There seem to be a lot of people interested in buying our house. At least once a week we get a postcard in the mail (usually addressed only to me, for some reason) from someone wanting to buy our house. I wonder, if perhaps, they think I might be willing to sell it without my husband’s knowledge and secretly move to Tahiti, leaving him with the teenager. Don’t think I’m not tempted. But I would never do that to my poor husband. After all, he’s never done anything deserving of that punishment. Although, once, I did suggest that if we got a divorce, then each of us would only be stuck with the teenager half the time. Then we could remarry when Younger Son turned eighteen and left (got kicked out of) home. But I digress. It’s okay, I’m allowed. I have a lot of senior moments.
Then, tonight, as we were watching Wheel of Fortune, a commercial came on with some guy named “Irby” expressing his desire to buy our house. As is. It was strange, because I didn’t realize Irby had ever been to our house, let alone had the desire to buy it.
“But I don’t want to sell you our house,” I told Irby, as if he could hear me.
“That reminds me,” said Hubby, “you got another postcard in the mail today for someone wanting to buy our house.”
I sorted through the mail and discovered the card at the bottom of the pile of less important items, such as bank statements, bills, pre-approved credit cards, and pizza coupons. This potential buyer promised that if I sold to him (her?) I would not only have a firm offer on my house “as is” that wouldn’t change before closing, but I wouldn’t have to paint, repair, or clean. They would also pay the closing costs. In a way, that offer didn’t sound too bad. There are a lot of things on my “honey-do” list that have yet to be done—like for the last thirty years. We have been talking about redoing the front porch (with all the cracks) that retains water when it rains. So far, we’ve only talked about it. The back deck is literally warped to the point where the boards are more vertical than horizontal. We’ve talked about that, too. And for some reason the plumber cannot find, the drain in the Florida room overflows when we run the dishwasher. There’s a hole in the downstairs bathroom ceiling that has been there for several years from when Hubby was trying to find the source of a leak. These are just a few of the things that are wrong with our house. It would be so nice to just walk away, cash in hand, and start over somewhere new.
Then I had a brilliant thought. “They did say, ‘as is,’ right?” I asked Hubby.
“Yes,” he replied.
“Do we have to tell them the house comes with an adult son living in the basement?”
He caught on quickly. “And a teenager,” he added.
Great minds think alike. “If we’re really shrewd, we can sell the house ‘as is’ and move somewhere with no forwarding address before anyone catches on.”
It would be their own fault. The potential buyers need to be more specific on the definition of “as is.”