Thou Shalt Not Ask About Thy Jesus

I am helping Edie and her boyfriend find a home. They are a sweet couple, with three adorable children. Edie is young--very young but she qualifies to buy a home and I am happy to help.

We looked at a couple of them earlier this week. At one home, the owners, who opted to be there, followed Edie, and when he arrived, her boyfriend around, not giving them a moment of privacy to discuss anything. One would think, when wanting to spend a quarter of a million dollars, a private conversation might be warranted. But the owners didn't feel the same way.

The owners also pointed out what was wrong with the property. Mr. Owner even said things like, "that's broken, I will fix it." which is awesome, because if Edie wanted the house, it would have been written into the contract.

Mr. and Mrs. Owner are Mormon. They didn't hide this particular aspect of their lives. If they hadn't told us they were moving back to Utah to be with their 13 grandchildren and near the Temple, we could have figured it out anyway from the Caucasian Jesus proudly displayed on the wall, to every single other LDS trinket also proudly displayed. What Mr. and Mrs. Owner also did was drop not-so-subtle questions about the particular religion Edie practices. Edie, who seemed oblivious to such questions, didn't really share.

Finally, the doorbell rang. Edie said, "That's probably my boyfriend." And at that point, Mrs. Owner, glancing at the three babies and then at the missing wedding ring on Edie's finger got this frowny, disapproving look on her face. She frostily answered the door, allowed Edie's gentleman friend in, and proceeded to ignore the lot of us. Mr. Owner didn't catch on so fast, but after a private word from his wife, he became curt as well.

I would like to have told you, Mr. and Mrs. Owner were sociable from this point forward. But apparently they had a pressing dentist appointment they were in a rush to get to. They could have gone, leaving the home so Edie could look around in peace--as they should have--but because my folks weren't Mormon, it appeared Edie (nor I) could be trusted.

Rejecting someone based on religion is part of the Fair Housing deadly sins. I have seen this as an issue in Southern States before. And sadly, I have also seen this particular issue here, with the same religious types being pissy. Many years ago, a past buyer wasn't LDS and the seller found this out and retracted their agreed terms (the buyer and seller even shook on a deal).

It happens. But I wouldn't want it happening to me or any agent I know. When I was alone in my car, after the showing, I called the agent. I told him the owners really, really need to leave for showings. I also told him about the Mormon conversations. I could tell, even through the phone, he turned pale. This is a serious violation. Fortunately for him, I am moving on. My clients are too, fortunately.

Irony

Tomorrow is questionable neighborhood house search day. It is becoming a weekly thing. We go look for any and all properties in the seediest neighborhood in Phoenix. The folks who will be moving into the home--once we find one or two they like--often ask if the neighborhood is "safe." I guess it depends upon your definition of "safe." Because the same folks (the ones my clients are looking to house) just happen to be felons who are still on probation for serious crimes.

Making People Twitchy

A Lake. In Michigan.

The best way to get busy in a commission-only sales job is to plan some sort of trip. At least that's the theory I live under. Buckaroo and I are going to help out Mr. Reader Number Two in a few weeks. He is currently staying close to the middle knuckle of the index finger of the mitten in Michigan--it's really a place. If you want something more accurate, find Detroit on a map, and then look about 200ish miles North.

As soon as I bought my plane tickets, my phone lit up. I am blessed with work, mind you. But now I am also busy with work. This is nothing new. I have gone places before. I have backup agents who will help me. I will have internet and cell service. I have been in more precarious places than a cottage next to a lake and done business.

Uncle Sunshine lives in a remote island in the Gulf of Mexico. For the first few years I sold real estate, there wasn't a cell tower on the island. Then there was a cell tower, Hurricane Charlie knocked over--which netted the same result. I had to wade out into the ocean, until the waves hit my knees, face due Northeast, hold my right hand over my head and catch every third word my caller was saying.

People all over the world take trips here and there. However, clients get twitchy when they find out I am leaving town for a few days. I understand, I was that twitchy person too one time. But my home closed. And their's will too--even if I am not there.

Outdoor Plumbing

Well let's start with this: Today is Bliz's birthday. Happy Birthday! I hope you have a wonderful day, as you round towards that "big" birthday year coming up.

In other news, I showed homes in questionable neighborhoods today. One home was a flip, that is, it was purchased six months ago for $100,000 less than the asking price it is now. The owner "fixed it up" by painting the interior, ripping out the flooring to expose the cracked concrete. She then put in a cheap sink and potty in the one bathroom, as well as some odd floor tile. In the kitchen she added a refrigerator and jacked up the price.

The other home we looked at was in a more questionable neighborhood. The gas meter was half-missing, which was probably best because the gas hot water heater was locked in a small, outside unventilated enclosure, and was a fire hazard if it worked anyway. The roof was patched together and one of the two support beams of the carport was cracked and barely standing up. Of course, the lockbox was directly under this beam in the carport, so I had to go under it a couple of times. But that's not all! In addition, the owner apparently had an interesting perspective on landscaping or was thinking about adding a second bathroom.

Including the Kitchen Sink

It is official. My buyer is not buying a home where the kitchen has been stolen. I would like to tell you this is a no-brainer, but for whatever reason it wasn't.

My buyer tried her best to explain to me why she wanted to make this sale work. The lender tried his best to convince underwriting that this was a "cheap fix." And, only because it is my job, I tried my best to explain to the selling agent why when one is selling a home where a kitchen has been advertised, there are certain expectations that go along with it. Such as, the price reflects the permanent installation of a kitchen sink, subsequent plumbing, counters and cabinets. And one should expect a significant decrease in price if these items (and probably more) are missing.

Nobody budged, much to my buyer's frustration. So we are back to looking at homes in questionable neighborhoods.

The Hopeful Deal Breaker

So I am representing a buyer who is hell-bent on buying a home in the worst part of Phoenix. When I say the "worst part of Phoenix" I am not exaggerating. Get out the City of Phoenix crime statistics, find the section of town that has the most crime, triple it, and there you go.

The current home of interest--which actually was an upgrade from the one I wrote about a few weeks ago--just happens to be a foreclosure, a rarity in this day and age (except in Alabama where I happen to know there are currently a gazillion in that situation, but that is for another blog). Bank of America owns this house. Because my buyer just has to have this home, we fought hard for it. She was willing to pay more than I thought she should, but that's because I don't think anyone should pay anything for this dump.

After we had gotten the contract basics straightened out, we have had to wait on BofA to do their foreclosure magic so we can make this sale work. Which is why when I followed up today, the selling agent wrote me the following e-mail:

"We stopped by the property yesterday for an updated inspection. The counter tops on one side of the kitchen are missing along with sink, faucet & plumbing. The cabinets & counters on the other side were completely removed. Also, the sink in the laundry area & thermostat are now missing. Were these items present when you inspected the home?"

Well, as a matter of fact, yes, when we wrote our offer, there did happen to be a kitchen. In fact having a kitchen was of material concern to my buyer. It will also be of material concern for the lender and appraiser. Kitchens are kind of a thing. So are thermostats. So is indoor plumbing.

One would think this would discourage my buyer. But no. She wants to know why BofA won't replace the kitchen. Because they won't. I am asking for a reduction in price (because it mollifies my buyer, but I am realistic). BofA has refused this too. Twice. I have told my buyer perhaps it is time to move on. She isn't ready. Grieving is a personal process. I understand. But truly, whether she likes it or not, a lack of kitchen is a deal breaker.

Pity Post

Welcome to anger. It is the second stage in the five stages of grief. I have mastered it. Ask my family. Ask the poor woman who sweetly called me to tell me my plumbing issue is now scheduled for Saturday morning. Except it was supposed to have been done yesterday. Then it was to be done tomorrow and I rearranged my life to have it done tomorrow. She probably thinks I am a true delight.

I naively expected I would never hit anger, only because I am not angry (mostly) at Reader Number Two for dying. I am angry at the world and I can't call her to tell her this. She will never again be able to talk me down when I am upset. And that just pisses me off.

Of course, if you ask me tonight, I will tell you I invented grief. Nobody grieves as well as I do. I equate this to the new parent who thinks they invented parenthood (all parents do this). I am the foremost expert on grief, because I invented it, damnit.

A friend tells me that grief comes in waves. Today has been a tsunami. And that makes me mad too.

Growing Up

My Polliwog hit 17. There are challenges with that. Such as, I am now doing everything wrong. If I treat her like a child, she wants to be thought of as an adult (and tells me in the most childish way). If I minister to her like an adult it is at the one moment she wants me to make her breakfast and sit on my lap (which is like a great dane puppy sitting on my lap). Though I don't mind this transition too much, I mind the mind-numbing game that comes with it. I don't have a copy of the rule book, which is unfortunate, because I could use it right now.

I know this is a part of growing up. It just is a maddening part. In all fairness, I was probably much worse on my parents. And, if you asked them, they would probably give you lots of examples. Well, my mother would, she remembers them all.

That said, I am so tickled to see my sweet girl almost grown up--and she did it so well. She has a strong work ethic. She is poised and discerning. She has little room in her life for BS. She enjoys the company of those older and younger. She doesn't give in to the sexualized nature of society many of her peers fall into. Boys are interesting, but she doesn't need one to complete her identity. She has strong opinions, ones she can back up with more than "because I feel that way." Her moral compass is always pointed in the right direction. In my estimation, she's turned out pretty awesome.

I would tell her so, but I am not sure which version of Polly I have right at this second.

The Rental Home Lottery

A Shorter Line than Last Sunday

El Jefe had a home for me to rent out. This is nothing unusual. I work for a property management company. We do that. When tenants are moving out, landlords tend to get very Type-A when it comes to re-leasing their precious home. As the adage goes, there is nothing more desperate in this world than a landlord with a vacant home. No matter the real estate rental market, this holds true.

Anyway, Barbie was moving. Her lease said she was to make the home available if anyone wanted to see it. And, it turns out more than 130 people did want to see it. Because I had no desire in calling all of these folks and setting up personal tours between them and Barbie (who was pretty uncooperative about the idea of me showing her home anyway, after all, she wasn't moving for another week or two), I did the only sensible action I could think of.  Last Sunday, with significant coercion from Barbie, who begrudgingly read her lease to see this was allowable by law, I invited all 130 prospectively homeless parties for a one-hour open house. I made it clear in my invite, do not show up before 3 p.m. and do not come after 4 p.m.

Many enterprising people, who probably had been down the tenant road before went ahead and applied for this house sight-unseen, knowing full well they would get a chance to view it a few days later. Everyone who did so, I called prior to the open house, explaining they weren't the only application, and to be sure to show up on Sunday. Because, not doing so would automatically disqualify them from the house lottery.

When I arrived Sunday, at 2:45--in August, in Arizona mind you--there was already a line  at the front door. Some extraordinarily rude people were actually walking into the back yard and peeking into the back windows. They didn't seem to care in the least when I shooed them, explaining someone lives here and they would be none-too-happy if a perfect stranger walked into their back yard. Some figured it out, remembered how their mother's taught them and excused themselves for their rude behavior. However, others were uppity and snippy with me. The uppity people may have wished to reconsider their behavior next time. Because when everyone signed in to view the property, a special asterisk went next to the uppity people's name. Just saying...

Meanwhile, Barbie (did I mention she was unhappy about me hijacking her Sunday?) told me, under no uncertain circumstances was I permitted to allow anyone in prior to 3 p.m. I guess it gave her more time to spiffy up the filthy hole of a home she lived in. To be fair, it looked like she hadn't spiffied it up in the entire time she had been living there. But hey! A party.

No matter, people waited in the heat to see this marvelous home. More than 60 people waded through the piles of junk and filth to see if their furniture would fit and figure out where the Christmas tree would go. They didn't care. The home was available in three weeks and they were about to be homeless. Everyone who came was required to sign in. Everyone was also given the same information: there are several applications on the property. If you haven't applied, do so immediately. I have nothing to do with processing your application. Though I do tend to relay my first impressions to El Jefe, I didn't think that needed to be said.

Barbie (did I mention she is a bit passive-aggressive?) also treated potential tenants to her version of what it is like to rent for our company and our "intrusive" policies when it comes to viewing homes. She had lots to say about the home's condition, most of it she probably caused. After all, the doorknob to her son's room is clearly missing. Don't blame the maintenance team for not taking care of what should be her responsibility. That goes double for the cleanliness of the place. But the potential tenants were not deterred. They had bigger issues: mainly, there are not enough homes available and too many people.

At 3:59, Barbie gave me a one minute notice and told me to pack up and leave. I thanked her for her time. Secret pictures of the home's condition and obvious damage were nestled into my camera phone, for El Jefe to see so he could weep violently. I had shaken hands with lots of people, all who had hope, promise or disgust in their eyes. Some had all three. Me personally, I just wanted a Lysol bath.

The saddest part was the nicest people I met that day who just wanted a place to live. They were trying to take care of their families. They were anxious to move on with their lives. And perhaps this would be where they would raise their families for a while. I saw all this. I knew there could only be one family who would calling this place home. The other 59 would lose out. Hopefully something better will come along for them.

Unforgiven

I was talking to a loan officer friend, who was giving me some friendly tips on how to build credit. The most obvious way was to apply for a credit card. I explained we had done so through our credit union, and they had turned us down for the measly $200 we asked for.

"You need to go to the big banks, like Wells Fargo or Chase," she instructed.

I doubt that is going to work. Both Wells Fargo and Chase happen to be pretty upset with me right now. For that matter, so are the majority of large banks I know of. Seems like we will have to figure out some other way to rebuild our credit. Eventually.

Big Verizon is Always Listening

I have about 3 posts half-written on this last week's adventures, but they will have to wait. Most are tied into today anyway.

Quick back story: El Jefe was leasing out a 5 bedroom, 2,400 square foot home for $945. We had more than 130 inquiries. When I saw this, I suggested the rent was low. He responded he had raised the rent, because the same tenant had been in this house, paying $800 for a couple of years. I said I thought he could go still go about $300 higher. We agreed to disagree, but neither of us actually said what we thought the newly advertised rent amount was. The end.

Anyway, we had 13 applications on the house. The person who was approved realized she was the winner out of 13 people. In her application she stated she was willing to pay more rent to get the property. This was really useful because El Jefe suddenly realized the rent was supposed to be significantly higher and he had only raised it in his head and not where it counted. In order to make his accounting books work properly when he wrote the lease, he put in the new and corrected rent amount. The program he uses, rented or not, automatically sends this information to all the real estate Web sites, showing an increase in rent. However, he did this only after the applicant was approved.

Fast forward to today. One of the applicants, who had been told by me, that I have nothing to do with the application process whatsoever, saw on social media the rent amount had been raised. She was one of the 13 applicants, but her application was ranked (optimistically) somewhere around 8th in line for desirability. The owner wasn't interested in her. She has been contacting me for days about the property, with me repeatedly saying, call the office. Here's the number. Call El Jefe. I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THE APPLICATION PROCESS.

So this applicant (who, mind you, was rejected by the owner) called me, furious. She had seen the increase on one of those real estate Web sites. As far as she was concerned, we had falsely advertised. I (yep, me) had stolen her information (which she willingly provided when she filled out the application) from her--even though I have not been in the office in more than a week and have no access to the computer system which has the applications. I was a bad person. She was suing me. Her lawyer would be calling me immediately (for the $90 in application fees she paid). She told me she reported me to somebody (probably social media) and a lot of other ugly stuff. She was nasty and downright abusive. I told her to call the office. Call El Jefe. And, for the 437th time, I said I DON'T HAVE ANYTHING TO DO WITH THE APPLICATION PROCESS. Because, I don't.

If this wasn't enough, she then texted me, saying all of the above and continued her ugliness. And this is where my Karma caught up with me. Now, to be fair, I find this situation completely amusing. Abuse or not, it is blog fodder. So, we all win, right?  However, I read her text, put my phone down, and said, something that included the phrase, "Bring it bitch." And then I went on my merry way. I didn't realize that my phone's microphone picked up the entire thing. Nor did I realize some gremlin actually pushed send and she got this message.

I feel terrible. Even though she yelled at me. Even though she is (apparently) paying a lawyer to sue me personally for $90, I am the one who made the unprofessional mistake. Actually, I made several, including not fully understanding how my phone works and why it hates me so. (That reminds me, when I go to my Great Reward, and sit down with Saint Pete for my exit interview, when he says, "What can we improve down there?" I am going to say cell phones and traffic circles.) But I know the real issue is she is about to be homeless. Her frustration became my baggage. Where compassion and logic could have prevailed, I didn't show the least amount to this woman.

The truth is, she wasn't approved when the rent was $945. And even if she were the only applicant, she wouldn't have been approved at $945. She wasn't a viable candidate for the home. Even if the approved tenant backs out, she still doesn't stand a chance. Even if she had been second on the list, she blew any good will she had today too. But it doesn't change my reality. I know better. The microphone is always on.

Yea, It Might Be a Problem

I got a text message yesterday from a current client. She asked if I handled rentals. Because, she wanted to give my name to a friend of hers.

She described her friend like this: "He and his wife have been married for 24 years. They are good Christian people. They can't buy right now, but maybe next year. I hope you can help him.

As an afterthought, she sent another text that said, "He is a registered sex offender. Will that be a problem?"

Out of the Mouth of Bucks

So El Jefe asked me if I could show one of our company's rentals yesterday. When I show rentals for my company it goes like this:

1. Several people contact us online, saying they are interested in a home. 
2. I tell them to come at a specific time and and if they don't show up, they don't see it. 
3. Someone applies for the home, the owner approves (eventually) and I get paid a small sum for my time. 

Truly, it is easy work, and much better than going out with some random stranger and looking at homes all over the Valley while the potentially homeless and fussy tenant in question shops around for the "perfect" place to live for a year. The way the Phoenix metro rental market is now, the above is certainly the way to show homes, because the one with the inventory has the power.

The downside to this particular process is that I am meeting multiple strangers in some vacant home. There is an element of uncertainty, as well as the undeniable safety issues. In these circumstances, I take someone with me. If the potential tenant doesn't feel my behavior is professional, they can move on. I make no apologies.

Anyway, yesterday, El Jefe asked me to stop what I was doing and go show a rental home to various people. On my way over, I swung by my house, scooped up a very annoyed, teenage Buckaroo who did not want to leave what he was doing. He protested greatly, telling me I was "paranoid" and "untrusting" of strangers. That is, until we got to our destination and he met those I was showing the house to.

When we were done with our parade of strangers, all whom said they were so excited and immediately putting in applications for this lovely available two bedroom place (they didn't), I asked Buckaroo what he thought of the potential folks. He said--and I am not making this up--"I like the guy who went to prison for kidnapping best." Actually, I liked that guy best too.