Wrap It Up, I'll Take It!

Es·crow: eskrō/noun -- a bond, deed, or other document kept in the custody of a third party, taking effect only when a specified condition has been fulfilled.

In a prior life I worked in the legal field. In fact, I've done plenty of real estate law. However, perhaps I should have studied my Black's Law Dictionary . . . especially because the above definition of escrow has little to do with the use of escrow in American English. It's difficult to define escrow; and lucky us, we're in escrow in two countries. 

I’m a Portlandia addict . . . and there’s a House For Sale episode that involves a classic Portlandia explanation. Fred & Carrie meet the S-Crow, which is an animated crow who explains the term escrow. I find my own escrow explanation more simple and far more honest: escrow is real property limbo. It's kind of like real property purgatory. Purgatory: a place or state of suffering inhabited by the souls of sinners [be they buyers or sellers] who are expiating their sins [read: finances] before going to heaven. Now doesn't that better explain escrow? Didn't need Black's dictionary after all. Goes to show you.


Most anywhere in the U.S. these days, a seller can expect multiple offers, some over asking price, and some with those genuinely endearing letters from the buyers. In the Portlandia episode, the sellers receive so many buyer-letters with offers that they spin in a circle and blindly point to a letter (imagine Spin The Bottle – it’s totally random). Our process was a bit more simple.

Our buyer (the husband) told me his name as I walked-in ahead of schedule at the end of the buyer’s showing time. It was love at first sight. I called Rusty saying, I know who is going to buy our home . . . who needs to own our home. Exclamation mark. We’ll use buyers "Don and Betty," for anonymity. So Don & Betty make an offer within our expected range . . .and as I told buyer Don,“money isn’t everything, but it counts for a lot . . . however, equally important is the perfect family to live in our home.”  We found the perfect family to buy our Texas home, and we're now in escrow, with a closing date of 18 May. Costa Rica, here we come. This while we're still officially in escrow on the construction contract at Mil Colinas and in escrow for the purchase of a new Land Cruiser. Used, but new for us. Yippee. Is that three escrow accounts?

Packing continues. Packing never ends. Of course, the kitchen is the final room to be packed because, after all, one needs plates and caffeine cups until moving day. However, there's a large quantity of food in the pantry that can be packed. No, of course we're not attempting to pack a bunch of food. But face it, where are we going to find reasonably-priced specialty vinegars in Samara? On the other hand, when was the last time that I used that Loganberry vinegar?

Go to your panty. I bet you'll find at least one small can that has recently expired. I found two or three expired items. Guess I don't use as much cranberry sauce as planned. Then it occurred to me: what if those fried lemon and peach pies are about to expire? What if I've missed the best by date on a fried lemon pie? My heart skipped a beat. Luckily, I was just in time for the last lemon fried pie. Goes to show you: it was pure luck that I checked. Lemon pie is precious. And my swimsuit figure certainly needed one more fried pie. That's sarcasm, for the newly-initiated.

And speaking of packing, here's our Jill, sitting in a box of foam peanuts, ready to travel. Bad news, Jill-the-Pill . . . no playing in peanuts. You'll ride on the flight with mommy -- business class, of course. 

So three pallets already are sitting in a Miami warehouse, awaiting the ship that will take them to Limon. Doesn't it sound so romantic? Our pallets traveling the high seas. And tonight we spoke with our shipping contact, Michael, who was sipping mango margaritas to celebrate Cinco De Mayo, which I thought was a Mexican holiday . . . but hey, any excuse for a party. Point being, with darling Michael on speaker phone within earshot of Rusty, Michael touted the benefits of bringing every boy-toy/tool imaginable, versus buying 'em in Costa Rica. Really, Michael? As if Rusty needed confirmation to bring an air compressor, every tool known to man (or woman), and possibly even a welder. A welder??! Really?

OH! I met a neighbor! I met a neighbor over the Internet. She mentioned something about a maximum of five-minutes of housework in Montaña Samara. This must be a Samara law . . . one which I happily embrace . . . law-abiding citizen that I am. So we'll conclude this post with my lazy observation of Rusty as he shrink-wraps the fourth pallet . . . fourth of six that will ultimately travel the high seas to Mil Colinas. Me? I'm shirking all responsibility at this stage. My French copper pots are already in Miami. My 1000TC linens are there, too, along with my German knives, new Tempur-Pedics, and Jill-the-Pill's specialty chow. My work here is complete. In my mind, I'm already gone.  This calls for a cocktail . . . and make it a double. Hey, it's Cinco de Mayo . . . somewhere. So lo que hay!