Category Archives: Stories

Selling 100 Kimberly

True to form, there have been and are to come a lot of big changes in my life. To prepare for such, I decided to sell my house, wanting to minimize expenses and increase flexibility. I was motivated by fear that the home selling process could take a while. Standard could be three to six months. Long-term could be a year or more.

100 Kimberly Dr LivingAlmost as soon as I moved into that house in Travelers Rest, I knew it was farther out in the country than I wanted to be. I thrive on activity and wished to be closer to downtown right away. It was a home and property too great for me alone and also not where I wanted to settle down.

But I was there and needed to make the most of it. To avoid the huge immediate headaches of selling, moving and paying any capital gains tax, I had to wait. Besides, it was a lovely place – hardwood floors, wood-burning fireplace, stainless steel appliances, custom open plan, tons of storage, tremendous outdoor spaces, etc.

Once I passed the two-year safety mark, however, for my sanity and purse, I veered toward putting the house on the market. Thinking I should start the potentially drawn out process, I went ahead and listed. A bit to my chagrin, I used a realtor, whose time could be devoted to the sale. I did negotiate a five percent max commission, so that eased the pain of payout. Her company also had the key element of 10-plus online listing tools that I couldn’t readily access.

100 Kimberly Dr KitchenI prepped by cleaning the house from top to bottom, literally using a cobweb brush in every ceiling corner and scrubbing the baseboards. All the rooms had finally been filled with furniture and wall décor. I hired a lawn maintenance man to keep the grass and leaves at bay and improve curb appeal. We enlisted a professional photographer to really capture the beauty of the house. (No doubt photos sell!)

The house went on the market September 22. The first showing was booked about five minutes later, after a buyer who’d been looking for that exact style home in that exact area saw an automatic email notification come through. Okay. Prospects coming at 4 p.m. I must rush home to stage!

That I did – Swiffer floors, fluff pillows, spray room freshener, place flowers, dim ambience lighting. The kicker was the handouts presentation on the bar, complete with a Home Highlights list, personal Letter from the Owner and Duke Energy Efficiency Report. And if they needed another touch, just grab a mint from the treats bowl.

100 Kimberly Dr move prepHardwork paid off. Within 24 hours, we had an offer. And in another day, we had a signed contract. I got my asking price and made a profit after only two years of ownership. The buyers were the cutest little family to fill that home with love, growth and happiness, a young couple with a seven-month-old half-Asian baby girl. Don’t worry about anyone’s savvy here. This was the best outcome that could have been expected. One day on the market – better yet the best outcome ever.

My entire life, I have only heard horror stories about people selling houses. Take a lesson here. If you pick a wonderful home and thoughtfully take care of it, some buyer down the road will recognize that. Kind of crazy though… I thought I had months to plan my next move.

Worst Sugar Crash Ever

Now this is going to be a fun one, the story of the worst sugar crash in my life (at least since I was a kid, where I probably binged on Easter candy and then promptly passed out after a series of destructive acts – running in the house, hitting my little brother, sobbing uncontrollably, etc.).

Last fall us Epsilon Sigma Alpha alumni got together per the blossoming annual tradition at a University of South Carolina football game. This is the girls-only gathering of the season where all the favs/the cool folks/those bringing the ruckus (eh?) relive our history together with a tailgate and observing a feat of athleticism. We love our men (the patent-pending ESA Fan Club), but sometimes we just have to thrive in our sisterhood.

This is a full weekend of events: dinners, drinks, late night gab-fests. But the day my demise came was Saturday, game day, as you likely imagined.

I want to paint this picture clearly.  I took the lead organizing the event this year. I coordinated the schedule, the invites, the parking spot, the food and beverage checklist. I facilitated the pop-up tent and supply of chairs. This was my baby, and after months of planning, I was so happy it was all finally happening.

I was celebrating in proper form, with my beloved ladies on a beautiful sunny day in our old stomping grounds awaiting the hype of Gamecocks potentially kicking ass. Hugs. Drink. Cheer. Drink. Chat. Drink. Photos. Drink. Eat. Drink.

Among the girly vibes, I had a couple Bud Light Straw-Ber-Ritas. And when the countdown began for game time and we had to rush into the stadium and other peeps couldn’t finish their Ritas that quickly, I downed those. Must not alcohol abuse! (Feeling that ole college spirit…)

The game was good. We won. We all had many laughs and uproars over the course. Then came the disembarkment.

We barreled through the herds of football fans on tired tootsies, over the fairgrounds and through the woods. We piled into the SUV. We waited in the car in line for our chance to leave the parking area. We scooched along in heavy traffic for hours.

I was not myself by this point. As the sweetness of those Ritas depleted from my system, I got angry. I went from sugar-high happy-go-lucky lover of life to sugar-low snapping at friends biotch. One minute I have my head leaned against the window pouting, fully out of it. The next minute I’m threatening to escape the vehicle and yell at a cop. It really was like being a child, when you’re overcome with emotions and don’t know how to deal with them.

We finally made it back to the house where we were all sleeping over, and even had a few other girls meet us.

Getting out of the car, someone slammed the door into my head and leg, closing it because she thought everyone was already out. I think I hung my head and laugh-cried here. I was too downtrodden to attempt a McDonald’s run and instead ate leftovers from the refrigerator immediately. I felt sane again but couldn’t keep my eyes open. There I was, a lump on the couch fading in and out of sleep while my friends carried on splendidly.

I knew I had been a total brat, so the next day I groveled a bit. Bless those girls. They understood. After the worst sugar crash ever, I vowed that I would never again drink the straight glucose alcohol combo of Straw-Ber-Rita again. No Lime either, Bud Light!