The Writing Is On The Cabinet Doors

I've owned two houses, both of which were previously owned by old women. Maybe I only like the "old-lady-house" vibe, although actually, since I chose one house sight-unseen, it's possible that real estate agents just nudge me towards those houses.

Anyhow, both houses had a bunch of writing on the inside of the cabinet doors in the kitchen. In Baton Rouge it was an scrawl of people's names and phone numbers, with the handwriting getting progressively shakier.

Here in Woodland I get:


and



I didn't even know Toyota was selling cars in the US in 1971.

My house-buying experience in Baton Rouge is a small example of how Louisiana is just a little different from more normal places.

First off, I drove there in a rented minivan with seven cats, a dog, and three birds that quickly associated rest stops with french fries and thus started screaming (loudly) every time the speed dropped to less than 65 mph. In the middle of summer. By myself. I spent the last two days of the three day drive trying to get in touch with my real estate agent who 1) knew when I was supposed to arrive, and 2) was supposed to arrange for me to sign the papers the day I got there so I had somewhere to put all of the animals since leaving them in the car in 100 F heat wasn't an option.

Naturally my real estate agent called me back at 9am an hour before I got to Baton Rouge and told me she was in New Orleans, but she would be back later that evening. So I found my new house and sat in the minivan all day until she finally showed up. That's when I found out that I wasn't going to be signing any papers because the house was owned by the estate of the (deceased) previous owner, and they hadn't gotten all the heirs to sign off yet. However, they'd agreed to let me stay in the house until the papers were signed. (I got the impression this was supposed to happen in the next few days.) Also, they would really appreciate it if I would allow the medical supply company to have access to all of the rented equipment that was still sitting in the house. (After a week of the medical supply company making appointments to come get the stuff and not showing up, I finally moved it all outside and told them they might want to pick it up before someone took it.)

I kept calling my agent once a week to find out what the status was and she kept saying they were waiting. I lived in that house for over two months before I ever signed any papers. If they'd dragged it out another ten months it would have been the best financial decision I'd ever made...

Anyhow, the heirs finally did sign off on everything, so on signing day I dashed out of the hospital and went to my agent's office. The seller (one of the family members) and her agent had gone to school together and were old friends. In fact, they were such good friends that they'd gone out to lunch together earlier, and were halfway between tipsy and flat-out drunk during the meeting. We kept having to stop turning pages to the next signing point so they could laugh about things. In fact, nobody but me seemed to be concerned about how long it was taking, but I guess I was the only one with an afternoon appointment schedule.

Anyhow, everything was eventually signed and I left quickly because I was late and also because that meant the seller and her agent wouldn't be on the road with me.

When I left ten months later, I pretty much just tossed the house keys to my agent (the mother of my previous agent since the daughter had since quit the business) and told her to call me when she found a buyer. Then I drove off in the rented minivan for the trip back to California, where at least some people are sane.

I'll leave you with a picture of Ripley sitting in a bag. Because that's his favorite thing to do.