For Sale: 3-bedroom house. Close to great schools and racists!

Last year I wrote about my home-selling heartbreak. The house where I formed into being was going on the market. I found it painful to say goodbye to the tree that was planted on the day I was born and the street I can feel with my eyes closed in the backseat of my mom’s car. Selling that house felt like giving up my childhood. As an only child, it’s that house that will share my memories as I get older. Nobody else knows about my hiding spots and the treasures I have thrown dropped down the heating vents (Those were only child experiments. I also was positive there was buried treasure in the couch cushions so I cut them open and sewed them back again, thinking my mom would never notice. She did.)

 Saying goodbye to that house would be like saying goodbye to a parent, a grandma, a best friend, a leg. Still, my mom wanted to retire, hang out with other hip senior citizens, and maybe drive a golf cart in Arizona. I couldn’t blame her. Golf carts are pretty zippy.

We met with a real estate agent, and as fast as a Rascal scooter, we had a fake bed in the spare room and a ‘For Sale’ sign in the yard. I shed a few tears. I was officially bidding adieu to my childhood home. Heart. Breaking.

And then I went to a bar down the street from that house and heard a few guys use the N word and light firecrackers inside. Then another told me how sorry he was for me because I wasn’t fully Italian. That’s my town, a Midwest Jersey Shore. (note: if you’re in the Chicagoland area and looking for a tanning bed, please visit Addison IL. We also have a bowling alley and shootings!).

The encounter with the judgey Italian made me feel slightly better about leaving my town for good. Then with each open house, I felt more and more closure. I could always come back and revisit my nooks, my heating vent treasures, the window where the birds make their yearly nest, and the old treehouse I made out of tires and plywood.

You know that financial/mortgage/lending crisis that seemed to affect everyone? I heard about it. I’ll admit that it hadn’t affected me much. I live on Venice Beach, right in the center of a touristy commercial hub. There are plenty of jobs in LA. I don’t own a home to lose. This lending crisis thing did not seem like a big deal. That sounds pretty ignorant, but don’t worry: there is some learning on the horizon.

A few years ago, our house was worth about $250,000 (Hey, Mom! I’m writing about our personal finances! You look sleepy. You should go now.). That was before the guy on our street killed his mother and a hooker (long story) and the dad two streets away killed his wife and kids on Thanksgiving (not really a long story). Not that those things ruin property values, but maybe they do ruin property values. They definitely make me proud to be from Addison, IL, home of weird murders (Remind me to tell you about the guy who killed a woman but cut open her belly to steal her unborn kid.).

Our real estate agent wouldn’t put our house on the market for anything more than $180,000. My mom almost had a heart attack, but we went with it. Anything to get closer to that golf cart.

During my last visit, as I took a walk around our neighborhood and counted the plastic ducks dressed in clothing (there is a surprising plethora), I noticed several vacant, boarded-up houses. There is a surprising plethora. People have left our neighborhood. Fled. Some streets look scary and war-trodden.

Those people probably got ARM loans and couldn’t pay. They should have invested in clothing for ducks, but they didn’t. They lost their homes. Those homes are on sale by the banks. Those homes are going for $60,000. Who would pay full-price for our house when they could get one for the price of a BMW?

After six months on the market, we took our house off. No more nice weather on the horizon for my mom. Instead of a golf cart, she’ll have to rider her Pontiac through a town where people feel bad for her ethnicity (She’s ONLY half Italian! Gasp!).

I was originally sad to say goodbye, but now my heart beats even more angst. My mom moved to the suburbs years ago so I could have a ‘normal’ childhood (if spending your childhood in tanning beds is normal). I want her to go have her zippy life full of senior activities in the sun.

Now that it’s no longer a possibility, I am absolutely okay with never seeing my tree again. Bye.

I recently heard a piece on the radio about how the mortgage crisis is the fault of all the house-flippers because they got shitty loans thinking they’d resell quickly. It won’t help to blame any group or the government or the banks. I want to, but it won’t help. Instead, I will say that this economy does affect everyone! And it stinks. And my mom deserves her golf cart!

If you know of anyone who would love to pay full price for a house in an area where weird murders are abundant and there are parks and racists, please give me a call. I can tell you it will be worth it. There are great schools in the area. There is a movie theater. There is one bar. And it’s just a 20-minute drive into Chicago. Plus, there is a tree here that shares my birthday. And…  treasures await you in the heating vents (at least one Barbie.). Call while supplies last!