How to Sell Your House Part V: I will terminate the crap out of that

This part of the process is really hard for me to type about.  No, really.  The whole situation was insanely stressful and remembering it is making me all tense and heart palpitation-y.  I'm serious.  I don't know if I can make this even marginally humorous, but I will try.

There comes a point in everyone's life when they think, "My current sitch blows."  Most recently, I had that thought when I finished my bag of gummy bears.  You think I'm lying, but I seriously have a gummy bears problem.  

However, in April of 2013 I had that thought about the fact that weneededafreakinghouse.  Andres and I had seen a house in one of our target neighborhoods on zillow.  I distinctly remember thinking that I didn't like the way it looked so I never mentioned it to Andres. However, in the course time my thoughts arrived at: mycurrentsitchblowsweneedahouse and there we were, in the house, getting all excited about it.  Like, super excited.  Like, ignore that still, small voice in your gut that tells you it's wrong because obviously it has to be right because this is a cute house in a nice neighborhood with everything we want excited.  We all see where this is going.  It's going here:

The night we put an offer on the house, I went to Girls Night (Sean was the Bachelor at the time) and told everyone about the house and how excited we were and they were all like who cares about your stupid house, because:

Noted.
I no longer care about my house either.  At least not for the next 2 hours.  Maybe longer, depending upon whether or not I create a fantasy life in my head.
Moving right along...
Around 11:00 at night, our agent called to do the numbers.  Here is a script of our exact conversation:
Agent:  Can you do math?
Heather:  No, but Andres has a calculator.
Agent:  Tell him to divide xxxxxx by xxxx.
Andres divides the numbers.  The result is clearly very very wrong.
Heather:  Something is wrong.
Agent:  hehehe.
Heather:lol lol lol lol
Agent:  hahahahaha
Heather:  hehehehehe
Agent:  giggle giggle giggle
Andres:  What is wrong with the two of you?
Agent:  hahahaha!
Heather:  hehe lol lol

I am not even joking.  I don't know how we solidified our offer, but we did.  Not that it mattered.  It wasn't accepted and thus began the most irritating, drawn out, back and forth, ridiculousness ever.  Yes, ever.

TeamFrowow:  We will give you 100 dollars for this house.
Owners:  But our house is worth 200 dollars!  We will counter at $199.99!
TeamFrowow: Ok, 150 dollars.
Owners:  Mwahahaha!  No!  $199.98!

Ugh.  It was terrible.  It went back and forth like that about four times.

We got the house.

And I got the most horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach.

About two days later I called our agent crying, and I felt so terrible.  All Andres's hopes, all her work, and here I am being a baby.  I felt horrible.  She was really nice the whole time and to her credit, did not choke me out of frustration with her hands.  She only pretended to in her head.

We went back to the house one last time before I made the final decision to terminate, and I should really eat the words I typed about the yellow house and Agent Czar because the outside of the house looked a leeeeetle like this:

But I saw it as this:

Let me tell you, a successful real estate career depends on being a chameleon and adjusting your attitude and personality to that of your clients (um, success probably has more to do with marketing, but let's pretend that what i just typed is a documented fact).  The reason I say this is because the house in question had a brick and vinyl exterior.  I said, "This house is so ugly.  Are you brick or are you vinyl?  Make up your mind." And our agent, without skipping a beat, said, "Fair question."  Are you kidding me?  She totally acted like I had made a valid point.  And actually had ME believing I had just made a valid point.  So, I ask you is it:
a.  chameleon-ness? 
or 
b.  my crazy making her crazy
Let's hope for a.
Another problem with the house was the shed in the backyard.  It looked like this:

To me it looked like a shack and I took to calling it "The Meth Lab."

Note:  It was not a meth lab.  It was a work area with lumber and tools and such.

The kicker was the current renters were dog-owning smokers.  One good sniff of the carpet on my hands and knees and three strikes, you're out.
It was such a relief to sign the termination papers.  I cried happy tears and learned to always trust your gut.  A lesson that, yes, I had indeed learned several times before.  

Houses are like men.  This house was the great guy with no real, legitimate flaws except for that one thing you just can't put your finger on and you just KNOW he's not "the one."  But you're in a relationship anyways, and because he's a nice guy, you become serious and then BAM! you're engaged but that little voice deep down never goes away and now you are just in a pickle and a heartbreak and an ughhh, this just suuuuuuuuucks.  But in the end, you dodged a bullet and the house/guy missed out on the greatest thing that could have ever happened to it.  This house was that guy.  Poor house.  Lucky us.