Why I am not in Real Estate

This last weekend we went to a small mid-Atlantic city to look at housing for my mother who is considering moving there. It's a neat little city with great food (and freaking unbelievable Italian cookies).

But I learned something important while there. 1. I now know who shops at Touch of Class. 2. I can not be a real estate agent.

On Saturday we looked at a bunch of condos which were cool, but not "it." One was in a converted abbey which was architecturally amazing (stained glass, carved wood, etc) but completely stultifying since the entire view, out of every window was either bricks from the walls across the way, or trash cans and dumpsters. Another one had a hallway so narrow, I thought I might have to turn sideways to make it down with my girth. It actually reminded me a little of getting an MRI. Not good. There was one that was phenomenal (Brazilian cherry floors, Thermidoor everything, marble steam shower and soaking tub, closets galore).

My first inkling that realty is not for me came in the MRI hall apartment. How cold I show that apartment to someone and not begin to wig out and need a valium every time I went down the hall? How could I tout the architecture of the abbey, without cringing from the claustrophobia of dumpsters and brick. It's one thing to be a monk and in a cell and feel closed in (with God, I'd assume). It's another thing to try to make someone else buy that lifestyle for $490k.

It was the second day of house hunting that clinched it for me, however. On that day we saw one crappy place after another. And then we saw a house. Right down the hill from the Thermidoor place. And I loved this house. It was quirky and funky and seemed so cheap for what it was. I'd live in the house. But not with the current decor. And here begins the true tale of why I can never become a realtor.

These people, whose names I do not know, who live in this charming mid-Atlantic city, near a lovely city park, have shopped at Touch of Class.

When we first entered the house it became clear that the people who lived there, had, how shall we say, eclectic tastes. Not only were there still several Christmas decorations up, but they were a very strange mix. There was the styrofoam dove with its glittered body and glittered strings in its mouth. But there was also the glass Christmas Barbie statue on a dresser. These were mixed in with two ceramic Easter Bunnies and a carousel horse.

The house was very long and narrow (not MRI narrow). You passed from the entry hall/living area, through the dining room which were both full of antiques (and strange holiday stautuary). The kitchen needed to be redone entirely and seemed to have last seen attention sometime in the late 70s or early 80s when the dark wood cabinets with their faux victorian shape and hardware were put in.

It wasn't until we were in the master bedroom that I first had the urge to begin to take pictures. I will not show any here because that would be wrong, and because the camera on my phone stinks. The master bedroom was resplendent in over the top, polyester golden stripes. But what held me in thrall was the artwork over the bed. There, painted on canvas, was a lovely scene of a pond in the country, surrounded by verdant growth, a natural idyll. And the piece de resistance was the wooden carved geese that flew up in formation from the painting, right out into the room in 3D splendor. The photo snapping commenced!

I could not believe my luck when I hit the closet. There were (God I hope they were!) costumes!! Velvet and downy feathers, sequens, lace and beads. A captain's hat. Boas. Either these people were reenactors, fetishists or worse, they wore these things out!

In the bathroom everything was carpeted. Why do some people need to dress their toilets up like that? The seat was carpeted. The toilet had its own special carpet around it, as well as one gracing the top of the tank, all in a soothing dusty rose color.

Another room featured resin scultpures of animals. There was a woman with wolf hounds (not unlike my beloved Greyhound lady), as well as mice and rabbits. Oddly though there was also a vintage print of the Cutty Sark.

My favorite "accent" may have been the resin switchplates throughout the house which featured irridescent pansies and violets on them.

But I ask you. How could I have shown this house to potential buyers? I was way too busy snapping photos of the beribboned carousel horse (which was as tall as my shoulders) to actually talk to anyone about such banalities as utilities and on street parking. No. I am clearly better off simply being the looker rather than the shower.

Come to think of it, I have been thinking I needed a new hobby...