How I Spent My Monday

Monday morning, I was contacted by the owner with the fabulous home but crummy kitchen cabinets. He had another application for the house, but if my folks wanted it, my folks could have it. Just say the word. In a last-ditch effort to get a commission from Sunday's rental lunatics, I contacted them and passed along the owner's message.

The man said no they did not want the fabulous home. But they were still interested in the dump. Or, at least he was. Either she had come to her senses and decided that the master bedroom was not a most desirable egress to and from the parking spaces and the back yard or she had found some other minor thing wrong with the home. There is, of course, lots of things wrong with this home--including but not limited to health and safety hazards. But my educated guess is she decided the flooring was the wrong shade of taupe to match her Christmas tablecloth.

The man also kept me on the phone for way too long telling me way too personal information about the problems in their relationship with me changing the subject every time he came up for air. Finally he said, "I shouldn't be telling you this. You aren't my therapist."

My personal rule is that one should not admit they have a therapist. Call me old fashioned, but it isn't really any of my business. Of course neither was everything else he included in the moments before. Or for that matter everything that was said Sunday in my car right after they broke up on State Route 51.

Anyway, I did get back to the owner of the fabulous home they weren't interested and sent him on his merry way. I didn't tell him he dodged a year of high-maintenance hell from these folks. But he did.

A couple hours later I received an e-mail from the woman client. Since I had last heard from them, they had decided they might want to pursue the fabulous home after all and could I make this happen? And while I was making it happen, would I please call the agent who has the dump for rent and find out all they were planning on doing to make this place more wonderful. Just in case the fabulous home didn't pan out.

Then I fired them.

I wasn't rude (Marty suggested I take out the snarky parts). But I was direct. And wouldn't you know it, the man wrote me back. He was utterly befuddled that I found his behavior unacceptable. Perhaps I have a different memory of the days events than he and his lady friend did?

Yep, perhaps I did. And so did the neighbors at the second house who were gawking at them as they unloaded a ton more personal information that should only be reserved for his therapist.

Hours later, the man wrote me again. Completely ignoring my resignation, and the fact he acknowledged earlier that day I had fired them. He told me they decided they want that last home: AKA "The Dump." Would I help them secure it?

I thought about it for around nine seconds. If I represent him I get a commission. If I walk away, they can live in their own karmic retribution. (Did I mention this place is a rat hole with a new coat of paint?) I passed. I have my sanity back and at least this way I won't be going to jail any time soon.