apply pressure to the Douche-Nozzle.

[As I now fear that these characters’ nicknames are producing an unfortunate linguistic situation, I shall quickly move on.]

On Wednesday the wife and I went to the Ass’s office, walked in, and explained why we were there. The receptionist gruffly shoved the release forward and requested our signature. We both signed the release and expected to receive our Good Faith Deposit check in return. After we stood there for a silent moment, we inquired of the seemingly disinterested receptionist about the thousand-dollar check that should now be released from escrow. She informed us that the Check-Writing Lady – whoever the hell she is – is out of the office, so we shall simply have to wait until later to get the check because she is the only one capable of authorizing checks, or perhaps the only one there who can write. Another silent moment transpired before we finally asked the obvious question: “Do you know when she will be in the office?” A bit of confused discussion in the office ensued, and we were finally told that she should be in on Friday.

We left, some what pissed. We left a message with our realtor. We moved on with the rest of our appointed rounds. As we drove about doing this and that we discussed a peculiar element of the release with the Houseguest. You see, dear reader, the Douche-Nozzle had apparently signed the release several weeks earlier, but had only deemed it necessary to fax it in that Monday. Why all of a sudden? Why the delay? Between the three of us – the wife, the Houseguest, and I – the only definitive conclusion is that he is, well, a Douche-Nozzle.

That night, the three of us took a small adventure to the local casino – the Turning Stone Casino and Resort. To be honest, it was surprisingly nice. We had an enjoyable dinner at the Chinese restaurant at the casino – probably the best in the area, though rather overpriced. We went on to gamble, and each lost twenty dollars playing video poker. At one point I was up ten dollars, but then got reckless and lost it all. But, seeing as that was exactly what I anticipated, I was pleased with the several hours of entertainment garnered for my twenty bucks. The wife experienced what would probably be best described as an unabashed losing streak. The Houseguest, on the other hand, had “a system,” but nonetheless lost his twenty dollars as well. [Further information on “the system” can only be supplied, alas, by the Houseguest himself.]

The real tragedy of the evening, though, was that by the time we had completed our flirtation with the life of a gambler, the casino’s pastry shoppe had closed for the evening and we were left with no dessert. Mmmm… Yummy, yummy dessert.

The next day we rose to a phone call from our realtor informing us that the check was waiting to be picked up at the evil real estate agency's offices at our convenience. Assumedly she had made a call and things were done. Huzzah, at last, for the slightly tartish realtor. But, alas, this was also the Houseguest’s last day. So, we struck out on our way, stopping by that unholy office where we were silently and brusquely handed our thousand-dollar check, which we immediately deposited, not trusting the long-term validity of anything the uncooperative Ass or his associates did. Early that evening, we sadly dropped the Houseguest off at the airport, a moment that was attended by much weeping, wailing, and rending of hair on the behalf of the wife and me, and, alas, our lives have not been the same. Why have you left us, Houseguest? Why?

But that pretty much brings us up to date. The house made it through inspection with a minimum of fuss. The wife and I just received the final inspection report this morning, and we must discuss the final details of the contract with the realtor this afternoon. There are only a few, minor things that we would like to have taken care of. Thus, it seems that everything is moving forward with the new home. [Though, now that I have said that, the seller will most likely go crazy and screw everything up. Thus, dear reader, I wish you to once again cross those fingers until further notice.]

Hence we come to the end of the Saga of Real Estate Woe. Perhaps, since it seems to have turned out well in the end, it does not properly qualify as a Saga of Woe, but, seeing that there was certainly a rather higher than average quantity of woe racked up during the short duration of this Saga, I feel that special dispensation is due, and that the Saga of Woe status is due to this tale.

So hopefully, dear reader, we shall move into our new home by the First of October, and once we do a bit of landscaping, apply a new coat of paint to the exterior [the color of which we have generally determined: a nice turquoise-ish color for the second floor], and give the kitchen a bit of a remodel, we shall have a quite wonderful home in which to live, and, if you are indeed among those we call friends, you will be more than welcome to come over for a cookout, or dinner, or perhaps a weekend visit.

Thus ends the Saga of Real Estate Woe, except for the much sought after Appendix from the perspective of that universally acclaimed character: the Houseguest. I, along with you, I am sure, dear reader, await said Appendix with bated breath. But, until then, the Saga closes.