James, the Hell's Angel Turned Carpet Installer called me this morning, while I was herding six girl scouts at a local park. Sadly, he speaks Southern, and I speak English and he is very difficult to understand. Couple that with being outside around screeching/giggly preteen girls and you can see why under normal circumstances it might be difficult to follow him.
However, casting those conditions aside, it turns out he was crystal clear. You see, he was installing new flooring at my home on Grayson Valley. Apparently the "flooring" needed to be updated for a number of years. The carpet was threadbare in spots and the bathroom and kitchen floors were rotted, stained and scratched. Too bad Jack never mentioned it when he was managing this house.
Not that I am bitter.
But I am. Still.
But enough about that. The reason James, the Hell's Angel Turned Carpet Installer called me was to tell me I had a water leak in the laundry room. He just wanted me to know. Because I am a "regular." Apparently, it had been leaking for quite some time. Given the house is empty, there is no way I would have known this.
"Were you able to successfully turn off the water?" I asked, holding myself together.
"Do you want the water off?" He replied, completely bypassing the obvious. "What you really need is a plumber."
Though I am not in Birmingham, I was pretty certain the only plumber I could find on Easter weekend would be one with a child in Harvard. And, I simply didn't feel like funding Junior's education. Besides, other than me (and James, who is unable to finish installing my flooring), nobody else is being inconvenienced by this issue.
It took every ounce of self-control not to call Carolsue or Kirby this morning, and ask either of them to go out and assess the damage. My reasoning was that it was their weekend off too. James had assured me it wasn't "bad", but I am not sure what that exactly means. I guess I will find out when I call my plumber on Monday.
On a side note, if you need to reach me, my old e-mail address still works right now. It is just forwarded to my new gmail account. If you know how to import contacts into gmail, please let me know.
Saturday, March 30, 2013
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
The Break-Up
My business has been an extension of me for a long time. And now it is time to let it go. The process is bittersweet, as I find releasing. I see new things on the horizon and I am excited with the possibilities that await. However, the clean-up is killing me. It isn't a clean break, it is a dwindling down with tons of details and I will probably miss a few few.
In the process of winding down my accidental business, I am finding one of the most challenging issues to be changing e-mail address. My e-mail address is my business name. I like my business name. I like my e-mail address. I have had the same e-mail address for 10 years. It isn't just giving up the e-mail address, it is giving up all that is associated with it. It is like breaking up after a long-term relationship and then running into some acquaintance who says, "And how is Bob? I always thought you two were a fabulous couple." And then having to not only explain that Bob is not fabulous but deal with the five stages of grief your acquaintance will go through on your dime.
Under normal circumstances I would just keep the e-mail address, but but 1) I have to pay for it and 2) I can't seem to make the e-mail address work with my cell phone. So, being a real estate agent and not being able to receive e-mail on my phone is counterproductive to fixing our under-capitalized issues.
We live in a day and age where everything we have is attached to our e-mail address. If you don't believe me, try logging into Craigslist, Twitter, Facebook, Netflix or Amazon without one. And, these are the ones I can currently remember. I am sure there are other cyber institutions who want to know. Also, I need to change my real estate marketing to my new e-mail address, including my business cards, Web site and (by law, with penalty of a stiff fine--these people aren't messing around) the Arizona Department of Real Estate.
Speaking of e-mails, one of the annoying quirks I have run into is that Blogger won't link my new e-mail address with this blog. That's going to be interesting. I haven't figured that one out just yet. Perhaps it is a sign?
Eventually, my tenants need to be informed, just so they can e-mail me to tell me rent will be late. Or, in some cases, send me something sentimental that I should forward to 237 of my closest friends in the next five minutes, otherwise Bill Gates won't leave his entire fortune to me when he passes on to his Great Reward.
Diamond Jim is handling the legalities of shutting everything down with the IRS. I also need to close down the bank account. But first I need to tell Mario and Kirby where to forward my automatic rent payments. I also probably need to let people know so that avoid having to tell some random acquaintance Bob wasn't really all that fabulous after all.
In the process of winding down my accidental business, I am finding one of the most challenging issues to be changing e-mail address. My e-mail address is my business name. I like my business name. I like my e-mail address. I have had the same e-mail address for 10 years. It isn't just giving up the e-mail address, it is giving up all that is associated with it. It is like breaking up after a long-term relationship and then running into some acquaintance who says, "And how is Bob? I always thought you two were a fabulous couple." And then having to not only explain that Bob is not fabulous but deal with the five stages of grief your acquaintance will go through on your dime.
Under normal circumstances I would just keep the e-mail address, but but 1) I have to pay for it and 2) I can't seem to make the e-mail address work with my cell phone. So, being a real estate agent and not being able to receive e-mail on my phone is counterproductive to fixing our under-capitalized issues.
We live in a day and age where everything we have is attached to our e-mail address. If you don't believe me, try logging into Craigslist, Twitter, Facebook, Netflix or Amazon without one. And, these are the ones I can currently remember. I am sure there are other cyber institutions who want to know. Also, I need to change my real estate marketing to my new e-mail address, including my business cards, Web site and (by law, with penalty of a stiff fine--these people aren't messing around) the Arizona Department of Real Estate.
Speaking of e-mails, one of the annoying quirks I have run into is that Blogger won't link my new e-mail address with this blog. That's going to be interesting. I haven't figured that one out just yet. Perhaps it is a sign?
Eventually, my tenants need to be informed, just so they can e-mail me to tell me rent will be late. Or, in some cases, send me something sentimental that I should forward to 237 of my closest friends in the next five minutes, otherwise Bill Gates won't leave his entire fortune to me when he passes on to his Great Reward.
Diamond Jim is handling the legalities of shutting everything down with the IRS. I also need to close down the bank account. But first I need to tell Mario and Kirby where to forward my automatic rent payments. I also probably need to let people know so that avoid having to tell some random acquaintance Bob wasn't really all that fabulous after all.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
Up In The Air
I am not sure I will ever find the energy to write all that needs to be written about the house in Grayson Valley. This is the house that we bought with Jack, that he "managed" and then returned to us. The house in question went through a tenant a year, with little drama, other than having to turn it over. It rented easily for the most part. The rent for this house is pretty high for Birmingham in general, but not for the neighborhood.
Right now the home is vacant. I am not able to get a tenant until I have some of the maintenance issues resolved. One of the reasons I went to Birmingham was to find out if the home in question needs a roof. You see, Mr. Little, my now former tenant sent me pictures showing me where it was leaking. In his estimation, as a computer programmer--who has no experience with roofing whatsoever--it needed a roof. I didn't know. I know it was leaking. And, Mr. Little was was there. I am here.
So, when I got there, one of the main tasks I had planned was to have someone look at the roof and tell me if indeed it needed to be replaced. My roofer said yes. Kirby said he wasn't sure. The roof looked like a roof to me. I just want the darn house rented out.
At any rate, the Monday I was in Birmingham, I called my insurance agent and asked for their honest assessment. After all, given my experience with insurance adjusters not wanting to reimburse me when the tenant stole the carpeting and kitchen sink, I guarantee if it doesn't need a roof, he is going to let me know.
And, that was two weeks and four days ago. I have heard nothing since. And, because the roof is the first item that needs to be fixed before I can have the walls painted. And before I can have James, the Hell's Angel, Turned Carpet Installer out there to put in new flooring, all is on hold until I know whether or not the roof needs to replaced or patched.
This week, Kirby sent a roofer out to the home to get his opinion. A patch is much cheaper than a replacement. So, I called the insurance company and politely told them I am withdrawing the claim. I explained it wasn't personal. I just need to get the work done and the house rented. The only person out there right now was Mr. 114 who was mowing the grass and fixing the drainage issue and an errant snake who looks waayyy too cozy in my yard.
Last I checked, "I am withdrawing the claim" is music to an adjuster's ears. After all, there is less work to do. There is no money to pay out. There are less frantic homeowners to deal with. Like I said, music!
Except this adjuster.
The adjuster actually called me about an hour after I withdrew the claim and told me not to cancel the claim! I had to pause for a moment, check around for hidden cameras and then resume my call. I was under the distinct impression adjusters were allergic to passing out money. He apologized for the delay (explaining his father had passed away the day he and I talked), but thinks I may want to reconsider. Oh? "Exactly how bad is it?" I asked. At which point the adjuster promised me some sort of paperwork tomorrow.
I don't believe I really will see anything tomorrow, but nothing was going to be happening along the lines of repairs anyway until next week. And, if I can't get my answer, I will just go on without him.
Right now the home is vacant. I am not able to get a tenant until I have some of the maintenance issues resolved. One of the reasons I went to Birmingham was to find out if the home in question needs a roof. You see, Mr. Little, my now former tenant sent me pictures showing me where it was leaking. In his estimation, as a computer programmer--who has no experience with roofing whatsoever--it needed a roof. I didn't know. I know it was leaking. And, Mr. Little was was there. I am here.
So, when I got there, one of the main tasks I had planned was to have someone look at the roof and tell me if indeed it needed to be replaced. My roofer said yes. Kirby said he wasn't sure. The roof looked like a roof to me. I just want the darn house rented out.
At any rate, the Monday I was in Birmingham, I called my insurance agent and asked for their honest assessment. After all, given my experience with insurance adjusters not wanting to reimburse me when the tenant stole the carpeting and kitchen sink, I guarantee if it doesn't need a roof, he is going to let me know.
And, that was two weeks and four days ago. I have heard nothing since. And, because the roof is the first item that needs to be fixed before I can have the walls painted. And before I can have James, the Hell's Angel, Turned Carpet Installer out there to put in new flooring, all is on hold until I know whether or not the roof needs to replaced or patched.
This week, Kirby sent a roofer out to the home to get his opinion. A patch is much cheaper than a replacement. So, I called the insurance company and politely told them I am withdrawing the claim. I explained it wasn't personal. I just need to get the work done and the house rented. The only person out there right now was Mr. 114 who was mowing the grass and fixing the drainage issue and an errant snake who looks waayyy too cozy in my yard.
Last I checked, "I am withdrawing the claim" is music to an adjuster's ears. After all, there is less work to do. There is no money to pay out. There are less frantic homeowners to deal with. Like I said, music!
Except this adjuster.
The adjuster actually called me about an hour after I withdrew the claim and told me not to cancel the claim! I had to pause for a moment, check around for hidden cameras and then resume my call. I was under the distinct impression adjusters were allergic to passing out money. He apologized for the delay (explaining his father had passed away the day he and I talked), but thinks I may want to reconsider. Oh? "Exactly how bad is it?" I asked. At which point the adjuster promised me some sort of paperwork tomorrow.
I don't believe I really will see anything tomorrow, but nothing was going to be happening along the lines of repairs anyway until next week. And, if I can't get my answer, I will just go on without him.
Found at the Grayson Valley Home
"Just a Little Guy" -- Words found in Mr. 114's text yesterday, which I finished reading right after I climbed down off the ceiling fan.
Monday, March 18, 2013
The Tax Deadbeat
Through a back story that mirrors the length, plot points and politics of a Russian novel, I consciously did not pay all of my property tax bills for 2012. I knew I owed them, and had every intention of making good. Just not on time.
Then I got busy.
However, Jefferson County, the same county where the majority of City of Birmingham is located (and incidentally is in bankruptcy proceedings--though I am sure that is a total coincidence to me not paying my property taxes), did not forget. In fact, last month they sent me a friendly reminder. Which was a pleasant surprise to find out they had my address, as they couldn't bothered to send me a friendly reminder of the actual amount due any time during 2012.
Sadly, last month when I received notice, I was dealing with real estate drama, Girl Scout cookie sales and a trip to Birmingham. So, I didn't give much thought to property taxes. Though, I did at some point casually mention to Mr. Partner we owed them and should do something about it. Mr. Partner agreed. And that is about how far I got with the whole thing.
Saturday (March 16) I received another friendly letter telling me if I did not pay the delinquent property taxes by Wednesday March 20, 2013 they would start the tax lien process. They promised there would be judges, and courts and scary legal stuff involved. Though I had never been delinquent before, I pretty much took them at their word.
At the suggestion of Saturday's notice, I tried to pay the property taxes online only to find out Jefferson County's Tax Assessor Web site wasn't working. Not quite ready to panic, I figured I would just happily call up the phone number listed on the letter, and submit a payment over the phone. How hard could it be? Three hours of a busy signal later, I found out.
Apparently there is as special department for people who pay property taxes late. The department is staffed by rejects from the Department of Motor Vehicles who have small, small lives and thrive on adding misery and panic to the unsuspecting. There is no semblance of Southern hospitality for those of us in my situation. We are condemned tax deadbeats and deserve every and all hateful things that happen to us from this point forward. At least that is what the woman answering the phone conveyed to me in the first 38 seconds of my call.
As I explained to the woman on the other end of the phone line my situation (the Web site to pay wasn't working please let me pay you), she curtly informed me that her office did not take payments over the phone. She then ordered me to write down an e-mail address. At her mercy, I complied.
"Can I submit a payment to this e-mail address?" I innocently asked.
"No, just e-mail them and let them know the site isn't working. If they get enough complaints, they might fix it."
I believe she must have sensed that I rolled my eyes because she then became even more unpleasant. It was her suggestion that if I want to redeem myself from the low status of pond scum and if I am and to keep my home, she would recommend I get on a plane tonight, fly out and pay the property taxes in full in her office tomorrow.
"You don't take UPS?" I countered. After several variations of this particular question it turns out they do ("Do you take overnight deliveries?" and "How do people out of town manage to pay on time at the end of the year?"). And that is certainly cheaper than a last-minute air fare that will probably route me through Newark.
I had to go to the UPS Store anyway today, but wasn't looking forward to spending the same amount as a tank of gasoline to send over my payment to a pissy woman who probably would loose my check just out of sheer spite. I toyed with sending the money and a box of chocolates as a total bribe to Carolsue and begging her to find the tax assessor's office on my behalf tomorrow.
In the end, it appears enough people did e-mail whomever was in charge of that particular payment Web site, because I finally was able to get the site to work. It took a few thousand tries, but I now have confirmation it went through. All taxes are now paid, and I think I will make a better effort to pay them on time this year.
Then I got busy.
However, Jefferson County, the same county where the majority of City of Birmingham is located (and incidentally is in bankruptcy proceedings--though I am sure that is a total coincidence to me not paying my property taxes), did not forget. In fact, last month they sent me a friendly reminder. Which was a pleasant surprise to find out they had my address, as they couldn't bothered to send me a friendly reminder of the actual amount due any time during 2012.
Sadly, last month when I received notice, I was dealing with real estate drama, Girl Scout cookie sales and a trip to Birmingham. So, I didn't give much thought to property taxes. Though, I did at some point casually mention to Mr. Partner we owed them and should do something about it. Mr. Partner agreed. And that is about how far I got with the whole thing.
Saturday (March 16) I received another friendly letter telling me if I did not pay the delinquent property taxes by Wednesday March 20, 2013 they would start the tax lien process. They promised there would be judges, and courts and scary legal stuff involved. Though I had never been delinquent before, I pretty much took them at their word.
At the suggestion of Saturday's notice, I tried to pay the property taxes online only to find out Jefferson County's Tax Assessor Web site wasn't working. Not quite ready to panic, I figured I would just happily call up the phone number listed on the letter, and submit a payment over the phone. How hard could it be? Three hours of a busy signal later, I found out.
Apparently there is as special department for people who pay property taxes late. The department is staffed by rejects from the Department of Motor Vehicles who have small, small lives and thrive on adding misery and panic to the unsuspecting. There is no semblance of Southern hospitality for those of us in my situation. We are condemned tax deadbeats and deserve every and all hateful things that happen to us from this point forward. At least that is what the woman answering the phone conveyed to me in the first 38 seconds of my call.
As I explained to the woman on the other end of the phone line my situation (the Web site to pay wasn't working please let me pay you), she curtly informed me that her office did not take payments over the phone. She then ordered me to write down an e-mail address. At her mercy, I complied.
"Can I submit a payment to this e-mail address?" I innocently asked.
"No, just e-mail them and let them know the site isn't working. If they get enough complaints, they might fix it."
I believe she must have sensed that I rolled my eyes because she then became even more unpleasant. It was her suggestion that if I want to redeem myself from the low status of pond scum and if I am and to keep my home, she would recommend I get on a plane tonight, fly out and pay the property taxes in full in her office tomorrow.
"You don't take UPS?" I countered. After several variations of this particular question it turns out they do ("Do you take overnight deliveries?" and "How do people out of town manage to pay on time at the end of the year?"). And that is certainly cheaper than a last-minute air fare that will probably route me through Newark.
I had to go to the UPS Store anyway today, but wasn't looking forward to spending the same amount as a tank of gasoline to send over my payment to a pissy woman who probably would loose my check just out of sheer spite. I toyed with sending the money and a box of chocolates as a total bribe to Carolsue and begging her to find the tax assessor's office on my behalf tomorrow.
In the end, it appears enough people did e-mail whomever was in charge of that particular payment Web site, because I finally was able to get the site to work. It took a few thousand tries, but I now have confirmation it went through. All taxes are now paid, and I think I will make a better effort to pay them on time this year.
Thursday, March 14, 2013
True Story
I had a woman call me once who was a neighbor to one of my rental homes. A former tenant had told her I was a real estate agent in a state beginning with a letter "A."
So, she hunted me down by calling the Arizona Department of Real Estate (and presumably Arkansas and Alaska too) and getting my phone number. She called to tell me that she had loaned the tenant prior to the one currently living in the home next door to hers curtains more than three years earlier. And, she now wanted them back. What was I going to do about it?
So, she hunted me down by calling the Arizona Department of Real Estate (and presumably Arkansas and Alaska too) and getting my phone number. She called to tell me that she had loaned the tenant prior to the one currently living in the home next door to hers curtains more than three years earlier. And, she now wanted them back. What was I going to do about it?
Friday, March 08, 2013
The Next Chapter
We are closing our accidental business. It just isn't necessary any more. I still have all of my gazillion rentals. But, I am only managing a few of these properties. I am leaving the picking and choosing of tenants and the day-to-day crazy stuff to Kirby and Mario, my two property management companies.
In actuality, nothing is really changing except for the amount of paperwork, money and time that I am spending. When I started my accidental company, Marty Sunshine and I did not have any properties in just our own LLC, and needed an outlet to collect rents and a place to handle expenses. Now that we have three particular homes in an LLC all to ourselves, on paper at least, the accidental business is somewhat redundant.
When Polly heard we were "closing our doors," so to speak, she was alarmed. She asked if I was sad. Yes, in some ways I am. I have fleeting feelings of failure as a property manager--though this is completely my choice and I have been somewhat quasi-successfully managing rental properties for the past 10 years. And, for that matter, I am still managing a few homes--just my easy tenants. I know I am not a failure as a property manager, at least I know that intellectually. But shutting down still stings just a little. Even if I am willingly doing it.
What I explained to Polly was ending our accidental business is like getting to the end of a delicious and captivating novel. You are sad to come to the last chapter, because you want to know so much more about the characters and what happens next. But, reading the last page and closing the book leaves you room in your life to read another book that might be just as wonderful.
I want the next chapter in my life to be like that too. I need too make room for that adventure.
This blog isn't going away. Writing is a form of therapy for me. Writing is cathartic. Writing is as a part of me as breathing. Besides I still have things to write about. Trust me. The weirdness hasn't ended. And just maybe I will find something new to write about too.
In actuality, nothing is really changing except for the amount of paperwork, money and time that I am spending. When I started my accidental company, Marty Sunshine and I did not have any properties in just our own LLC, and needed an outlet to collect rents and a place to handle expenses. Now that we have three particular homes in an LLC all to ourselves, on paper at least, the accidental business is somewhat redundant.
When Polly heard we were "closing our doors," so to speak, she was alarmed. She asked if I was sad. Yes, in some ways I am. I have fleeting feelings of failure as a property manager--though this is completely my choice and I have been somewhat quasi-successfully managing rental properties for the past 10 years. And, for that matter, I am still managing a few homes--just my easy tenants. I know I am not a failure as a property manager, at least I know that intellectually. But shutting down still stings just a little. Even if I am willingly doing it.
What I explained to Polly was ending our accidental business is like getting to the end of a delicious and captivating novel. You are sad to come to the last chapter, because you want to know so much more about the characters and what happens next. But, reading the last page and closing the book leaves you room in your life to read another book that might be just as wonderful.
I want the next chapter in my life to be like that too. I need too make room for that adventure.
This blog isn't going away. Writing is a form of therapy for me. Writing is cathartic. Writing is as a part of me as breathing. Besides I still have things to write about. Trust me. The weirdness hasn't ended. And just maybe I will find something new to write about too.
Thursday, March 07, 2013
Why We Don't Have Peace in the Middle East
I am told I have the house in Alabaster rented--even without the fourth bedroom.
The potential tenants in question, treated the entire rental application like they were negotiating a peace accord in the Middle East. I treated it with a mild amusement and told Daisy I wasn't impressed.
The prospective tenants also wanted a stove from the modern age. Check. I was already planning on putting one in.
They told me they would "bypass" the fact the fourth bedroom wasn't done. I explained to Daisy they could bypass this fact up their a$$, because there isn't a fourth bedroom and there will never be a fourth bedroom and if they can't figure out the difference between an attic and a bedroom I can't help them.
I don't hate them. And, if they can pay--which it looks like they probably can--it is fine by me. I was planning on painting the patchwork quilt of color on the walls and a new stove anyway. But, let them think they won that part of the negotiation. Perhaps that will stop them from asking for an indoor pool.
The potential tenants in question, treated the entire rental application like they were negotiating a peace accord in the Middle East. I treated it with a mild amusement and told Daisy I wasn't impressed.
The folks wanted the wall colors to match. Fair enough. Right now there is about 15 colors on every wall. Ms. Shirley, a former tenant from a year ago, did this and then stiffed me the last month's rent as she left never to be heard from again. Fortunately, Mr. Wonderful Former Tenant was a self-proclaimed "guy" and just didn't care about mis-matched paint smears randomly placed on every wall.
They told me they would "bypass" the fact the fourth bedroom wasn't done. I explained to Daisy they could bypass this fact up their a$$, because there isn't a fourth bedroom and there will never be a fourth bedroom and if they can't figure out the difference between an attic and a bedroom I can't help them.
The tenants then told me if I would take $200 less for the monthly rent, they could pay a year up front. I countered back with they could pay the full amount of rent every month and we would get along just fine. I don't want a year up front, it would be harder to get rid of them if things don't work out.
The potential tenants own a packing and shipping store nearby, so while I was at the Alabaster house, I swung by to see what I thought. I told Daisy I would only call her back if I hated them. What I discovered is the owner was busy helping someone. He was business-like. I didn't see or hear anything that raised any red flags while watching him. There were two young men (presumably the two sons I heard this tenant has) in the store also who were very helpful, asking repeatedly if they could help. Given there isn't much to do in a pack and shipping store if one isn't packing or shipping, I looked out of place. So, after a minute or two, I left.
I don't hate them. And, if they can pay--which it looks like they probably can--it is fine by me. I was planning on painting the patchwork quilt of color on the walls and a new stove anyway. But, let them think they won that part of the negotiation. Perhaps that will stop them from asking for an indoor pool.
Wednesday, March 06, 2013
Random Bama
It is a superfluous blog kind of day, as I am heading for the airport after I finish my English muffin. My inner introvert is cowering in the corner, knowing the rest of my week is taken up by a plane flight, Girl Scout cookie sales and real estate. Some day I am actually going to travel for recreational purposes.
__________________________________________________________________________
It turns out I need a coat of paint or two on the house in Alabaster. Apparently I didn't translate Daisy's (that's Kirby's assistant) optimistic rhetoric appropriately when she told me "it needed some touch up paint" and suggested she would be willing to take care of it herself. With all due respect to Daisy, I am sure she meant well, but she touched up the walls with the wrong colors. She knows this now.
I did get a quote for painting the place. Apparently the painter was planning on using solid gold paint. That's the only reason I could think of that would make the cost of painting so expensive.
I hear nobody who looked at the home has complained about it (though I dare her to tell me). They were all too busy gawking at "fourth bedroom." But I suspect it is probably a significant factor in the reasons we haven't gotten this place leased so far.
Also, I found out Former Tenant Ms. Shirley took my stove and replaced it with a 1972 variety. I happen to believe in Divine Retribution, which is what was keeping me going when I found out about the stove.
__________________________________________________________________________
Speaking of Former Tenants, I spent the last 24 hours with a few divorced dads that come from Alabaster. I met Mr. Former Wonderful Tenant. He is truly a nice and interesting guy. We chatted for almost two hours at his office. Well, he chatted. I listened and asked a question from time or two. If Diamond Jim ever decides to retire, I may bring in Mr. Former Wonderful Tenant to handle my taxes for me.
I also saw Mr. 114, former next door neighbor to my Alabaster home. As he put it, he still owns the place, he just isn't legally allowed to set foot on the property. Mr. 114 will be helping me out at the Grayson Valley home. Mr. 114 was also quite chatty, but I certainly hope he has his very own Divorced Dad Magnet handy, because I think Mr. Formal Wonderful Tenant called dibs.
__________________________________________________________________________
The house in Grayson Valley is a blog or three unto itself. Monday morning I had James, the Hell's Angel Turned Carpet Installer out there to give me an idea for flooring. Kirby and I sat on the floor, looking over carpet samples while James measured everything.
I also had Mr. 114 out there to give me an idea of what to do with a significant drainage issue on the property. To put it mildly, when it rains water runs downhill. Then it turns right and runs downhill again through my property, congregating with it all of its little water droplet friends. They then parade through my back yard and down the rest of the hill. So, my back yard is like a water gathering place before their final journey--like the Diamond Club at the airport. Unfortunately these drops of water weren't raised right and keep destroying my back yard. They also are coming entirely too close to my actual home and I don't need the house flooding.
In addition to Mr. 114, Kirby and James, the Hell's Angel Turned Carpet Installer hanging out with me on Monday morning, I also had Doug, the general contractor, and Scott, the insurance adjuster at the house. There is a theory being bandied about that the home needs a roof. It might. It also might just need to be fixed. I am ok with either option as long as the rain water stays outside and it doesn't cost me what I think it is going to cost. Right now I am letting Doug and Scott work it out.
My last visitor Monday morning was Ms. Betsy, the elderly next door neighbor. Actually, a woman came out and said Ms. Betsy was inside and wanted to meet me. Would I please come over? Kirby and I did, with me whining on my way over, "Why? Does she want to tell me that the former tenants had barking dogs or other former tenants were crazy? Why?"
"Oh she probably wants to just tell you the yard floods." Kirby replied with a Southern nonchalance.
"That's silly." I protested. "That is not a reason to meet someone."
Anyway, Ms. Betsy is in the late stages of cancer and she wanted to say hello. She wanted to tell me the former tenant's dogs barked, but they were better than the crazy people (Harold and Haroldine) that were there before. And she wanted to let me know that my yard floods.
__________________________________________________________________________
It turns out I need a coat of paint or two on the house in Alabaster. Apparently I didn't translate Daisy's (that's Kirby's assistant) optimistic rhetoric appropriately when she told me "it needed some touch up paint" and suggested she would be willing to take care of it herself. With all due respect to Daisy, I am sure she meant well, but she touched up the walls with the wrong colors. She knows this now.
I did get a quote for painting the place. Apparently the painter was planning on using solid gold paint. That's the only reason I could think of that would make the cost of painting so expensive.
I hear nobody who looked at the home has complained about it (though I dare her to tell me). They were all too busy gawking at "fourth bedroom." But I suspect it is probably a significant factor in the reasons we haven't gotten this place leased so far.
Also, I found out Former Tenant Ms. Shirley took my stove and replaced it with a 1972 variety. I happen to believe in Divine Retribution, which is what was keeping me going when I found out about the stove.
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Speaking of Former Tenants, I spent the last 24 hours with a few divorced dads that come from Alabaster. I met Mr. Former Wonderful Tenant. He is truly a nice and interesting guy. We chatted for almost two hours at his office. Well, he chatted. I listened and asked a question from time or two. If Diamond Jim ever decides to retire, I may bring in Mr. Former Wonderful Tenant to handle my taxes for me.
I also saw Mr. 114, former next door neighbor to my Alabaster home. As he put it, he still owns the place, he just isn't legally allowed to set foot on the property. Mr. 114 will be helping me out at the Grayson Valley home. Mr. 114 was also quite chatty, but I certainly hope he has his very own Divorced Dad Magnet handy, because I think Mr. Formal Wonderful Tenant called dibs.
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The house in Grayson Valley is a blog or three unto itself. Monday morning I had James, the Hell's Angel Turned Carpet Installer out there to give me an idea for flooring. Kirby and I sat on the floor, looking over carpet samples while James measured everything.
I also had Mr. 114 out there to give me an idea of what to do with a significant drainage issue on the property. To put it mildly, when it rains water runs downhill. Then it turns right and runs downhill again through my property, congregating with it all of its little water droplet friends. They then parade through my back yard and down the rest of the hill. So, my back yard is like a water gathering place before their final journey--like the Diamond Club at the airport. Unfortunately these drops of water weren't raised right and keep destroying my back yard. They also are coming entirely too close to my actual home and I don't need the house flooding.
In addition to Mr. 114, Kirby and James, the Hell's Angel Turned Carpet Installer hanging out with me on Monday morning, I also had Doug, the general contractor, and Scott, the insurance adjuster at the house. There is a theory being bandied about that the home needs a roof. It might. It also might just need to be fixed. I am ok with either option as long as the rain water stays outside and it doesn't cost me what I think it is going to cost. Right now I am letting Doug and Scott work it out.
My last visitor Monday morning was Ms. Betsy, the elderly next door neighbor. Actually, a woman came out and said Ms. Betsy was inside and wanted to meet me. Would I please come over? Kirby and I did, with me whining on my way over, "Why? Does she want to tell me that the former tenants had barking dogs or other former tenants were crazy? Why?"
"Oh she probably wants to just tell you the yard floods." Kirby replied with a Southern nonchalance.
"That's silly." I protested. "That is not a reason to meet someone."
Anyway, Ms. Betsy is in the late stages of cancer and she wanted to say hello. She wanted to tell me the former tenant's dogs barked, but they were better than the crazy people (Harold and Haroldine) that were there before. And she wanted to let me know that my yard floods.
Monday, March 04, 2013
I Hope They Aren't Looking for a Butler's Pantry or Wine Cellar Either
A long, long day. More later. But, a quick story.
As a total coincidence, while out with Kirby today, a prospective tenant called about my Alabaster house. They had just viewed the home and were "outraged" at the condition of the fourth bedroom. They said they had a strong interest in renting out the house, but demanded to know what the landlord was going to do about the floor in the fourth bedroom. Apparently, the flooring and walls were completely sub-par.
I heard Kirby tell the caller, with a bit of amusement in his voice--seeing as though I was sitting right next to him--he would be willing to check with the landlord and let the prospective tenant know what indeed I was going to do about the fourth bedroom. When he got off the phone he told me about the call, with me utterly confused.
"The house in Alabaster has only three bedrooms," I reminded him.
"I know. He swore there were four." Kirby said.
We discussed this for a minute or two, trying to belatedly decipher what on earth the caller was talking about. I was half-convinced the possible tenant just had the wrong house. After all, after personally having seen this home this weekend, an imaginary bedroom should be the least of someone's concerns. I had been sad to discover the place isn't in as tip-top shape as I was expecting. However, I happen to know, nobody added on another wing since I saw it Saturday.
I finally figured out what the issue was. The "fourth bedroom" is not a bedroom at all. It is the attic space.
As a total coincidence, while out with Kirby today, a prospective tenant called about my Alabaster house. They had just viewed the home and were "outraged" at the condition of the fourth bedroom. They said they had a strong interest in renting out the house, but demanded to know what the landlord was going to do about the floor in the fourth bedroom. Apparently, the flooring and walls were completely sub-par.
I heard Kirby tell the caller, with a bit of amusement in his voice--seeing as though I was sitting right next to him--he would be willing to check with the landlord and let the prospective tenant know what indeed I was going to do about the fourth bedroom. When he got off the phone he told me about the call, with me utterly confused.
"The house in Alabaster has only three bedrooms," I reminded him.
"I know. He swore there were four." Kirby said.
We discussed this for a minute or two, trying to belatedly decipher what on earth the caller was talking about. I was half-convinced the possible tenant just had the wrong house. After all, after personally having seen this home this weekend, an imaginary bedroom should be the least of someone's concerns. I had been sad to discover the place isn't in as tip-top shape as I was expecting. However, I happen to know, nobody added on another wing since I saw it Saturday.
I finally figured out what the issue was. The "fourth bedroom" is not a bedroom at all. It is the attic space.
Sunday, March 03, 2013
The Birmingham Weekend
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The only evidence left from our Anual Meeting. Minutes are titled, "What Happens in Birmingham, Stays in Birmingham"
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In addition to my fabulous girl's weekend (which now includes a serious Downton Abbey addiction), I spent Sunday with Carolsue. We went to church--only because I made her. In return I was treated to a lovely lunch and great conversation (thank you Sweetie, you always make me laugh). Afterwards, I went back to the hotel room and made several phone calls and texts to finish rounding out my Birmingham visit.
One of my texts was to Mr. 114, asking if I could borrow a tape measure in the morning. Another call was to Kirby. Kirby, who manages about 200 landlords and even more properties, has in the past confided that I am his favorite. I have no idea if that is true or not, but I am open to flattery. And, in case it isn't I am bringing him Girl Scout cookies tomorrow. I also got in touch with Mrs. Green and will be inspecting her house at some early-early hour in the morning.
It is late. So, I must end this blog now, my dear three readers. I will either go to bed, get a good night's sleep and wake up refreshed and ready to start my Monday. Or, I will watch another episode of "Downton Abbey" and add a bit extra concealer under my eyes tomorrow.
Friday, March 01, 2013
Tripp'n with Bliz
By the time you read this, I will be on an airplane en route to a cold Midwestern City blanketed by Arctic weather, whereby, I will have a layover and pick up Bliz and board another airplane to Birmingham. Bliz, my dear, dear friend of way too many years, took me up on my offer to come with me to Birmingham this trip in hopes of keeping me from being arrested company.
A few weeks ago, I asked Bliz what she wanted to do while we were in Birmingham. Museums? Zoo? Nature walk? She said she wanted to see my houses. Personally, I can think of lots of other fun-fun things to do that don't involve driving into Leeds, but whatever.
Anything Bliz wants to do, short of hunting for alligators in the swamps in Alabama is fine with me. Frankly, I looked up "Things to Do In Birmingham" and didn't come up with much of a list anyway. So perhaps Leeds won't be too bad.
In years past my trips to Birmingham have been a chore. This is probably the first trip I have actually anticipated with a joyful heart. I am thrilled she is coming along for the ride.
A few weeks ago, I asked Bliz what she wanted to do while we were in Birmingham. Museums? Zoo? Nature walk? She said she wanted to see my houses. Personally, I can think of lots of other fun-fun things to do that don't involve driving into Leeds, but whatever.
Anything Bliz wants to do, short of hunting for alligators in the swamps in Alabama is fine with me. Frankly, I looked up "Things to Do In Birmingham" and didn't come up with much of a list anyway. So perhaps Leeds won't be too bad.
In years past my trips to Birmingham have been a chore. This is probably the first trip I have actually anticipated with a joyful heart. I am thrilled she is coming along for the ride.
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