Throw down

Yesterday, as I was pulling out of the driveway, I noticed that the house two doors down had a "For Sale" sign in the yard.

Let me tell you, she's itchin' for a letter bomb in a bad bad way.

It's not the fact that she's selling her house that bothers me. Hell, there's homes for sale all up and down the blocks surrounding mine. It's the fact that she's priced 20,000 dollars below my asking price. Bitch.

I looked up her house to do a "comp" and saw that she's got 4 bedrooms (I've got 3), one bathroom (I've got 2 full bathrooms), and no garage (I've got a 2 car, detached). On the outside, it appears we have similar square footage, and both our yards are fenced.

My only consolation is that I know who her realtor is, and she is straight up cu-razy. How do I know this? She used to be my realtor once upon a time.

When my husband and I were looking for our first house, we started out looking around on our own. After going to one fateful open house, I somehow managed to get hooked up with Sarah, The Craziest Realtor on the Planet.

At first, she was like any normal person who sells houses. She looked up homes in my price range and set up viewings. She even drove me around in her own car. After a month I was tiring of the process, but she was nothing if not tenacious.

Sarah would call me about a new listing and come pick me up to look at them. The most memorable house she took me to was a cave-like shack off Main Street. The people who lived there either didn't know we were coming over or didn't want to sell their house. Not only was there an unmade bed in the living room, but a sink full of dirty crusty dishes in the kitchen sink. And it smelled of cat piss. Being well past my drug-addled party days, I passed on that one.

Eventually, I decided that Sarah wasn't helping much in the home search, and decided to go it alone, but not before she took me on one last round of viewings.

I met her at her realty office to pick up the info sheets. Her husband was there and decided to join us. He was a big bear of a man with a porno moustache, a toupee-like mop on the top half of his head and a glorious mullet on the bottom half. He gave me the creeps, but since I didn't have to be married to him I figured I'd let it pass.

As soon as he got there, he asked me if I wanted to see what he got his wife for her birthday. Hoping this wasn't some kind of trick, I feigned interest. After reaching into the inside pocket of his Member's Only windbreaker he produced not a chloroform-soaked rag, but a jewelry box. It was a diamond necklace.

"Wow, that's very nice. Happy Birthday Sarah."

"Yeah, heh heh heh. Guess I'll be getting some tonight, eh?"

"Um, yeah. Good for you big guy."

It was going to be a long fucking afternoon.

First stop was a house that I actually found myself. It needed a LOT of work. Basically it would have been a rehab project for my husband and I, and it was priced accordingly. Sarah, Mr. Sarah and I took a look around and marveled at the potential.

Then Sarah decided that she and her smarmy husband should buy it themselves and flip it. So much for that.

On our way to the next house, Sarah decided that I needed to see her house. I won't lie to you, I was frightened and contemplated my escape. However, Mr. Sarah was in the back seat and I was convinced he would be able to reach his big bear arms out the window to scoop me back into the Lincoln Towncar if I attempted a dive.

Even though this was the first realtor I've ever worked with, I knew taking clients to one's home wasn't common protocol. When I asked her if she had forgotten something (like the duct tape and blindfold), she told me she just wanted me to see her house.

I should clarify that my price range was about one fourth of what her home probably cost. It wasn't like she was showing me something comparable to what I was looking for. No. She just wanted to show off.

We spent about a half hour there while she gave me the tour. I was stunned by how unprofessional (not to mention creepy as hell) this all was. I was on guard the entire time. I didn't know these people and I was in their house alone. My husband was at work and didn't know where I was. No one did.

I wasn't worried about getting killed. I was worried about getting propositioned.

After that day, I stopped returning her phone calls. A couple years later, they ended up buying a church (but still continuing their realtor business). Turns out, Mr. Sarah is a minister. You saw that one coming, didn't you?

Now Sarah is my neighbor's problem. I almost feel bad for her, but then I remember she's low balling me and I feel a certain sense of satisfaction.

So, good luck Asshole Neighbor! I'll be going to your first open house and pooping in your closet.