Fear Isn't All It is Cracked Up to Be

The other day, I had an interesting conversation with a neighbor. This beautiful, Godly woman told me she is motivated by fear. Fear of financial failure, fear of being homeless, fear of not having enough, fear of disappointing her children, family and friends. I marveled at her insight to know this about herself. And later that day I realized I recognized myself in her description. Eek!

My husband, the happy-go-lucky guy that he is, lets me do the fretting. If I say something like, "We are on the brink of disaster," he will (rightly) say, "Why are you planning for that?" He is little Marty Sunshine.

One of the areas I had some clarity from my conversation with my neighbor was when it comes to Mr. Smith (which is his real name). I tolerated Mr. Smith's annoyances because I have been motivated by fear. Fear of him doing damage to my property and to my reputation.

But then I got to thinking. After all the garbage I have gone through with Wayward, I had to laugh. Is there anything he can possibly do to this house that I haven't seen before? Puleeze! Been there, done that. Got the voodoo doll of Alpha Adjuster to prove it.

Last July, when handed the foreclosure notice, Mr. Smith called me, offering me a solution he thought was viable. I agreed to it, knowing he was buying time. I went along with it not because I believed he would perform. Instead, I knew I had Wayward's home on the deck. I knew my resources were being stretched if I took on his house and Wayward's. His mortgage payment is significantly less. He could wait.

The day he offered the solution, he said, "If we can't make it, we will pack up and leave on August 1. You won't have to evict me. I promise." Well, it is August 31 and he is still there. Glory, (former tenant number 1), confirmed that yesterday. She called me from his driveway, with Mr. Smith peering out the window. Glory thought it was funny. She has met Mr. Smith before.

The eviction process was started last month. If the courts don't screw up, it will probably go until early October, when the sheriff comes over with a couple of inmates and a box of trash bags. They will then take the Neptune washer and dryer, the 60 inch high-def television and all of their other worldly belongings and move them to the front yard.

I have fantasized about being there, sitting on a lawn chair, sipping wine and watching the action. Perhaps I can even drag Trusted along. He would be great company. Mr. Smith once threatened Trusted. Trusted laughed at him when it happened--which was not the affect Mr. Smith was going for. But, it pretty much set the tone for the dynamic between them.

In my fantasy, I will watch the inmates take his belongings out and I will give Mr. Smith a friendly wave as he walks out. I will be secure in the secret knowledge that he will pay me. I will file a judgement against him. I am going to garnish his wages. I am looking forward to this.

One way or another, Mr. Smith will be out of my life. He might trash my house. Then again, he might not. And, if he goes that route, I have insurance. And I have Legal Eagle. He might trash my name. But, does anyone really take him seriously?

I Stand Corrected

Well, it WAS Flunky who went out with Baseball Guy. He told Baseball Guy he hadn't "really looked around" last time he was in the house.

Ya think? I guess that is how he missed the fact there are no air vents on the ducts and the variety of holes the size of hippopotamuses in several walls.

So, now Flunky only needs to give his report to Alpha. From there Alpha makes a determination as he sees fit. So, I am still at Alpha's mercy.

Just Subtract Two Hours

This morning, my phone started ringing at 5:31 a.m. This is not unusual, because there are those nice folks five states away who just don't understand time zones. Today it rang so much before 7 a.m., that I just gave up crawled out of bed and started returning my calls.

Calvin called to fire me again. I think this time he means it. He got stung by another bee. I really am sorry this happened again. I like the guy. He does good work. The County sent me a certified nasty-gram telling me I had until September 9 to clean up the yard. I called Carolsue begging for a name of a lawn guy who isn't allergic to bee stings.

The electric company called. Remember back to January and the vacant home? Handyman #3 (Mr. Smith, the upstanding citizen that he is) put in a hot water heater for me. The electric hot water heater was courtesy of the power company if I converted from gas to electric. Mr. Smith told me at the time that he sent back a form, stating that yes he did install it (and I had no idea this had to happen until he told me this was protocol). Apparently if this form is not filled out, I will be charged $300. Guess why the power company called this morning?
I also heard from Clay. He works for an HVAC company. He was called out to one of my properties because the air conditioner wasn't working. Clay tells me the unit is ancient and needs to be replaced. Second opinion time! The second opinion was similar to the first, but more expensive. A call to the gas company confirmed what Clay and the more expensive guy told me. The unit should be condemned.

So, after talking to Clay again, I recognize his last name. It is an unusual name and I haven't run into many folks from a German descent around Birmingham. Stupidly, I ask if he has any relatives in the area. Yes he does but he doesn't really know them. I mention I once had tenants by the same name. He said, "Good tenants or bad? Then I will tell you if I am related." I explain they were very good tenants who suddenly stopped paying. I am under the impression something happened in their life and they just didn't want to work it out with me. He said, "If they were deadbeats and owe you money, I don't want to know them." I like Clay.

My last call was from Lana. Had the Flunky been back to the house? I actually didn't know. So, I called Carolsue again. "You lost another lawn guy? It has only been 30 minutes Sugar," she drawled when she heard it was me.

No, I needed to know if Flunky called. Yes he did. But, she sent Baseball guy out there on her behalf. And, it wasn't Flunky this time. This time it was Alpha Adjuster! And, he went out there on a Thursday. According to Carolsue, who heard it from Baseball Guy, Alpha does now believe the home needs some work. When he will get around to writing me a check is anyone's guess.

One for the "You've Got to be Kidding Me" Files

The Alpha-Adjuster's boss called me today. He tells me Alpha doesn't feel there is enough damage to warrant a claim. He--or Alpha--could have mentioned this weeks ago and saved me having to keep this place vacant.

After delving deeper with Alpha-Boss, it turns out the flunky they sent out last week only found a missing sink. Apparently, Flunky is also an adjuster.

And, I agree, a missing sink is less than my deductible. However, Flunky missed a few major things. For example, there is water damage to the kitchen cabinets where the sink was ripped out. There is a permanent stain on the bathroom counter top. The carpeting has been ripped out. The banister for the staircase is missing. The garage door is broken. I could go on and on. And, I did go on and on to Lana, with a carbon copy to Legal Eagle.

Lana, who has a heart of gold, called me immediately. She was going to have Flunky contact me to set up a time with Carolsue to see the property. Carolsue was then going to point out where the soft spot in the master bedroom floor was, as well as all of the other obvious items wrong. You know, like a lack of flooring!

Flunky did call me. His only question after getting Carolsue's number was, "Was it the banister going up the staircase or going down the staircase that was ripped off?"

Last time I checked there was only one staircase and it went both directions. And, the railing was lying on the floor. But, hey! I am not the adjuster.

Legal Eagle wrote me back too. She said, "I love someone else's drama."

So do I.

Adjusting My Expectations

Well, it is Tuesday. And you know what that means don't you? The adjuster is in the office ignoring my vacant home.

You see, the adjuster did get the quote--from his own contractor. And he decided it was too high. I really couldn't argue. I personally thought the quote was outrageous.

What I really don't understand is why the adjuster doesn't just go over to the house and price it himself. Isn't that what he is paid to do? What does he do with himself the other six days a week anyway?

The adjuster did send some other flunky out there. Or at least I think he did. There was a voice mail for me at 5 a.m. last Friday asking how to get into the house. Apparently this guy didn't see the notes left by the adjuster on how to get into the home. Also, the guy didn't see the note saying I would be in the mountains without cell service Thursday and Friday and to please call my residence if he needed anything. Fortunately, one of my travel companions needed to go into town Friday morning and I was able to retrieve my voice mail.

The only other sensible thing the adjuster did do is get me a liaison to discuss these meaningful questions with. I suspect Lana was called in because I suggested to the adjuster last week that perhaps if he was unavailable there might be someone else in his office, like another adjuster or a supervisor, he might be able to put me in contact with. In all fairness, I did say it in the nicest way. I was looking for a solution, not a fight.

I like Lana. She is perfectly charming, knowledgeable about insurance and landlord related issues, but doesn't have a crystal ball. From what I can tell, her job is primarily to run interference and to keep me from clogging up the adjuster's voicemail with my incessant inquiries.

Me: So, what else does the adjuster need so I can get this house turned around? After all, I can't rent it out until it is fixed. I can't file a police report until I have an amount from the adjuster. The longer it is vacant the more likely it is to get vandalized.

Lana: Bless your heart, this must be so frustrating for you. Let me call the adjuster and find out what I can.

Me: But he only works on Tuesdays. Is there someone else who might be able to answer these questions?

Lana; I am not sure. Let me call the adjuster and ask him.
Me: I really don't want the air conditioner stolen.

Lana: Well, you know you have insurance that will cover that.


My insurance company is one of the largest and most reputable organizations I have found. My agent is professional. I have gotten her involved and she swears by this adjuster. She swears he is laid back (no kidding!). I am not. It isn't a good match. Isn't there one $&!%$&^* type-A work-a-holic adjuster in the Greater Birmingham area?

My agent has called me every week since this has started to make sure I am taken care of and satisfied. She even bravely called today--knowing how I felt last week. She tells me Lana is top notch too. But, in the end we all have to defer to the alpha-adjuster. Because he is the one calling the shots.

Gotta Give a Shout-Out

Happy Birthday Bliz!

You are more than a patient, mind-reading bookkeeper. You are a dear friend! And, I am glad you are MY dear friend. The next Dairy Queen run is on me.

T. G. I. Tuesday

I have a friend who lived in China and told me tales about shopping. For example, in order to buy a bottle of bleach, it wasn't just as simple as walking into your local Wal-Mart, picking up your bleach, slapping your cash on the counter and going home.

Instead, it was a matter of going through a network of people who may or may not have seen a shopkeeper who carried bleach, arranging transportation into Beijing (these were ex-pats who lived in an international area of town), finding the said shopkeeper and then negotiating the price for bleach. She told me this process could take a week. Only a week? That doesn't seem that bad any more.

My Wayward-empty house drama is entering its third week. So far, the only thing accomplished is that I am tired of writing about it. Otherwise, nothing has gotten done except for me building up a generous amount of frustration, coupled with a healthy serving of youhavegottobekiddingme!

I might have mentioned the insurance adjuster works in the office one day a week? I am not sure what he does the other four days. I suspect it involves a boat and a fishing pole. His voicemail says he regularly checks messages and promises to call by the end of business that day if the caller leaves a message. It seems, this is true only if that caller isn't me.

The insurance adjuster did not see a reason to call me back to get information on my home. When I spoke with him today, he told me it was because he spoke with my husband last week. All my husband told him was to call me. When the adjuster called me today, he was wondering what on earth I wanted. Apparently I didn't get the ESP signals to send the estimate for damage, a police report and photos of the damage into him to move this along. I would have known he needed these things if he had returned one of my sixteen messages.

The contractor gave me a bid on the home. It took a week. And, it was missing some relevant things like fixing the the floor. Did I mention there is a soft spot in the master bedroom floor where someone dropped an elephant? The floor joist is broken. I have been assured anyone standing there will automatically plummet into the den below. The contractor did manage to include a quote for painting. Did I mention Wayward painted the walls navy blue? By the way, they can get the work accomplished in four to six weeks.

My painter also gave me a quote on just painting. It put the contractor to shame. About half the price in a quarter of the time.

The Birmingham police station tells me I need to come into the downtown precinct to pick up the police report. I patiently explained the logistics to the records officer. After clearing up I was in Phoenix Arizona and not Phoenix City Alabama (and I did not know her cousin who lives there), she and I were on the same page. I would not be coming in. Her next suggestion: send a self-addressed stamped envelope and a $5 bill to her and she would kindly send me the report. I asked if I could have someone with a power of attorney just come by with $5 and pick up the report. She considered for a moment and decided that it seemed reasonable.

So, now all I need are the photos I have been waiting for from the contractor. He was supposed to have sent them yesterday. And, all this will be submitted to the adjuster for him to review. You remember the adjuster don't you? Yes that one. He only works on Tuesdays.

The Holiest Man in Birmingham

So, what is the worst house someone ever left me? Wayward's isn't a fun experience. And it certainly had the most damage. But, as the contractor said today, "it isn't that bad." True. Sinks aren't too expensive. That said, I haven't gotten the estimate yet either.

Several years ago when Baseball Guy moved out, The Good Pastor moved in. One of the things the Good Pastor stressed to me was how important his work was. This was his calling. This was his life. He was to feed the masses the good Word.

The Good Pastor was nothing short of a pain in my neck from about the second month of his tenancy on. The main difference between he and Mr. Smith, is I wasn't as jaded back then and The Good Pastor didn't pretend to like me. Looking on the bright side, The Good Pastor essentially wrote the crib notes in my play book. About a year ago, he was my first eviction. I wasn't sorry to see him go.

I had a couple of tenants--including Baseball Guy and Carolsue--drive by and keep an eye on the place for me, waiting to give me the word that they were gone. The curtains were drawn, and according to the power and water companies, the utilities were still on. So, by law, it was still occupied. This went on for about three weeks. Finally, during one of my trips to Birmingham Trusted and I traipsed over there, jaunted around to the back yard where I broke into the house to find it newly abandoned.

The Good Pastor and his wife did not damage the house. But, they left all their worldly trash behind. They left the peanut butter on the counter. There were unpaid bills from a variety of sources crammed into every drawer. Some bills even dating from a year earlier. There were piles of clothing all over the floor. In fact, to go through the house, one had to walk between piles of clothes, toys, kitchen utensils, electronic gadgets, paper trash and books. It is amazing to me all the stuff people have that they deem important enough to put in their homes until it is time to leave.

Handyman #1 actually cleaned up the place. It took him two days, two cans of roach spray and more than 100 trash bags to get everything over there in ship-shape.

The Good Pastor, who it turns out was living in the tax-payer subsidized housing in downtown Birmingham, got wind that his belongings were being tossed out and immediately contacted me asking for everything back. I didn't really want to oblidge. It meant drawing out my relationship with The Good Pastor even longer. However, Legal Eagle, my evictions attorney, told me I really didn't have a choice. It was his stuff.

So, one morning Handyman #1 met The Good Pastor out at the house. The guy showed up in a brand new Cadillac Escalade. A vehicle so new that the plate and tags were not on it yet. He took two bags of junk, the clothes dryer and high-tailed it back out. Leaving the rest of his children's toys, family's clothes and other worldly belongings out at the curb.

Where Can I Find a Job Requiring Me to Only Work One Day a Week?

I called in my insurance claim on Monday. I need this claim so I can press charges--and yes, I will be doing that too. My insurance agent told me just to sit tight (yes really) and the adjuster would give me a call. I gave every conceivable way to contact me--with expressed directives to call me on my cell first.

Yesterday afternoon, while out doing something completely unrelated to Alabama property management, the adjuster called. My husband gave him my cell number and had the incredible foresight to take his vital information. The adjuster didn't call me on my cell. He didn't call on my Birmingham number either. So, today I called him.

It seems the insurance adjuster only works in the office on Tuesdays. Today is Wednesday. This isn't happy news to me.

I did do what any frantic person would do, call back, entered the company's telephony system (complete with southern drawl, may I add) and manically pushed zero until I found a friendly live body who would listen to my tale of woe.

I have asked for everything from a new claims adjuster to this guy's cell number. Instead, I got a round of "oh mys" and a litany of "bless your hearts."

That is one thing about the good people of the South, they always treat your situation as if it were big news--no matter what. I could have said, the front room has a missing 49 cent outlet cover, and it would have elicited the same level of sympathy. They will do this whether they they were planning on offering a viable solution or not. You will always get sincere regret for your situation. And, as likely as not, after your phone call the person you were speaking to will round up a few coworkers for an anonymous prayer vigil. Several strangers will up and leave their desks, casting aside their company business to voluntarily congregate in the lunch room for a moment or two on your behalf. There really are worse things.

In this case, the insurance company representative also did the next best thing to sending out an adjuster. They arranged for a contractor to head out and give me an estimate on Wayward's former home. From what was explained to me, an estimate can be submitted back to the insurance company. If I agree with the estimate, apparently somebody at the insurance company can then see about processing it without the MIA adjuster.

Hopefully the contractor works more than one day a week, because I happen to know he was in the office today.

Putting it in Perspective

Lest you think my blog is one big complaint--and I think I made it pretty clear this is personal therapy not a major bitch session--I usually like what I do. Even the stuff that hits me hard isn't meant as a big whiny, self-deprecating poor me-fest. Writing releases me from the stress. It is a way to give to God the stuff tormenting me, letting go of what I can't control.

Just maybe writing my experiences as a landlord will be of value to someone else out there. Maybe they will see the Wayward's and Smith's of the world and not make the mistakes I have made.

Yes, there are issues. And, when issues show up they often do it as a tidal wave instead of a trickle. I would prefer to have less negative experiences. But, the challenges of what I face make me a better business woman, better investor and overall better person. Or, at least I hope so.

My company has two components. One section deals with straight rentals. That is the part where I have the majority of challenges. These are the things that tax my good nature, test my sanity and give my two loyal readers the impression I am three sheets to the wind the majority of the time (for the record, I am not). What the hell! This is where the best blog-fodder comes from.

But, a good part of my company's focus is designed to help people who have good character and poor credit own a home. There are tons of folks in this category who need help. They come from all walks of life. They are of every color, nationality and background. Some have made it to the top. Some are still on the first rung of the ladder of success. It doesn't change who they are. Character matters. You can't find a section for character on a credit report.

I mentioned Terry once--a former tenant who still calls me regularly. There is Tina. I went to her wedding last October. She was able to give her three boys a better life by moving into one of my homes located in a better neighborhood and school district. She told me the changes for her family made a difference in their lives. Her middle son was heading for trouble. He found a mentor, the right kinds of friends and has turned his life around.
There is Penny, whose husband of many, many years had emergency surgery and died. This happened right after they bought a new-fangled RV. They were going to spend their golden years touring the country. Instead, when her grief subsided, she gave the RV back to the dealership and moved to Arizona to be closer to her grandchildren. There is a family from South Africa who couldn't buy a home because they hadn't been at their job long enough.

There is a grocery store manager. A single mother who needed to get away from her abusive husband. There is a family where the husband ended up going on disability when they were house-hunting, thus impeding their ability to get a loan. At least three of the families in my program have even owned rental homes. There are other stories too, some even too personal to go write about--even anonymously.

The part of my company that works with these folks is a very specific program. I am not looking to help the people who carelessly run up their credit card buying Fingerhut merchandise. I will go to bat for those who have had something happen--divorce, medical emergencies or death and are ready to bounce back. The banks won't take a chance because they had an event in their life wounding their credit and scarring their future ability for the American Dream. I am not talking about impoverished families. I am talking about hard-working people from all walks of life who had something happen to them. Tragedy doesn't discriminate.

Most of the time, things work out perfectly fine. Sometimes I get Wayward. If someone like Wayward came to me now looking for a home, she would not be the kind of person I would select. Thanks to experiences with people like her, I am much better at what I do. And, it is people like Wayward I have to thank for making me that much wiser. I couldn't buy this kind of education in a college course.

Today I got an e-mail from one of my tenants I never hear from. It simply said, "Thanks for taking a chance on us." That's the kind of people who make this worth my time.

Bee-Where?

I got in touch with Calvin today. Or, I left a message and he actually called me back. He was sweet enough to actually inquire about my health and the weather before getting down to brass tacks.

After a bit of finagling (read: groveling), Calvin has decided not to drop me as a client just yet. I am grateful for one more chance to prove I am not a crazy landlord out to make his life a living hell. Though I don't know if there is much I can do to the contrary. Calvin agreed to finish Wayward's home. He is also willing to take a jaunt out to Leeds to mow my other yard.

Calvin did manage to mention his experience last week has left him paranoid. He is apparently afraid of being stung. And, now, while toiling on some less crazy person's yard, is hearing bees everywhere.

I did assure Calvin the bees are gone. "Yes, Ma'am." He said quietly. "I sure hope you are right."

She Took the Kitchen Sink

Thank God for Former Tenant #2. Carolsue has been helping me out with a variety of Birmingham tasks. Lately it has been all about Wayward's home. Saturday, she had an opportunity to go in and tell me what I was looking at.

But first, armed with her power of attorney, Carolsue filed a police report. On Monday I am filing criminal charges against Wayward. You see, Wayward wasn't very gracious when she left. It wasn't just that she didn't want to pay, she decided to make a big deal of it.

The house isn't really too-too bad. I can think of three homes I have that were much worse when the tenants left. Except, in those cases, the tenants just left, but didn't take their junk. Wayward took this to a new level. She pulled up the flooring, took the air vents, painted the walls navy blue and took the kitchen sink. There are other things too, but you get the idea.

The major difference between my attitude a week ago and now is I no longer have to use my imagination. I now have concrete facts. And, with those facts I can move forward. The waiting really is the toughest part. Waiting wrecks havoc on the imagination. It causes all sorts of unnecessary stress. Usually my imagination is worse than the reality. This time it wasn't the case, but as Carolsue pointed out, it isn't the end of the world. After all, I have two different families clamoring for this house. A month from now, this will be something I will probably laugh about. I hope.

I have insurance. I have the law on my side. My own experiences have thickened my skin and strengthened my stomach lining. I have a business partner who is an experienced landlord and knows stuff like this happens. Even if the courts don't catch up with her, Divine retribution will.


Where the kitchen sink was supposed to be.

A Week in the Life

Neighbor 114

E-mailed me today wanting a dossier on the new tenants moving into Trusted's former home. I am sure he meant well. He was tickled to find out the new tenant comes with their own yard guy.

The Bee Whisperer

The bees are gone. The shrub is gone. The hive was new, the comb was small. Both are good things. And, he didn't need to bee suit. His dignity is intact.

The Smiths

Monday's problem.

Wayward

This one has taxed my good nature beyond belief. As soon as I can find something lighthearted in the whole situation--or if enough time passes that this isn't horrifying--I will write about it. For now, I need prayers for strength.

The Latest Buzz

Well, the yellow jackets aren't. They are bees. And, they are nesting quite nicely at Wayward's former home. I am floored. Wayward has small children. Between the bees and the jungle backyard, it couldn't have been a safe environment for her girls.

The bee dilemma isn't as simple as just getting rid of the things. There are several steps involved beforehand. First, it requires a formal comprehension of the Southern calendar--which I don't have. I still haven't figured out how long "for a spell" happens to be. Such as the exterminator saying, "You sit tight for a spell, and I will get over there in due time."

Then I am required to convey urgency to the soon-to-be-hired-exterminator in a way that I am certain they grasp. It goes like this: the county is fining me for the jungle of a back yard. I can't get the back yard cleaned up until the bees are gone (and I find a new lawn guy).

Oh, it also requires sorting through several know-it-all types to find one competent and reasonably priced person to handle this. You know, just like finding anyone you want working for you. In this case, some of the know-it-all types have been burned by out-of-town landlords before and they haven't forgotten the ones who did them wrong. I am required to listen to their tales of woe before they tell me yes, they will look into my situation. Or, no they won't.

The one thing I can say for certain with my experience in Birmingham, being out of town, many vendors want payment up front or won't work with me at all. I have more than once overnighted a check before the plumber/gas company/title officer will do the work. If they will bill me it is only because I dropped the right name or I have already proven myself.

So, my one hour bee removal research excursion has taken four days. And I still have the bees.

Bee Guy 1: arrives and tells me "Yes ma'am, they are bees." He does tell me it looks like they are aggressive (Calvin may have mentioned this) and there are a lot of them. He informs me the hive is in the eave and behind a very large shrub. This overgrown shrub is impeding #1's ability to get to the bees. Apparently, he needs me to cut the shrub before he can get to them. I explain to him the logistics. I am out of town. I don't have anyone available to cut it down. Can they not work around the shrub or perhaps cut it down themselves? After all, I am not emotionally attached to the shrub. No they can't. Not without a bee suit.

"You are a bee exterminator and you don't have a bee suit?" I ask.

He replied, "No Ma'am, why would I?"

Bee Guy #2: I call and ask if he has bee protective gear. Yes he does. But, he is too busy to get out there for a few weeks. How busy could this guy possibly be? Every single bee is living at MY house. He recommends Bee Guy #3.

Bee Guy #3: Tells me he is a former Marine. And, then tells me he doesn't need a bee suit. Yes, he has one, but his buddies make fun of him when he wears it. I don't get it. I thought Marines were tough enough to handle a little ribbing from their friends. Aren't they put in much more dangerous situations? Did he worry about what his friends said when he wore his Kevlar vest? Are his buddies going to be in my backyard? I tell him there is a big shrub in the way, that doesn't seem to phase him. I explain that I am told the bees are somewhat aggressive, he still is undeterred. He is the Bee Whisperer.

What he does want is keys for the inside to see if the bees perhaps built their comb inside the interior wall. Holy cow! In the wall?! That was a new one to me. Yes, definitely check this out. Thank you very much. Bee guys 1 and 2 didn't mention this. And, they were going to charge more.

Except getting keys is ANOTHER side quest. You see, Mr. H., one of my two process servers, met the lock smith at the house on Monday. Mr. H. was going to give the keys to Former Tenant #2 on Saturday morning. Meanwhile, Mr. H., had surgery Tuesday. Mr. H. doesn't live anywhere near this house. I don't know how this exactly happened but someone close to Mr. H., or Mr. H. himself, did manage to drive all the way back over there to drop off the keys. For all his trouble with this side quest, Mr. H. tells me I owe him a cup of coffee when I see him next.

So, very early Friday morning, former-Marine-turned-Bee-Guy-#3 will be there braving the elements to send the bees to their great reward. Hopefully.

I Can't Make This Stuff Up, Folks

I was recently asked if the stuff I write about is true.

Yep. it really is.

I really did have my former real estate agent tell off my tenant.

I really did have a tenant never move in because she found out the day she got the keys she had cancer (she is fine now, but living somewhere else).

I really did have an air conditioning unit catch fire.

I really did have a tenant--unbenownst to me--try to get the house rezoned for horses.

I really did have a potential renter go into a catatonic state because she didn't have the deposit money.

I really did have a well-meaning neighbor get into a nasty argument with a potential renter.

I really have gone through several handymen.

I really do hate tax season.

My bookkeeper really is that patient.

And, there is tons more.

Welcome to reality blogging. Writing is my therapy. Writing keeps me sane helps put things in perspective. And, it is cheaper than amaretto.

I Really Do Feel For Them

With the exception of Wayward, I hate kicking people out. It never gets easier. I don't care how much they owe me. They are still people.

I once evicted a mother and her three week old baby. There is probably a special place in hell for me for putting a newborn on the street. Even though I know intellectually it had to happen, it still bothers me. I am sure that mother found a place for her family. I hope they are somewhere happier now, and life is better. Living for free is stealing--and I understand the business side of this. But, forcibly removing someone from their home always pains me a bit.

Mr. Smith is still negotiating. Actually, he doesn't have an audience. I am reminded of the footage of Saddam Hussein going to his execution, saying something along the lines of, "Wait, wait. You have this all wrong." I am not making light of any man's demise. But, there is an interesting dynamic when someone is backed into a corner, what lengths they will go to in their final moments, out of self preservation. Mr. Smith is no exception.

I have gotten extremely pitiful e-mails from him in this past two weeks. He was told by my attorney not to contact me. That hasn't stopped him. I don't know if I were in his shoes, if it would have stopped me. I have not responded to him for a variety of reasons. First, I cannot seem to communicate with him without loosing my dignity. Second, there really is nothing left to say. Pay or move.

His last e-mail--which offered a payment plan, got me thinking about letting him stay. The more I thought about it though, the more I realized it would never work. if he hasn't paid thus far, why would a payment plan be any different. And, it would just prolong the inevitable.

Mr. Smith used some unusual tactics in this last note. Aside from the unrealistic payment plan, he pointed out that I don't like vacant homes. I don't, but he is unaware that I have become used to them. Besides vacant homes leave promise for paying renters. He also made a point to say some very flattering things right out of the play book.

And, he even told me about all the great things he has done for me. This little gem in particular caught my eye: "You know how protective I have been over you. I did not tell some people about (your program) because I did not think they would pay." Very kind of him. But, even if he did tell these folks about my company, I probably would have figured out they were bums all by myself.

Please understand, I am not dogging Mr. Smith. (I only do that when I talk to him because he drives me bonkers.) I feel for him. I feel for his family. I can't imagine how aweful this is for he and his wife. He is about to lose his home. All the e-mails and phone calls in the world won't change this at this point. The level of stress in his marriage must be beyond compare. His young children must feel the angst. This kind of heartburn affects everything. It saddens me. It really does.

I don't wish any ill will on the poor guy. And, I hope by getting him out of my home, perhaps he can find a less expensive alternative. Maybe he will learn about money management. Maybe this experience will strengthen his resolve. I really do wish these things for the man. But, it is best if he learns these lessons soon and learns them elsewhere.

Wayward Update

So, how is Wayward? Wayward is gone. The sheriff arrived today and put her stuff on the curb. Actually, I suspect she beelined out of there this past weekend. I know she was there until at least last Wednesday.

This week the fun begins. I hear she painted a couple of walls black. I hear the carpet needs to be cleaned. I hear she wasn't very tidy. And, of course there is that whole yellow jacket mess in the back yard. Which reminds me, I need to find a new lawn guy. But, Wayward's mess is nothing compared to what others have done. Wayward has nothing on former tenants when it comes to terrible housekeeping and being totally angry with me, the landlord. Nah, Wayward is an amateur on that end.

The good news is Wayward wasn't running a meth lab. She didn't take the toilets and other home essentials with her. There is a judgement against her and I know where she works. So, now it is Mr. D's turn for fun.

Oh yes, I have a potential tenant all lined up.

Can You Really Blame Him?

About a year ago--when life was simple and I only had one vacant home--I met Calvin. Calvin owns a lawn service and he happened to be down the street from said empty property. I needed the lawn taken of. He had a lawn mower. It was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.

In the course of the past year, I have called with random jobs, all related to yard maintenance. And Calvin would sweetly follow through, fax me his bill and then call to make sure I did indeedy get the invoice.

Calvin is a one-man mowing service. He has a wife and young children. He makes enough to support his family. He charges reasonable rates, at least compared to what I find in Phoenix. I didn't really thoroughly shop around Birmingham for lawn care, other than to call some landscaping services and see they are much more pricey.

Last month I asked Calvin to please take a pilgrimage over to my house in Leeds to take care of the yard. I was aware it was a bit of a drive. I had no idea the condition of the yard. Calvin called me to let me know the yard was pretty awful. By the time I got there, I found the yard in pristine condition.

Sadly, not only was the yard a challenge for Calvin, but so were the neighbors--who didn't seem to realize the Civil War ended years ago. The rednecks in that neighborhood quickly came out of their rat holes and called the police on the guy for trespassing. Calvin didn't complain. I was mortified. In fact, I found out about poor Calvin's humiliation from the Leed's police. (And, for the record, the police knew the neighbors were trouble and Calvin was gold).

Yesterday I found out there was a notice from the county at Wayward's home telling me I had 24 hours to clean up the yard. Of course this was news to me, as Wayward neglected to share this tidbit. So, I called Calvin and asked for a miracle. What I got was confirmation the weeds were six feet high (the person who found that note at Wayward's house, while checking on Wayward the Deadbeat, had told me about the weeds yesterday). And, bless him, he gave me a volume discount.

Now being the desert girl that I am, when I hear six feet weeds, I don't think critters. I think weeds. Dirt. Annoyance. And, maybe a little accidental xeriscape shade. However, poor Calvin got a swarm of yellow jackets. And, while running away from them, he tore through the front yard, into the street and ran into a car. The driver--thank God--was going slowly.

Calvin is ok. Nothing broken. However, it turns out Calvin is allergic to yellow jacket stings. Turns out, he isn't litigious. Turns out he fired me. "Ma'am," he said, with a polite Southern drawl, "you have crazy houses."