Saturday's Adventure

So, I wrote a contract last week.

This 1916 property was touted as a home with a "detached guest house." Located in a highly-questionable South Phoenix neighborhood, it was already rented, so as is convention, the contract stated the buyers would have the ability to view the property prior to opening escrow. Which is what we did Saturday afternoon.

By Arizona law, when one is faced with this situation, the tenants are given a two day notice someone will be traipsing through their home. Typically, this will also have the added benefit of notifying the tenant that their home is house is for sale. Normally, with circumstances like these, the selling agent--that would be the agent who represents the owner of the property--would be present because 1) the tenants might have unkind things to say about the home they live in and 2) it is his job. But, this was far from a typical situation.

The home, which is 101 years old, is a mish-mash of rooms, which apparently were added on throughout time when someone had nothing better to do. The family who is renting this place, is using the living room for a master bedroom, because to be fair, it is the largest room in the home for a bed. Both bathrooms were added on, as an afterthought, at one point or another. If someone added a guest house, they must have removed it, because we couldn't find one. And we looked.

On top of all this, the tenant was chatty, and shared with us all of the variables he could see associated with the home. He had lots of opinions about the maintenance, plumbing and insulation. He pointed out the hot water heater is barricaded with plywood and is in a room addition that serves no purpose, but was probably a back patio originally. Maybe. He didn't point out the lack of cleanliness or the fact the AC filter was conspicuously absent and his landlord's two-year-old AC is not going to last much longer if he doesn't get a filter.

While we--did I mention I brought Marty along with me?--were at the property, we were welcomed to the neighborhood with one of Phoenix's finest who made the rounds very slowly, several times. We didn't see him after a while because he might have had to tarry off to find out about the gun-fire that was happening right behind us. Oh, the tenant also pointed out the gang symbols graffiti on the front wall of the home that nobody had bothered to paint over.

In the end, wiser heads prevailed. My client, who wants to be in that neighborhood (that's for another blog) opted against the home because it doesn't have a guest house. And yea, it was the guest house that was the deal breaker.

You Have To

So I talked to Jane's Auntie yesterday to see what was causing her such consternation and causing Jane to pull her hair out. Auntie, tells me she wants to pick the home inspection company. Sorry. The buyer picks their home inspection company.

Auntie then tells me if she can't pick the buyer's home inspection company, then, by golly, she wants to be there to rebut everything the home inspector might say about the home she is selling. At this point, I explained that would be in nobody's best interest, and more to the point, it may get her (and Jane and I) in front of a judge really, really quickly.

All of the sudden I was reminded of my of my sweet four year old nephew. Any time he doesn't want to do something, such as wash his hands, I just hang my head, sadly shake it back and forth, and say with a resigned sigh, as if it were a foregone conclusion and the Universe had already made the decision for him, "Sweetie, you have to." At which point, much to the astonishment of his parents, he will quickly and cheerfully take care of business. That is exactly how I handled Auntie.

In the end, two decisions were made. The first was, after the home inspection, Jane or I would travel over to the home and make sure it was locked tight, to abate Auntie's fear of someone breaking in. That made Auntie happy. The other decision, which I totally forgot to discuss with Auntie, was that nobody would tell her when the home inspection was taking place.

Good Agent; Bad Agent

Jane, who is a new agent in my office, also happens to be a friend of 44 years. Her first client is her aunt. I warned her upfront that family and friends can be the worst clients. Now before I go much further, I have had some wonderful family and friends who were fabulous clients--they may or may not even read this blog, but I am happy to give them access to it, if they cared enough. But early on in my real estate career, when my friends thought they were doing me a favor by hiring me to represent them, I did not have the greatest of luck. Those folks do not read my blog. Since then, I pick and choose which family and friend I will work with. I know better.

Because Jane had the luxury of just having a client to begin with, she heeded my advice the way a child heeds the "be careful" advice when running joyously into Disneyland. I explained to Jane, "Your Aunt was there when you were born. She changed your diaper. She saw your teenage angst. She saw tears and triumphs in your life. She was there when you had your babies and remembers you as a young mother. Heck, she remembers you as if you were 11. She will treat you as such. No matter what." At the time Jane didn't exactly understand. She does now.

You see, Auntie doesn't care what Jane advises in this particular sale. Auntie wants things done Auntie's way. And unfortunately, Auntie's way is going to either get her in front of a judge or have the sale blown all to bits. Or both.

Jane and I were discussing this earlier this week. Jane was lamenting Auntie was about to do something that would put the transaction in harm's way and wouldn't listen to Jane but listens to me. "She wouldn't treat me that way," I agreed. And it is true. I could be a new agent and Jane could be the veteran and it wouldn't matter. Auntie never kissed my cheek when I scuffed my knees. She didn't pick me as her agent because she wanted to "help me out." Essentially, she isn't doing me any favors. Frankly, from what I can see, she isn't doing Jane any favors either.

Because of all of Auntie's shenanigans, I will be calling her today and explaining, no she absolutely cannot be present at the home inspection. Nor can Jane. Nor can I. Then, I will explain that by doing so, she is increasing her liability even after the transaction closes--if it even closes. If she were to inadvertently say, "that AC always worked and chilled the house," and then the AC goes out three days after the buyer moves in, the buyer might assume there was some fraud involved. Even if there wasn't. That's just one example of what can happen. And an innocuous one at that.

To be fair, I have never, ever had a sale go well when the buyer and seller meet. Sometimes the parties get along and everyone is wanting to be happy. Then when one teeny tiny situation happens everyone has their own version of the details. The aftermath is ugly. This is another tid-bit I will say to Auntie when I talk to her.

Speaking of talking to her, I have already done so twice this week. I am now the bad cop. Which is fine. As delightful as Auntie is, I won't be invited to her home for Thanksgiving dinner. Hopefully when all is said and done, Jane will be.

Brain Fog

I am working. I even wrote an offer and helped my friend Jane, a new agent in my office, negotiate an offer. After being partially inactive for so long (I took classes and stayed up with trends, laws and the overall goings-on) and having my own ongoing personal issues this week, I was astonished with the amount of brain fog I had. I am told the brain fog has more to do with the ongoing personal issues and less to do with my competence, but either way, it is a scary place to be when one is writing legal contracts.

My offer took three hours to write. It was a simple offer, which under the right circumstances would have taken less than forty-five minutes. It was a matter of filling in a few boxes and making a couple of phone calls, but for whatever reason, it wasn't simple this time. Plus, I saw a box of Sugar Babies* (which happens to be sitting my office, so hard to miss) and that made me cry all over again. Crying and real estate happen to go together, but not for happy things like writing contracts. In the end I sent the agent an email saying "attached is the offer," but did not attach the offer. Fortunately, he let me know and I sent it to him again. And, sadly again.

Jane, an agent of four months, is probably now rethinking this vocation. She has reason to. Her very first transaction isn't going as swimmingly as they assured her it would in real estate school. It is her sale but she is asking for help. I am forgetting basic things she has told me and having to look them up before I can advise. I ended up sending the other agent involved in the sale the wrong forms, which did nothing for Jane's credibility. Moreover, when the agent didn't get her way (she isn't going to) and let us all know how disappointed she is, I wrote a very polite response to this person but didn't send it for fear we would all be in front of a judge. Nothing like sleeping on a reply to make sure all bases are covered and a transaction can be salvaged.

Finally, this week I lost a rental client. He called and texted me on a couple of days where I was preoccupied with my own drama and wasn't checking my phone or calendar. By the time I realized he was gone, it was too late. I am ok with this because 1) he wanted to shop for a rental home instead of pick one out because why see three viable homes that are available when there is an entire metro Phoenix area to explore?, 2) he was a bit of a flake (as am I so, I guess I shouldn't judge right now) and I am under the impression he will be homeless because of his poor planning skills and three 3) there is nothing much to rent right now. But it doesn't change the fact I lost him because I wasn't doing my job.

In truth, I am not lacking confidence. I totally confident my synapses aren't firing right. And that is what is affecting my ability to think straight. I am told the brain fog is a normal part of the healing process. In any case, I am not used to brain fog or life this way.




*Sugar Babies were Reader Number Two's favorite candy. They were given out at the memorial. I don't particularly like them, but I put them in the office because Buckaroo was bound and determined to eat every box we received. So, I wanted one to look at. For now. 

Loving Bonds

It was a beautiful memorial. I was told by those with any resounding authority on the subject I was "her daughter," which I knew, but it was wonderful to hear. Mr. Reader Number Two held me tight, telling me how much she loved me. How much he does love me. How much I was a part of her life--and am still a part of his life. A picture of her and me was displayed on her memory board, and it didn't have to be. Tears flowed from those in the room and stories were told. I didn't tell mine, because four other people told similar ones.

My youngest brother was in attendance. So was my father. So was my father's roommate who is, I guess, family in a way, as my father treats her like a daughter and the two of them would be totally lost without each other. It would have been strange and the room would have felt empty if they hadn't shown up.

I have a blood mother. She and I have a relationship that will never be defined as strongly as Reader Number Two and me. I have come to terms with this. I am at peace because there is no reason not to be. It doesn't change my friendship with Reader Number Two nor cheapen my relationship with my blood mother.

"Family" sometimes can be a weird hodge-podge word for a loving community. Two of my long-time friends (I'm talking 44 years, long-time) dote on my children like aunties should. One is teaching Polly to drive a manual transmission. The other called today to specifically ask her if she wanted to see Matchbox 20. She didn't ask me to go! One of my dearest and closest friends has two sons who are, "nephews by heart" or whatever you call someone who isn't related by blood and you would go to the ends of the earth for if they called at 2 a.m. and needed something--because I would. For that matter, my brother is married to a lovely woman (actually both brothers are) who has two children who aren't his. Nobody thinks twice about their relation because loving bonds are infinite.

Unworthy

We found out our credit card application was rejected today. This time last year I had an 800 credit score. I know, I know, it is just a number. 

The reason for the credit card, other than rebuilding our credit, was because I was going to go to northern Michigan in September. Reader Number Two visited every year and I was going to go help around the lakefront cottage and make myself generally useful. The credit card was to secure a car rental because the closest airport of any substance is three and a half hours south of their home. So, I guess we don't need the card anymore. 

To be fair, even if we had qualified for anything, we weren't into credit cards anyway. That was never our issue when our financial life collapsed. Oh well. Perhaps someday, but not today. 

Verified: The Plumber Doesn't Charge More for Weekends

One of the more frustrating aspects of clawing one's way past financial ruin is that once something important breaks--and you know how persnickety Murphy happens to be--it becomes a major ordeal. Two weeks ago, it was the car. Today my ceiling decided to rain. Hopefully I caught it in time so that it doesn't become a ceiling collapsing on top of the rest of the disaster. A ceiling collapsing then becomes a second financial issue.

Last time this occurred, it was a holiday weekend and Marty refused to let me call a plumber because they "charge more." So our ceiling collapsed. This is what last time looked like.

Last Time

This time, with experience on my side, I called the plumber. After all, whether I do it today or Tuesday, it needs to be done. I simply can't have a waterfall in my bathroom. Hopefully it won't be too pricey. Our emergency fund is in its infancy, and it looks like it just took a big hit. 

Tears

Today has been, for a lack of a better phrase, like falling into the rabbit hole. Between emotional heartache and uncontrollable sobbing, I have stared into space and played stupid little computer games. There has been a slight bit of normal. I went grocery shopping. And I was asked to negotiate a peace treaty between an 18 year old girl I know and her mother. Baseball is on later. I don't even care.

The crying jags are simply exhausting. And yet, I can't sleep. I finally ate at 3 p.m., which appeared to be the cure for the constant pounding headache that was competing for attention with the heartache. Ollie hasn't left my side all day, which is sweet of him, but the kids need to give their dog a bath. Crying, at least for me, is good for the sinuses.

Grief is not linear. There is some relief in knowing this level of unfathomable and explicitly heinous sorrow will subside. Apparently it isn't going to happen soon enough. Tomorrow is what would have been Reader Number Two's 75th birthday. I am guessing the tears aren't going to stop tomorrow either.

The Quilt

Buckaroo's Quilt

My Reader Number Two closed her eyes for the last time yesterday at 6:00 p.m. My heart is aching in a way I never thought my heart would ache. And that isn't over-dramatic. I have managed to live almost 50 years before I lost someone I loved so much.

Last night, when the news came, I remember being in a surreal state. Buckaroo and I were the only ones home. I was upstairs. He was down. I choked on my tears, consumed with emotional pain. And then, in a moment of clarity I grabbed my empty cup and walked it to the kitchen. On my way, I saw 237 things that reminded me of Reader Number Two and the uncontrollable weeping started all over again.

Buckaroo, who is only 14, was playing his video game. I remember him telling someone online, "Mate, I am going to be gone a bit. No dude. Deal with it." Because, is a big deal to be in an online battle and then abandon your team. But he did.

Confused as to what to do to help his mother, he brought me water. I saw his sweet and concerned face and lost it all over again. You see, Reader Number Two was in the delivery room with me when Buckaroo was born. That memory came flashing back, but I couldn't talk to explain it to him.

Somehow he wrangled me upstairs and gave me a pillow. A moment later he was back with an apple blossom--a dessert I introduced to Reader Number Two and was planning on bringing her next week when she felt a bit better. Of course, Buck's sweet gesture was lost on my grief, but I thanked him anyway. Profusely.

Completely unsure as to help his mom, finally, Buckaroo brought me his quilt and his own pillow. He sat with me and played with my hair as I stared into space. "You can go back to your game, Sweetie." I said. "I will be ok. Thanks for your help."

He shook his head. "No. You are more important," he stated.

And though I wanted my day to be so different and I wish I could go back in time just so Reader Number Two would be alive and see this story. She would have been touched by his loving gestures. Just like I am.

A Purposeful Challenge

Many things happened Sunday afternoon. My day started out wonderfully and took a nose-dive around 7:30 p.m. I am not ready to write about the nose-dive, nor do I wish to burden all'y'all, but if you are the prayerful type, a couple of chats with the Almighty for a special intention would be heartily appreciated.

But back to one of the good parts about Sunday. I had a lovely dinner Sunday with my long-time friend, who challenged me to figure out what I want to do with my life. More specifically where do I see myself in Dec. 2018? I would love to take her to task with this, but I did the same to her a couple of weeks ago. So, my turn.

The reason this came up is because I am feeling slightly lost. "Free time" is something everyone else had. Now I walk around aimlessly, looking for a way to fill the gaps between one task and the other. I don't know how to productively do that. Nor have I come up with a real answer to "what do I want to do for the rest of my life?"

The truth is, I don't know. I know what I want. I want a world where cancer isn't a thing, people can politely agree to disagree on politics and religion and carbs won't kill you. I want a world where I don't have to worry if my teenagers choose to join the military in a few years they will be in harm's way. That's what I want for everyone else.

What I want specifically for myself. I don't know. I haven't given myself the luxury of thinking about it for a long time. That isn't a complaint. When one is raising kids, they come first. When one is doing 15 other things at the same time, "the future" is a nebulous concept. For that matter, when one is doing 15 other things at the same time and living in crisis mode, "the future" is not even on the radar.

In all fairness, I have had a year to get used to the idea there is a future without the accidental business. Not to make excuses, but this past year feels more like a road to emotional recovery. Not having my phone ring at odd hours and not having 37 crisis emails a day has been a treat. But all that stuff is now. I know if I am not careful, there won't be a self-created future, but a rambling along day-to-day one where I am searching for purpose. I have a choice. This friend has challenged me to figure something out.

I have no idea where to begin.

The Broken Gem

I am not whining. I am humbled. Very humbled. Humbled and, at the moment, heat exhausted. Our extra car--a car we are grateful to have and is in great shape for the age--went down twice this week. I suspect one issue was related to the other. The second time I was 50 miles from home in 118 degree heat. The auto club came 90 minutes later and was willing to tow it 5 miles for free and then would expect me to pay $5 a mile after that. It is hard to argue, much less think, when one is stuck and sweltering in the Saturday afternoon sun.

In the end, cooler heads prevailed. The car went to my brother's home, which is 7 miles from where it broke down. Since then, I hear, my four year old nephew is showing Auntie's car to everyone who comes by. He then tells the story about how he and his daddy rescued me and I bought him a cheese stick--which Aunties do for awesome nephews.

Later this week I will figure out a way to get it to a mechanic where they will tell me it is the ignition switch--my most positive guess--or the alternator--what I don't want to hear. The car will then be up and running, though the logistics of how to pick it up in North Phoenix haven't been ironed out just yet. Fortunately I have family and friends who love me enough to help me out, or at least give me bus fare.

Marty and I were talking about getting a "new" car, but the fact is, until we are done with this phase in our lives, it isn't an option. I am ok with that, Marty, a gadget junkie, is struggling a bit more. What I find humbling, he doesn't.

But please understand, I am not whining. I am very grateful to have this car--so is Marty. Marty is afraid of cars breaking. For as long as I have known him he has had this concern. I am not. Cars can be fixed. So, until the AC gives out, this car is a gem.

Rebuilding

We applied for a credit card today. It isn't that Marty and I want a credit card--we have never been big on them anyway--it is that we want to establish credit again. It also would be nice to have an option if I want to rent a car some time, which historically has been an issue for us with a debit card.

The lovely credit union employee asked us what kind of credit card we wanted: a zero interest or one that gives points. "Credit cards have features?" I innocently asked the teller. Who knew?! Well, I am sure lots of people knew. This is a different world to us now.

Honest to Pete, when the teller asked, Marty and I looked at each other, completely perplexed. Frankly, we just wanted to see if we could be approved for one at all. Even one with a $200 credit limit would be fine. We won't max it out anyway. It turns out we have to wait seven to ten business days to find out if this is even a possibility.

Happy Birthday Chris

So Chris called me. He wants a rental home. AND he came highly recommended from some one I like. Though I have carefully explained to Chris this is not a market to be picky, he doesn't believe me. Why should he? All of his friends and Zillow have told him getting a rental home is just like getting an apartment.

Chris and I went out on Saturday. He saw a perfectly charming place. But no, looking for a rental home is a shopping experience. Possibly in 2008, but not now. Looking for a rental home in 2017 is more like a Venezuelan grocery grab.  It is sad, actually. I honestly don't think I would want to be pressured into putting an application in on the first available home I found either.

Anyway, Chris passed on the perfectly charming place (it really was). He asked if we could go out on Monday. I agreed, why not. He needs to find something and a holiday weekend might change his luck if 237 other people aren't fighting for the same home.

Sunday night Chris sent me a text. Guess what? Chris forgot his birthday was July 3. He needed to cancel and he would "get back to me." Ok?

Chris did say something about perhaps we could go look Saturday. I don't believe him. I do believe he has found a place to live and just didn't want to tell me. That is actually good news. If he found a place more perfectly charming than the one I showed him and he stands a chance, he should have a birthday every week.

The Renters from Iowa

Today I got an e-mail from Katy. She lives in Iowa, but she and Mr. Katy are moving to Phoenix this coming August. Could I help her find a rental home? On the surface, Katy's request seems so innocuous--even though I can't imagine why someone would want to move here in August. But the truth is, I don't know if I can help her. There are so, so many variables that go along with this request.

So, I prodded. Where did Katy want to live? I wasn't driving to New River for a $75 commission. Did Mr. and Mrs. Katy have pets? Credit issues? Felons? And my list went on.

Katy replied promptly, telling me she and her husband were in their early 20s. Both her and Mr. Katy were planning on putting all of their worldly goods in a trailer and just heading South because it sounded like a fabulous adventure. And by the way, they do have three rather large ("but they are like part of the family and such sweethearts") dogs. So, they wanted a home for what appears to be $500 under market, they need a home with a fence (I guess fences are exotic in North Dakota) because they are afraid their dogs will run. And the clincher: they want to live in Scottsdale because it sounds like a "fun place."

The one major question I didn't ask--and why I didn't is beyond me--is how were Katy and Mr. Katy planning on paying for their rental? Though I didn't ask, Katy did volunteer this. Neither have a job lined up. They would cross that bridge when they came to it.

Now that's a bit of a problem, because you see, landlords tend to be persnickety about unemployed people wanting to rent from them. A landlord also might not appreciate Katy's sense of adventure and mistake it as irresponsibility. Not everyone remembers what it is like to be young and optimistic. Especially landlords with mortgages.

Katy was undeterred. She asked what options she might have to get over this hurdle. I suggested 1) getting a job, 2) finding an apartment  (though good luck, because, see #1) or 3) finding a co-signer. When Katy replied back "what is a co-signer?" I decided she wasn't ready for my help. Nor was I ready to invest a lot of time into someone who thought employment was optional.

Renters Who Rock

All this chit-chat lately about tenants brings me to this story. I was referred to a nice couple who moved here without investigating how difficult the market happens to be right now. They had been here two weeks and were having trouble getting anyone to help them (they were using Zillow instead of an agent. Zillow has outdated data, just saying).

These lovely folks needed a place to live asap. They understood the market was tight. They were willing to make a wish list and then modify if necessary. Their credit was good. They had no evictions. They had no criminal background. Unfortunately, they did have a snake. (The husband confided in me he hates the snake, but it came with the wife.)

We went looking on two occasions. We saw everything for rent (all seven homes) in a 30 mile radius. They put in two applications on homes that matched most of their criteria and were approved for one property. The other home had several applicants and I suspect the owner had an issue with Fluffy.

Though they had planning skills I don't appreciate, these folks were nice and fun to be around. I enjoyed showing them homes and working with them. And if they didn't have a snake, I might even be willing to visit if they were to invite me over.