Promises

I am struggling with a promise I made four months ago when I told Mrs. Worrier I would help her find a place to live. At the time I did not realize she was looking for a Malibu mansion, overlooking the ocean but located in the Saraha.

This past week, after changing my strategy, I sent a list of homes to Mr. and Mrs. Worrier (before Mrs. Worrier had insisted I not bother with her husband). Mr. Worrier contacted me immediately with "If it isn't too much trouble, may I see this one at 5:15 tonight? And thank you." Which may I say, the "thank you" was a nice add. A bit seasoned in this process, I innocently asked if I should meet Mrs. Worrier a bit earlier to make sure she had ample time to process everything?

It turns out Mrs. Worrier and her five children had been kicked out of her parent's home and are now living with a relative in Prescott (about an hour and a half north of Phoenix). Mr. Worrier is still paying a nightly rate for a hotel, as he has been for the past three months. What I was told (by the Mrs.) was that unless there were so "issues" Mr. Worrier can handle it. And that, my dear two readers, is when I started pounding my head against the wall.

Mr. Worrier showed up on time to this gorgeous four bedroom, 2,500 square foot home. He took a video. He examined every room, six times, all the while nodding his head. Yes, this would definitely do. Then, he put his wife on the phone to show her the lovely house he found and perhaps they could move in this week! However, she had a couple of objections. Here are a few snippets of the 3,871 concerns she had.

Her: "I'm worried there isn't enough food preparation space."
Him: "If the sixteen feet of counter top isn't enough, we can always chop our veggies on the kitchen table, which will also fit in the kitchen."

Her: "It needs a kitchen island."
Him: "We can buy one. After we move in." (he may have added that last sentence through gritted teeth.)

Her: "I'm worried there isn't room for my three sets of dishes."
Him: "We only have seven in our family, maybe we can put the other two sets in one of the storage cabinets." (We--as if I were part of this--settled on another cabinet from Ikea or wherever when they buy the island).

Her: "It has hardwoods. I am worried the dog will pee on them."
Me: "Is that normally a problem?"
Him to me: "No. Never."
Him to her: "There is the dog door."
Her: "It is too big. I'm worried someone can crawl in when you aren't home and attack us."
Him: "The dog will protect you. Plus, that's the size of dog door is what we need for Killer."

Her: "Where am I going to fold my clothes?"
Him (patiently) "Maybe the girls can help you with that? And they can always use the kitchen table."
Her: "You know I can't have them folding laundry while I am chopping veggies on there!"

And the list of weirdness continued. In the end, the house was a bust. The deal killer was the very old and faded teensy old water stain in the garage ceiling that might suggest (somehow) there was toxic mold in the house.

Sometime later in the week Mrs. Worrier asked me for another list of homes. I sent them directly to her husband. He can deal with her. I promised to find them a house. He promised her a lot more than that.

Note: To be fair, I spend one hundred times more time writing about the Worriers than actually driving places to show them homes. However, Mrs. Worrier has passed up three exceptionally wonderful houses because of her own self-sabotage. She is a very sweet woman, but I recognize she is a professional victim. 

If she weren't my client, I might even be willing to sit down over iced tea and visit. Well, maybe not. Perhaps I might be willing to be Facebook friends. She came as a referral which is why I haven't outwardly fired her. But, I am not making much of an effort at this point either to help her out. And after all, let's face it, this is blog fodder.