Since I was a child, I’ve been obsessed with fireworks. Not “oh how lovely, darling” obsessed — unhinged obsessed. My dad took me every single year, and I was always the child in the front row, mouth open, completely feral. When I moved to Vail, nothing changed.
Every Fourth of July I’m out there at the Avon fireworks, elbowing retired dentists off their lawn chairs, dragging my blanket through three zip codes to get close enough that the boom physically rearranges my internal organs. This is who I am. I have no regrets.
Turns out, fireworks and real estate are basically the same thing. Both snap, both crackle, both pop — and both will absolutely take your eyebrows off if the wrong person’s in charge.
Snap is the clean, fast offer — no drama, no crying, no buyer who “just needs one more week to think about it” for the fourteenth week in a row. That’s me pricing your home off the actual market, not whatever number Zillow’s sleep-deprived algorithm hallucinated at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday.
Crackle is the inspection — where deals go to meet their maker. “Minor electrical concerns.” “Evidence of past moisture.” And the crown jewel of all inspection findings: “mice residency, unconfirmed.” Which mean yes, there’s absolutely mice. He has opinions about the attic. He’s not leaving.
Most agents hand you that report and are suddenly very busy washing their car, or having cocktails at Chasing Rabbits. I walk my sellers through every crackle before we list, so nobody’s discovering mid-closing that they accidentally purchased a mouse timeshare.
Pop is the closing. This is where deals die quiet, sad deaths — appraisal gaps, financing implosions, a buyer’s agent who has apparently never encountered a contract before in his professional life and seems genuinely surprised by the whole thing.
I watch every single fuse from listing to closing so when that cork finally flies, it’s champagne — not a crime scene.
Look, anybody can lease a Tesla for the driveway, throw a wreath on the door, and call it “staged.” That’s a sparkler. I run the full finale.
This Fourth of July, enjoy the fireworks from a safe and reasonable distance — unlike me. And if you’re buying or selling, call someone who’s been obsessively planning the perfect show their entire life.
That would be me. Obviously.