Grievance Committee

I just found out the Grievance Committee meets next week. I have been sent two cases to review. The instructions are to just review the cases themselves, don't research anything else (like social media posts or anything about the agents in question). Because I am not, apparently, environmentally conscience, I ended up printing out about 300 pages from the two cases for me to look at. Next time, I will bypass the printing. It turns out I am not to even bring these pages with me to the meeting next week. Only my notes.

I have some reading to do.

Squee!

And, She's Back

I got a call from Inga yesterday. Last summer she and her husband had been talking with me about selling their home. They are past clients, but frankly Inga was a bit of a hard pill to swallow when it came to our working relationship. During our courtship last summer, Inga e-mailed me and told me they hired another agent and not to contact them again.

So I didn't. I did however write about their experience as I saw it. You can view the MLS (bad) photos here and see the outcome here if you would like. The pictures alone struck me as doom from the beginning. But then again, the home was overpriced and the listing stated there was no lockbox, making it difficult for buyers to see. So, there's that.

Anyway, Inga called me yesterday. Guess what! She is thinking about selling her home. Would I help her? Her first option was a family friend who has some sort of ponzi scheme he wants her to be involved in. She asked what I thought of it. I pointed out the extreme liability to Inga and her husband if they went this direction. I (hopefully) tactfully explained that there are ways this can work, but for the most part, those who get involved in this type of sale tend to be folks who are less sophisticated sellers and are unsure of real estate law. That's what the buyers are looking for. What he was offering wasn't illegal, but sleazy and could backfire and cause her a lot of headache. I cautioned her to proceed very carefully and discuss this with an attorney. However, if this guy really wanted to buy the place, tell him to get a mortgage and I would write up the paperwork.

Her second option was to just outright sell the place and be done. I told her what I thought it was worth (based on the last time I looked --which was last June). I asked her about her last sale and how it went with the agent. And by the way, did the agent have a professional photographer come in and take pictures? "You can do that?" She asked. Anyway, she told me it did not go well. The agent bad-mouthed the property to a potential buyer in front of Inga. She did a few other questionable things too. Now please keep in mind, I know Inga. I have worked with her before. If asked, the agent probably had a few things to say as well.

Inga said, and I so wish I had recorded this, "I regretted not using you right away." Nice words, but given the house was over priced and there were several restrictions to view the property, I am guessing it is best I wasn't the agent. Let the sellers cut their teeth on another agent first.

Later today I am going to send Inga a market analysis on her property. If she can't get Mr. Ponzi to buy it, she is talking about listing it. If she lists it with me, there will have to be a few ground rules set in place. Because I am not hanging my sign in her yard to announce to the world I overprice homes.

Truce In the Forest

I first heard this story on Christmas Eve, 2013. It is one of my favorites. I think it puts life in perspective. Even though we may believe we are fighting for the right cause, there is always something larger than what we champion.

In the grand scheme of things what truly matters? Fighting over politics with family and friends? Wait until one of them (or you) has a life-threatening event. Politics will no longer matter. Some jerk may have cut you off in traffic? But maybe what you didn't know is they are rushing their child to the emergency room (happened to a friend of mine as her son was fighting for his life).

The players in this story weren't committing treason, they were cognizant to recognize there was something bigger than a war going on. Fighting at the cabin that night was not going to change the outcome of the war. These men wisely saw the bigger picture.

There is always a bigger picture. 

"Truce In the Forest" by Fritz Vincken

It was Christmas Eve, and the last, desperate German offensive of World War II raged around our tiny cabin. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door...

When we heard the knock on our door that Christmas Eve in 1944, neither Mother nor I had the slightest inkling of the quiet miracle that lay in store for us.

I was 12 then, and we were living in a small cottage in the Hürtgen Forest, near the German-Belgian border. Father had stayed at the cottage on hunting weekends before the war; when Allied bombers partly destroyed our hometown of Aachen, he sent us to live there. He had been ordered into the civil-defense fire guard in the border town of Monschau, four miles away.

"You'll be safe in the woods," he had told me. "Take care of Mother. Now you're the man of the family."

But, nine days before Christmas, Field Marshal von Rundstedt had launched the last, desperate German offensive of the war, and now, as I went to the door, the Battle of the Bulge was raging all around us. We heard the incessant booming of field guns; planes soared continuously overhead; at night, searchlights stabbed through the darkness. Thousands of Allied and German soldiers were fighting and dying nearby.

When that first knock came, Mother quickly blew out the candles; then, as I went to answer it, she stepped ahead of me and pushed open the door. Outside, like phantoms against the snowclad trees, stood two steel-helmeted men. One of them spoke to Mother in a language we did not understand, pointing to a third man lying in the snow. She realized before I did that these were American soldiers. Enemies!

Mother stood silent, motionless, her hand on my shoulder. They were armed and could have forced their entrance, yet they stood there and asked with their eyes. And the wounded man seemed more dead than alive. "Kommt rein," Mother said finally. "Come in." The soldiers carried their comrade inside and stretched him out on my bed.

None of them understood German. Mother tried French, and one of the soldiers could converse in that language. As Mother went to look after the wounded man, she said to me, "The fingers of those two are numb. Take off their jackets and boots, and bring in a bucket of snow." Soon I was rubbing their blue feet with snow.

We learned that the stocky, dark- haired fellow was Jim; his friend, tall and slender, was Robin. Harry, the wounded one, was now sleeping on my bed, his face as white as the snow outside. They'd lost their battalion and had wandered in the forest for three days, looking for the Americans, hiding from the Germans. They hadn't shaved, but still, without their heavy coats, they looked merely like big boys. And that was the way Mother began to treat them.

Now Mother said to me, "Go get Hermann. And bring six potatoes."

This was a serious departure from our pre-Christmas plans. Hermann was the plump rooster(named after portly Hermann Guring, Hitler's No. 2, for whom Mother had little affection) that we had been fattening for weeks in the hope that Father would be home for Christmas. But, some hours before, when it was obvious that Father would not make it, Mother had decided that Hermann should live a few more days, in case Father could get home for New Year's. Now she had changed her mind again: Hermann would serve an immediate, pressing purpose.

While Jim and I helped with the cooking, Robin took care of Harry. He had a bullet through his upper leg, and had almost bled to death. Mother tore a bedsheet into long strips for bandages.

Soon, the tempting smell of roast chicken permeated our room. I was setting the table when once again there came a knock at the door. 

Expecting to find more lost Americans, I opened the door without hesitation. There stood four soldiers, wearing uniforms quite familiar to me after five years of war. They were Wehrmacht! Germans!

I was paralyzed with fear. Although still a child, I knew the harsh law: sheltering enemy soldiers constituted high treason. We could all be shot! Mother was frightened, too. Her face was white, but she stepped outside and said, quietly, "Fröhliche Weihnachten." The soldiers wished her a Merry Christmas, too.

"We have lost our regiment and would like to wait for daylight," explained the corporal. "Can we rest here?"

"Of course," Mother replied, with a calmness born of panic. "You can also have a fine, warm meal and eat till the pot is empty."

The Germans smiled as they sniffed the aroma through the half-open door. "But," Mother added firmly, "we have three other guests, whom you may not consider friends." Now her voice was suddenly sterner than I'd ever heard it before. "This is Christmas Eve, and there will be no shooting here."

"Who's inside?" the corporal demanded. "Amerikaner?"

Mother looked at each frost-chilled face. "Listen," she said slowly. "You could be my sons, and so could those in there. A boy with a gunshot wound, fighting for his life. His two friends lost like you and just as hungry and exhausted as you are. This one night," she turned to the corporal and raised her voice a little, "this Christmas night, let us forget about killing."

The corporal stared at her. There were two or three endless seconds of silence. Then Mother put an end to indecision. "Enough talking!" she ordered and clapped her hands sharply. "Please put your weapons here on the woodpile and hurry up before the others eat the dinner!"

Dazedly, the four soldiers placed their arms on the pile of firewood just inside the door: three carbines, a light machine gun and two bazookas. Meanwhile, Mother was speaking French rapidly to Jim. He said something in English, and to my amazement I saw the American boys, too, turn their weapons over to Mother.

Now, as Germans and Americans tensely rubbed elbows in the small room, Mother was really on her mettle. Never losing her smile, she tried to find a seat for everyone. We had only three chairs, but Mother's bed was big, and on it she placed two of the newcomers side by side with Jim and Robin.

Despite the strained atmosphere, Mother went right on preparing dinner. But Hermann wasn't going to grow any bigger, and now there were four more mouths to feed. "Quick," she whispered to me, "get more potatoes and some oats. These boys are hungry, and a starving man is an angry one."

While foraging in the storage room, I heard Harry moan. When I returned, one of the Germans had put on his glasses to inspect the American's wound. "Do you belong to the medical corps?" Mother asked him. "No," he answered. "But I studied medicine at Heidelberg until a few months ago." Thanks to the cold, he told the Americans in what sounded like fairly good English, Harry's wound hadn't become infected. "He is suffering from a severe loss of blood," he explained to Mother. "What he needs is rest and nourishment."

Relaxation was now beginning to replace suspicion. Even to me, all the soldiers looked very young as we sat there together. Heinz and Willi, both from Cologne, were 16. The German corporal, at 23, was the oldest of them all. From his food bag he drew out a bottle of red wine, and Heinz managed to find a loaf of rye bread. Mother cut that in small pieces to be served with the dinner; half the wine, however, she put away "for the wounded boy."

Then Mother said grace. I noticed that there were tears in her eyes as she said the old, familiar words, "Komm, Herr Jesus. Be our guest." And as I looked around the table, I saw tears, too, in the eyes of the battle-weary soldiers, boys again, some from America, some from Germany, all far from home.

Just before midnight, Mother went to the doorstep and asked us to join her to look up at the Star of Bethlehem. We all stood beside her except Harry, who was sleeping. For all of us during that moment of silence, looking at the brightest star in the heavens, the war was a distant, almost-forgotten thing.

Our private armistice continued next morning. Harry woke in the early hours, and swallowed some broth that Mother fed him. With the dawn, it was apparent that he was becoming stronger. Mother now made him an invigorating drink from our one egg, the rest of the corporal's wine and some sugar. Everyone else had oatmeal. Afterward, two poles and Mother's best tablecloth were fashioned into a stretcher for Harry.

The corporal then advised the Americans how to find their way back to their lines. Looking over Jim's map, the corporal pointed out a stream. "Continue along this creek," he said, "and you will find the 1st Army rebuilding its forces on its upper course." The medical student relayed the information in English.

"Why don't we head for Monschau?" Jim had the student ask. "Nein!" the corporal exclaimed. "We've retaken Monschau."

Now Mother gave them all back their weapons. "Be careful, boys," she said. "I want you to get home someday where you belong. God bless you all!" The German and American soldiers shook hands, and we watched them disappear in opposite directions.

When I returned inside, Mother had brought out the old family Bible. I glanced over her shoulder. The book was open to the Christmas story, the Birth in the Manger and how the Wise Men came from afar bearing their gifts. Her finger was tracing the last line from Matthew 2:12: "...they departed into their own country another way."

My Christmas Gift

I met Mr. Reader Number Two (my Bonus Dad) for lunch this past Friday. It was his birthday and the lunch date had been made a week earlier. I had been looking forward to it for days, as I gathered all the items I had for him--an InstaPot (for his son and daughter-in-law, from his other son and daughter-in-law that had been living in my basement for six months), a Heinlein book for his birthday and a Far Side calendar for Christmas. Plus, I threw in a few pictures of Buckaroo and Polly, a loaf of pumpkin bread and a Christmas Angel tree ornament I bought for him in St. Louis. Bonus Mom collected angels. I gave him one last year and at the time made the executive decision he and I would be collecting them from this point forward.

Bonus Mom's Hematite Necklace

After he put his presents in his car, Bonus Dad surprised me with a gift. It wasn't wrapped and as soon as I saw it I started crying. Then he started crying. And the two of us stood in the parking lot of the Scottsdale Pei Wei sobbing. But to be fair, every time we get together we sob, no matter where we are.

Last year, when Bonus Mom's death was raw, Bonus Dad asked me if I wanted anything of hers. I said no. I can look around my home in any direction and see five things that remind me of her. I told him to leave it all for his boys and their families. I got thirty years of memories and a Bonus Dad out of the package. I thought I was doing pretty well.

A few months later, I happened to mention a necklace she wore once in a while that I happened to like. It was a comment which was really part of a larger conversation. I didn't think twice about it. Bonus Dad, however, went home and put that necklace in his drawer. He gave the rest of her jewelry to his daughter-in-laws and granddaughters. Except that necklace. He gave it to me instead.

The Committees

I selected two committees.

The Community Outreach Committee: It was a no-brainer for my skill set. Back in the olden days before social media, I did this kind of a thing for a living. Also, it was the committee I was originally asked to join. So, there's that. Plus, I wouldn't mind helping a few people along the way.

The Grievance Committee: I am kind of excited about this one. It is the agent-to-agent arbitration committee (when two agents squabble or there is a code of ethics violation, it goes to this panel). There is a bit of mandatory training that comes with this, such as refresher crash-course law, contract and agency classes. My hope is this committee will make me a better agent.

I passed on the Professional Standards Committee. I wasn't terribly interested and my realtor friend Sally (yep, that's her name) had been on the committee at one time and gave me a few horror stories. I am sure the other two committees will also have their cliques too. But I haven't heard horror stories about them. Yet.

One Year

A year ago today the Arizona Department of Real Estate gave me provisional permission to proceed forward with opening my own brokerage. At the time I was discerning whether or not I wanted to go forward, a couple of friends were so encouraging. One in fact, who is a friend of 30+ years and reads this blog on occasion was my biggest cheerleader. If you find this post, thank you my dear, dear friend for your loving words.

The move into the unknown was daunting, but I went forward and voila! a brokerage was born. In truth, 2017 in general was kind of a sucky year, but this was a wonderful ending.

I don't regret leaving El Jefe. Nobody needs that level of dysfunction. I am grateful for the experience. Perhaps if it weren't for him and the level of crazy that came from working for him, I wouldn't have figured out this was a direction I wanted to pursue.

I do miss having other agents around for camaraderie, support and accountability. Working in a larger-than-one person brokerage also means more leads, listings and potential buyers. I don't have that luxury as a one-man show, but I have enough work. I also have the likes of a few broker friends and colleagues who help me out on occasion. Mrs. Hufflepuff alone has been a great assistance. I have even called El Jefe once or twice and bounced an idea off of him--though that comes with an emotional price.

Even though I am on this brokerage journey, I am sill evolving and changing how and what I want to do. Don't get me wrong! There are still homes to sell. This past year, there was a point when I started exploring what else I wanted to do. It left me conflicted: how could I sell real estate if I want to pursue other interests? I recognize now that some of my upcoming projects are inter-related and not mutually exclusive. I might not make tons more money with some of my other projects, that's ok. I have done the successful thing. I am ready to help others and provide more meaning and purpose in their lives. Hopefully I will be successful with that too.

Closing Day

Doug the Favored Felon closed on his condo today. He was downright giddy when I gave him and his lady friend the key. I also gave him a Christmas wreath and a fire extinguisher as a housewarming gift. Our family fire marshall tells me the one I bought was for kitchen fires only. At any rate, Doug the Favored was gracious.

I skedaddled as quickly as I could after giving him the key for two reasons. First, I got the distinct impression Doug and his lady friend wanted a moment alone to explore their new home. And second, I wanted to cash my commission check before the bank closed. So, a win-win for all involved.

True story: the agent who sold us our very first house 20 years ago gave us a fire extinguisher as a housewarming gift. I recently found it and was told (again by the family fire marshall) that it was "the wrong kind" and "out of date." Please check your fire extinguishers. What? You can't find your fire extinguisher to check it? That's easy, please go get one.

Get It Right Already!

I have a bankruptcy. I am not proud of this fact. It wasn't a commemorative moment in my life, but it is branded into my memory. And to be fair, it might have been the biggest downer of 2017 had Bonus Mom not decided to take her last breath at the same time. Nothing has yet come close to that low point.

Anyway, my attorney and about three zillion others have assured me bankruptcies were created for the reasons we filed. The stigma is subsiding. But for the next several years I get to explain to people I pay why I filed in the first place. So, flashbacks are possible.

Right after our bankruptcy closed, one of our creditors filed a lawsuit against only me. This was highly illegal and I am quite certain they now regret doing so. Now to be fair, I didn't owe them money for two reasons: 1) my name was never associated with the loans in question. 2) OUR BANKRUPTCY CLOSED. But that didn't stop some hack of an attorney who violated Federal law and filed the papers anyway. That lawyer, by the way, is flipping burgers at some Burger Barf somewhere in the greater Birmingham Alabama area.

When the US Bankruptcy Trustee found this out, all heck broke loose and the bank who did this cowered in the corner, and chose to write a ginormous check instead of going to court for their gaffe. The man in charge of going after me in the first place was dismissed from his job and is hopefully cleaning the toilets at the local Burger Barf. But, the fact of the matter is, because of all this, our Bankruptcy was opened a month after the courts closed it while the Trustee sorted everything out.

Sometime this past autumn the bankruptcy closed again, with another one of our creditors making out like a bandit thanks to the ginormous check the bank had to write. Good for them! I hated stiffing people and businesses I owed.

However, it appears the bankruptcy has been opened a third time. At the time of this writing, nobody can tell me why.  But, it is open. To put life in perspective, I cannot buy another home until three years after the bankruptcy closes. So, that time frame won't start until the Trustees finally close this once and for good. This affects my taxes. It affects my mortgage. It affects my interest rate on the measly amount of commercial credit I have. It affects my FICO score. If I move and need to rent, explaining that I have three bankruptcies in two years looks sketchy--even if it is only because of weird circumstances.

I am guessing, though my attorney did nothing to reassure me today, that there was some sort of administrative error and it should not have been opened a third time. But sheesh. It is time to close this chapter for good.

Last Friday's Gift

I met Doug the Favored Felon, Dee and the a few of the regulars from her Merry Band of Felons for the walk-through of Doug's upcoming purchase this past Friday. It was a party, which started 45 minutes later, allowing me the pleasure of standing in a furniture-free 1,000 square foot condo in the cold December afternoon, with a drained cell battery and a slightly pissy attitude. However, when they all showed up (ALL of them), it turned into a party.

Now I must say, it seems everywhere Dee and her band of Merry Felons go, it turns into a party. And that's fine by me.

Perhaps there is a HVAC filter in here somewhere?

During the walk-through, Doug went through his soon-to-be condo, marveling at every little thing. He fiddled with the light switches and appliances. He played with the heater (there is no air filter, so I hadn't turned it on). He turned on all the faucets and recounted the windows--just to be sure they were all there. He smiled, giddy like a child right before summer vacation, as he talked about the colors he would be painting his sons' room this coming week. He pointed where the Christmas tree would be staged and told us about the upcoming memories he was sure to have.

He told us his plans, his hopes, his dreams. This is a fresh start for him. His divorce final last month, he has been granted custody of his young sons. He is getting married in a couple of weeks. This is a new life. To him buying this condo is more than just a place to lay his head. A few years ago he didn't have this kind of hope. It is a fresh start. And he was eternally grateful to Dee and I for helping him out and said so. Right before leaving the condo, we all congregated into the 5 x 6 kitchen, holding hands, while Seth the Felon prayed for Doug and his new place.

In addition to all that, at some point, we gazed with wonder at the amount of personal items the seller's daughter hadn't collected yet from the condo--a task that I had been harping on for weeks. Incidentally, this coming Wednesday, if you are looking for an old laptop, Christmas decorations, a signed letter (probably not an original) from a former US President, a Green Card or a plethora of other do-dads, I am willing to bet Doug the Favored will make you a great deal.

After the walk-through was over, we had a caravan to the title office, where Doug signed papers for an hour. The felons who were not involved with the sale came in too, offering him support, friendship and a new pen when the ink ran out of the last one. They even told corny jokes just to keep us laughing.

When all was said and done, I went to wish them well and a good weekend. I promised I would be calling on Wednesday when the condo closed, to meet him to give him the key. But before I could get out the door, Doug stopped me. He thanked me profusely for my help. The other felons thanked me for helping Doug. Dee and Mr. Dee thanked me. Then they ALL hugged me. I felt loved and appreciated.

It is moments like that which make grateful I have a job where I can help people.

They Made A Decision Yesterday

Well now, as soon as I posted yesterday's blog, I got an e-mail. I have been accepted for all three committees. Mind you, I said I wanted to be on one. But, what the heck. I can dither for a few days and sort this out.

I am pretty darn sure I don't want to be a committee member for all three committees. One. Maybe two, if it includes the grievance committee. I think I really want to be on that one. In the next few days I will figure out if the other two committees work for me and my life. My realtor friend Sally (yep, that's her name) tells me I really don't want the professional standards committee.

Anyway, as we all know, be careful what one wishes for.

Maybe They Will Make a Decision by the end of March

For something to do, and as a way to give to my vocation, about six weeks ago, I managed to fill out the application to join one of the local realtor association committees. I was asked and encouraged to do so the head of one of the committees. I was told they "seriously needed volunteers." Anyway, with almost 16 years under my belt, being a designated broker and a high-producing agent, I expected to be a shoe-in--even if it was for a grunt position somewhere. After all, who doesn't like ready, willing and able volunteers?

There were three programs, which caught my eye. I said I only wanted to be on one of them, but I was required to pick several. I picked the community outreach committee (which is what the person chairing encouraged me to join). They help other agents who have critical needs, as well as do the fun events in the community. Second choice was the grievance committee--I would hear about agent vs. agent disputes--like agent arbitration. I thought it sounded fascinating. As a designated broker, I figured I had a shot, because they were only looking for brokers. Third on my list was the professional development committee, which puts on classes for agents. Real estate education is on my mid-to-long term bucket list (as a teacher) and this might be a place to start.

When I mentioned this to my friend Sally (yep, that's her name), she said the committees are cliquish and unless I am one of "those" types, I wasn't likely to be on one. She should know. She went down this path a couple of years ago. She joined a committee and was immediately sorry she did so. Not terribly surprised, I felt fully warned.

Anyway, I have heard nothing back from anyone at the association. I am guessing I am not as qualified as I thought I was. Or perhaps I just don't hang out with the in-crowd. Either way, it doesn't look like I am wanted or needed for this particular pursuit.

While I desperately search for significance in what I am doing, I am recognizing helping others through the realtor association may not be the path I am supposed to be on. And that's ok.

Nelly

Perhaps Captain Picard Speaks for All of Us

I met with Nelly today. She was a referral from my very first real estate client, more than 15 years ago. Anyway, Nelly has a house she wants to sell. And could I meet with her and list the place?

If it were only that simple?

Nelly did not know anything about how to sell a house. She had no idea what it was worth and wasn't sure where to begin. So, before I met with her, I did my homework and got a fair idea of what she could expect. There was a model just like hers for sale that had been "updated" and I had set an appointment for us to see it so we could compare (for the record, new paint is not "updating").

Anyway, when I got to Nelly's home, she mentioned she didn't live there any more. She had bought it a couple of years ago by herself. She had a boyfriend at the time who helped her with the down payment but they didn't work out. The now ex-boyfriend lived there alone. As we stood in the driveway, she sweetly told me that there was a slight hiccup. He knew we were coming, but all of the sudden the locks were changed and the garage code was different. She had been calling and texting, but he didn't answer. No matter, she was sure he would get back to her as soon as possible.

I suggested we go see the house down the street for sale and get an idea of what she could expect her competition to be. As we were touring the other place, I asked if her ex-boyfriend had a lease. No. Was he paying rent? Actually, he paid half the mortgage. Every month, Nelly gave him her "half" of the mortgage and he just automatically paid it. Was he anxious to sell? Yes.

The story about the guy got weirder. He had claimed the mortgage interest on his taxes for the past couple of years--not allowing Nelly to do so. However, he is not on the loan. Nor is he on the title to the house. Nope. He has no rights whatsoever to this house. And she is paying him to live there, whether she realized it or not. And to be fair, now she realizes it.

By the end of our time together, I am pretty certain Nelly understood her ex-boyfriend may not be as cooperative as she thought he was. She promised me she would call a lawyer (I gave her the name and number of mine) and an accountant. I hunted down the title office that handled her closing and asked her to call them to get her settlement statement (the ex-boyfriend has it and "can't find it."). She has no idea what company holds the mortgage to her home or if it is truly being paid. She has no idea if the homeowner's association is being paid regularly. And let's not even talk about taxes and insurance! I pointed out if her ex doesn't pay any of these, it is her credit and future that is ruined.

I have no idea how this is going to turn out. Actually, not true! I pretty much do have an idea, and it won't be pretty. Anyway, I won't be listing her house at this time. And that is probably for the best.

Bad MLS Pictures--The Going Up Edition

When I set out to find today's MLS photos, I didn't have a theme in mind. However, a theme found me. I recognize the need to put interior photos in every listing. But sometimes they just aren't necessary. I would be willing to bet every potential buyer figured out long before today these properties don't come with an elevator.

One of my biggest frustrations with these photos is that 1) they aren't necessary in the listing, as they aren't adding value and 2) the photographer (agent) didn't even bother to review the picture to make sure it was worth posting in the first place. The seller is paying for a service and in some cases, I think they may have gotten a raw deal.


Not one, but three photos of the same staircase. Imagine the prospective buyer looking online. "Oh look darling! We must buy this house. That staircase is simply delightful!"

This photo below makes me want to be on the stairs and hold on tightly.  

Note to agent: if the flooring is filthy, just don't. 

I honestly don't know what to make of this. Visually it looks like the staircase is ending smack-dab at that door. It also looks like an awkward space because the flooring changes. Additionally, this is the only interior photo in this listing.

I kind of understand this picture. The unit is upstairs. There is a terrace (that overlooks the parking lot).

PUT THE VACUUM AWAY BEFORE TAKING THE PICTURE!!! Thank you. 

Is the wall two colors? And is the floor crooked? 

Here is the fun fact about this photo below: it is a downstairs unit being sold. 

I don't know what that blue line is at the top of this photo. The ceiling? 

Just tilt your head a touch. As an added bonus do you see the arm? 

Another homeowner who keeps the vacuum on the staircase. It is an epidemic I tell you!

Turn Up the Heat

Update on Tracy's lack of heat. Less than 36 hours after following my advice she had a brand new heater installed in her house. She also has a new contact at her property management office. And, as an added bonus, the designated broker of the property management company is probably getting a bunch of documents together for a Department of Real Estate audit.

A Happy Little Post

Today was a rough day with a very happy ending. Here is a link to something cheerful. The video is a minute long. If you are a parent, or have parents, you definitely should watch it.

Click Here

Nobody Ever Believes Me

Doug the Favored Felon called me this morning and asked with a panic in his voice, "Why does Zillow say my home is still for sale?"

I may have sighed a little too loud, because all of the sudden Doug the Favored recalled our chat at the Cracker Barrel a few weeks ago. He said with a voice that suggested sudden inspiration, "Zillow isn't always accurate, is it?"

NO IT ISN'T! IT ZILLOW A DATABASE THAT HAS SUCKERED MILLIONS OF FOLKS INTO THINKING IT IS AN ALL-KNOWING ORACLE THAT CAN TELL ANYONE ANYTHING ABOUT REAL ESTATE. INCLUDING ANNOUNCING TO THE GENERAL PUBLIC A HOME IS AVAILABLE WHEN IT ISN'T.

But, what do I know.