Oh, the arcane rituals of homebuying!

The seller's agent insisted on a particular escrow company. I didn't know why Josef was uneasy about it until the escrow officer called me saying she couldn't find records they'd received my $15,000 earnest money. I had to fax, email, and finally print out my bank records and drive there to present her with my bank's photo of the cashed check with their cancellation mark. Maybe they should switch to my bank; she said theirs couldn't provide confirmation of the transaction for ten days.

On the heels of that snafu, the escrow company couldn't get me the CC&Rs or Homeowners Association rules to me before the initial 17-day "commit or quit" deadline. Those were the seller's responsibility, as spelled out in our purchase agreement (and state law), yet Monica's agent sent me a "notice to perform" before the deadline, while I was waiting on her to perform. So I had to send a "notice to perform" back at them. Finally, I drove to the escrow company again to pick up the CC&Rs and HOAs they weren't sending me.

Next, Josef received reams of forms completely out of order: the "commit or quit" paperwork. One of the releases I had to sign was a confirmation that I'd seen the pest report. Josef called them to remind them I hadn't gotten it yet.

My plan to go into this sale well-informed about what I was buying seemed to be hitting a few snags.

I won't narrate every twist and turn of my Adventures in Escrow, but two other items that Monica failed to disclose were a cracked drywall (painted over) and the presence of a second resident, her chain-smoking boyfriend. Her agent forwarded an effusive email saying Monica was FURIOUS with him, that her boyfriend was NEVER allowed to smoke inside the house! Yeah, right. Now, about that slab repair..?

I finally got the repairs records Monica had promised in our purchase agreement by going around her to the Homeowners Association, lifted that contingency and wired my money to escrow.

What? I actually stuck to my part of the contract, despite her failing to meet hers? Evidently Monica hadn't planned for this contingency! Once my money was locked up in escrow, the escrow officer called saying Monica wasn't going to be able to close.

She was $30,000 short. They'd known this might happen two weeks before, but waited until my money was stuck in escrow to say anything.

Now, I'd known Monica was in some financial trouble: I'd added up her debts disclosed by the preliminary title report and calculated she'd only have a little profit left after the sale -- not great, but at least I'd be saving her from foreclosure! I'd forgotten to factor in her closing costs (first-time homebuyer, remember?)

So she defaulted. Ironic, since I'd had to submit financial statements to her agent proving I would be able to close!

To stop the sale from falling through, the realtors docked their commissions, the banks forgave Monica some of her debts, her grandparents loaned her some money -- my father even loaned her $2400, which she then asked for as a gift -- and we closed four days late.

While haggling over the purchase offer, Monica had asked for three days past close of escrow to move out. I'd agreed, since Josef said that was typical. But she'd said nothing about her chain-smoking boyfriend, and I said he needed to go. It was my house, now, right?

In title only, apparently.

Three days after (postponed) close of escrow, Monica's agent called Josef saying she "wanted to stay." I said sorry, no. She asked to pay rent. I still said no -- I needed to get started with repairs, and taking her as a tenant would open a giant legal can of worms.

Monica kept promising to move out on X day, then moving the date forward. Meanwhile, her agent kept refusing to turn over the keys.

Time to get help from law enforcement. The police said I needed to ask the Orange County Sheriffs to help with eviction, the sheriff's office said trespass was a matter for the police, and I spent my birthday going back and forth between them beating on bureaucracy. Two California attorneys said I'd have to initiate a month-long eviction process as if I were a landlord, giving my "tenant" time to appeal.

Incidentally, my former mentor had passed away on my birthday. That put my homebuying woes in perspective, but the one impacted the other: I wanted to fly back east for the funeral, but I was stuck waiting for Monica.

Finally, I'd had it. I had Josef deliver a letter informing Monica that she was trespassing, and I'd be starting civil proceedings if she wasn't out before my appointment with my attorney the next day.

At last, she and her boyfriend moved out, a day after her latest broken promise. I found myself walking into my new home about the same time as the funeral.

Josef removed the Carl's Jr. bag full of cigarette butts placed at the top of the stairs, but here's a few other glimpses of what greeted me:



The cup on the mantlepiece was from a Vegas Casino, as were many of the soaps and lotions in the basket by the door; others were from pricey hotels all the way to Canada.



Half-eaten food and drinks everywhere, contents of fridge dumped into municipal trash can (raw eggs at bottom), contents of catboxes dumped into recycling trash can.



Nope, no smoking allowed in the house. None at all. (That's a butt in the toilet).

And if I had any last pangs of sympathy for this feckless person who'd burned through her equity and was facing foreclosure, they were quashed when I learned that Monica took all of her cats with her, but left her mother's cat (she'd inherited both condo and cat) behind. The neighbors and I are going to look after the poor beastie, though my cat may have something to say about letting it in the house.