Talk of the Town - Sophisticated Hades October 09 2003

Let the seller beware

I finally figured out why it’s called “real estate.” You think your home is an estate. But come time to move, reality sets in.

“You’re on too steep a hill.”

“It’s stucco. Stucco is passe.”

“To sell your place, bury a statue of St. Joseph in the yard.”

That last one makes as much sense as anything I’ve heard since putting my house on the market. The practice dates to medieval times, when nuns seeking convent lands buried their St. Joseph medals in hopeful escrow. No wonder they switched to Bingo. You don’t need a shovel.

We haven’t planted Old Joe yet, but it’s not for lack of superstition. I just want to do it properly. Wooden statue or porcelain? Right side up or upside down? Front yard or back? In a jar or in the dirt? And what happens if you accidentally run over a saint with the lawn mower?

This being America, there’s a St. Joseph statue website (www.stjosephstatue.com) that offers an overview, saintly below-ground etiquette and, inevitably, actual statues for sale. Not only does the guy clean up on children’s aspirin, he’s cornered the housing market. People in St. Joseph, Mo., should get a discount.

And what’s all the ruckus about stucco? Artificial stucco is bad they say — very bad. Real stucco, which I have, is OK. But isn’t all stucco something you have to make? The last time I checked, stucco was not on the Table of Elements. It’s not like there are any stucco mines.

Meanwhile my real estate agent, a personal friend who was always the gentle soul of courtesy, has morphed into a steel magnolia martinet. Every time I come home, something else has changed at her behest.

We had a quilt hanging on an upstairs wall.

“Take it down, makes the hall look too narrow.”

We had a trunk in the den.

“Get it out. Makes the room look too crowded.”

Move the chair. Switch the potted plant with the bookcase. I can’t always follow the logic (or find the wastebasket) anymore. But if the goal is to give me a hernia, we’re on task. I fully expect to get up one night for a drink of water and return to find the bed moved.

Then came the legal implications of selling my home. Caveat emptor — venerable Latin for “let the buyer beware” — seemed an appropriate, if Darwinian, view of the matter. This is how it’s been for centuries. But we live in a new age of obsessive-compulsive candor.

Hence the “Sellers’ Property Disclosure Statement: Exhibit “___,” a compendium of everything that has been wrong, is wrong, or will someday be wrong with your house. They leave choice of letter blank, but it’s clearly a document Sam Waterston will wave around during a courtroom sequence on “Law and Order.”

The disclosure form has 12 sections, 59 sub-sections and a 75-count “fixtures/items” checklist covering everything from “boat dock” (Avast ye swabs, we’re landlocked!) to “jetted tub.” I picture someone taking a bath at 35,000 feet.

This document is longer than the SAT test I took to get into college. It rivals the International Law of the Sea Treaty for sheer depth and complexity. The weapons of mass destruction paperwork U.N. weapons inspectors wanted Saddam Hussein to fill out was a walk in the oasis by comparison. The latter example is apropos.

Section 9, subsection (a) asks: “Are you aware of any underground tanks or toxic substances on property (structure or soil) such as asbestos, polychlorinated biphenyls (PCBs), urea-formaldehyde, methane gas, radioactive material, radon, benzene or others?”

I don’t know. I got a D in chemistry. But tell you what. If I develop three heads and glow enough to be my own reading lamp, the answer is probably yes.

Despite numbing detail, despite a primal insecurity that should cause home-sellers to be issued blue flannel security blankets, there is an upside to all this, a glorious work of creativity. It’s the one-sheet my realtor wrote to advertise the house. You know, the flyer in that flap-draped box out near the “For Sale” sign.

“Sophisticated Living” it begins. And goes uphill from there.

“Lush, fenced private yard.”

“Exquisite custom bookcases.”

“Foyer with Palladium window above door boasts sidelights and high ceiling.”

It took selling the house to find out I’ve got a window made of Palladium. Now that’s definitely on the Table of Elements.

And the master bath has a double vanity, especially when I’m looking in the mirror.

My reaction to all this? After so many Realtor-generated improvements, after a description of my domicile straight out of Brideshead Revisited, I don’t want to leave. Hey, nobody’s going to cheat me by actually buying this incredible place. Because I’m a sophisticated liver.

A round of benzene for the house.

glen.slattery@creativeloafing.com

Glen Slattery is aglow with pride — aglow with something, anyway — in Alpharetta.