Where Are My Glasses? [Part I]

I don't usually do this sort of thing. I'm not one of those people. Really. But this is starting to become a pattern – maybe even a compulsion. Dare I say, this is my personal crusade.

The story begins three years ago. My wife and I bought a condo just north of the city line where the grass is greener, children are smarter and property taxes a third lower. It was a fixer-upper we slightly overpaid for. But, hey, The Money Pit is like the funniest movie ever and wouldn’t it be fun to live like that?

Our realtor was an older gentleman with liver spots and an affinity for polyester button-down shirts. He had surprisingly poor social skills for a salesman, which is perhaps why we were drawn to him. He took us on walk-throughs of the property before we bought it, pointing out modern amenities like a self-cleaning oven and the instant-hot water spigot. Sure, we noticed the mildewed furniture and dated decor. But there was nothing we couldn’t fix with a combustible mixture of elbow grease and midnight oil.

The previous resident had died and her daughter was selling the place. According to the information we gleaned from the daughter and the realtor, it appeared she did not die in the apartment. Some law supposedly requires the owner to disclose whether or not someone died in the property. But I guess that all depends on what your definition of "died" is. We had no choice but to accept the facts as sufficient and move ahead. (Quiet, Mrs. Sapperstein, I'm getting to that part!)

We jumped in feet first and made our offer on the condo. It was accepted. The daughter explained she didn’t have much need for her mother’s furniture and asked if there was anything in the unit we wanted to keep. My wife and I discussed what would go and what would stay. It was quickly apparent that there was only one thing we liked. A set of bookshelves that fit neatly in the den, perfectly situated on the short wall of the room.

At closing, after signing my name 87 times, and initialing 103 clauses, the deal was done. The sale was approved. The title was transferred. And my left kidney was now the property of the Tennessee Valley Authority. After several handshakes and some awkward small-talk, the daughter asked if we had decided to keep any of the furniture.

Politely we passed on the lime-green velvet armchair and the Johnny Unitas commemorative spoon set. She gave us a disappointed nod. In a momentary fit of guilt, I commented on how nice those bookshelves were. She suggested we buy them and I suddenly found myself writing a check – for $200. She threw in a deteriorating sofa, too, that didn’t even match the room. But I wasn’t going to argue with a woman who had just lost her mother. However, considering the fact that leaving the bookshelves and the sofa in the apartment probably saved her money by not having to move them, paying $200 for them was probably a mistake. But that was only the beginning.

To be continued...