I need to make sure we're all up to speed before I get to today's post. Otherwise, we risk a lot of…"What’s that girl talking about now? Real estate? I didn’t even think she owned a house?" Which is true, I don't own a house, but that's not the point. The point is I sold real estate. Actually, Ben and I both did, and the damage to our collective brain has been surprisingly minimal. Although, from time to time I need to wipe away drool from Ben's chin.
Her are the official CliffsNotes for today's post: I spent five hardworking years crawling over hot coals, on my elbows and knees, also referred to as real estate sales. House data sheets in one hand, a cell phone in another hand, all while holding some client's hand with the other. Yes, I know that equals three hands, so you can imagine the advantage an eight armed goddess would have selling real estate!
What I could have done with eight hands! I would have had enough hands to do all my real estate stuff plus jab out my eyeballs, my clients’ eyeballs and occasionally shove a hand down my throat, nudging along that wretched feeling. Like when I was three months pregnant, touring twelve plus homes on a ninety-five degree summer day, with some buyer who wasn't "exactly sure" if they wanted a three bedroom, two full bath, or a three bedroom, two and a half bath. Because you know that third toilet could make ALL THE DIFFERENCE. Oh heck, lets just look at them ALL! And while we’re at it go ahead and throw in some condos!
Anyway, the other day I was watching one of those real estate shows on HGTV. The one with the happy real estate agent and the agreeable buyers. Where the buyers have three homes to chose from…and they like it. THEY LIKE IT. And they thank their agent…Thank you real estate professional for narrowing our choices down to three. We‘re simpletons and could also use your help determining which thumbs to stick up our asses. Seriously, people I take more jeans into the dressing room at the Gap.
So I decided if I ever sold real estate again I'd have a rule sheet for new clients. It would be laminated for easy clean-up of…oh I don't know…blood, sweat and tears. It would go something like this:
- I'd like for you to feel relaxed and comfortable while riding in my car. Which is why I ask that you refrain your child from kicking the back of my driver's seat while I drive your out-of-town asses all over the suburbs for eight straight hours. I would hate for you to feel uncomfortable; should I be forced to pull over and remind little Connor to…Quit kicking the back of my fucking seat!
- If I tell you I "like" honey oak cabinets, I'm lying.
- Also, when I say the carpeting in your bedroom is "taste specific," what I really mean is it looks like you re-purposed it from a whore house.
- I probably won't like you.
- Please refrain from discussing your financial portfolio. And, I certainly don’t want to hear all about your "considerable" I-R-A account, or your Roth I-R-A account or Ira or Jim or Jack account. Also, if I have to hear the words…"The real estate market will continue to worsen"…pass across your lips, just one more time, I'll poison the soda I bought for you with my last, meager commission check.
- I don't care that your cousin’s an attorney.
- When I reassure you that, "it’s no problem, your coffee stain should come right out," of my car’s floor mat, what I really mean to say is…You're going to pay $5,ooo more, than you should, for this house.
- No, I wont go "halvsies" with you and replace your piece of shit roof. Remember how you told me all about your IRA? Suck it.
- I don't know why the sellers are moving. But if I had to guess I'd say they run an internet porn site and are looking for some raw footage. We should check and see if they've planted hidden cameras in the master bedroom.
- No one cares you're relocating from California. Your real estate shit stinks just like the rest of ours.
