The Ass. Manager

You might remember the home where the bank called the loan due?

Well, now it is a short sale.

I have been in discussion with some dude known as an "Asset Manager" who was quite friendly at the onset. Eight weeks into this process he isn't as friendly. In fact, he has become a bit bossy.

Last week I emailed him and asked two innocent questions:

1. Can he please have his goons stop calling me at all hours of the day on my cell phone?
2. Given the house hasn't sold, would the bank--which called the loan due, putting us in this situation in the first place, and what exactly was their exit plan in the first place when they started this mess?--be willing to consider a deed in lieu of foreclosure so we can just part ways and get on with our collective lives?

As far as he was concerned, neither was an option. He did ask for Kirby's (who happens to be the listing agent on this particular home) contact information.

The Asset Manager wrote me back today, telling me he felt that my real issue wasn't that I need to do a deed in lieu of foreclosure, but that I needed a different agent. Apparently Kirby isn't qualified to sell a home deep in the Hood. The Asset Manager kindly explained to me I needed an agent who was more familiar with "this type of neighborhood."

Now, before we go any further, the idea that a real estate agent is some sort of "neighborhood specialist" is really a load of marketing pap. Yes, you might read some article on "How to Choose a Real Estate Agent" on a random Yahoo site, but the truth is, a "neighborhood specialist" really means someone who sells more homes in one area. These agents Google the same information a non-neighborhood specialist Googles. An agent's true job is to work in a client's best interest--which includes negotiating price and other terms of a contract. So, essentially, any agent can be a short sale agent in any neighborhood and be quite successful at it.

And I trust Kirby.

But, that isn't what the Asset Manager was really saying. What he really meant was Kirby's skin was the wrong color for the neighborhood this home is located in. Or at least that is what I surmised. Just to be sure, I sent the e-mail to Kirby. I asked him if I was reading this correctly. He told me that was the gist he got out of it too.  And then we had a good laugh over the whole thing.

Because Kirby doesn't specialize in one particular neighborhood, he just happened to be in Calera that morning. And, he happened to be driving by my Waterford home and let me know everything looked good there. That's an added bonus that the Asset Manager would never understand.

The Pep Talk

My brothers are amazing. Simply amazing. I wish everyone had siblings like mine.

This past weekend, during a private moment, I shared our Strategic Downsizing decision with my brothers. I shared the shame I feel. I shared the uncertainty of our future. I shared the frustration and anger I have to those tenants who contributed to our ultimate decision and how I vacillate between anger to the tenants and my own underlining self-blame that I caused this situation.

These wonderful men told me they have my back. They asked what they could do to help me. They reassured me it was a strategic decision (which I know intellectually) and told me of business icons we have all heard of who have made similar choices. And, for a few minutes, they made me feel better, promising me this was not my doing. I am not the failure I have begun to think of myself as.

Then Brother #1 pointed out something I hadn't considered. Starting over isn't terrible. There was a time when my parents had to start over. My father was about the age I am now. It was 1982. My father had been out of work for two years. We lost our home in Phoenix. We moved back to my parent's hometown in Vermont and they scraped together enough to live in a 100 year old, 800 square foot rickety home in the middle of the slums. As I slept in the attic room, I could hear the critters scraping in the walls at night. My source of warmth in that room was a waterbed with a heater I kept on high. I owned one pair of pants and had to wear an ugly orange ski jacket to school because someone had given it to me, and the alternative was no jacket in a Vermont winter.

My folks pulled out of this, moved back to Phoenix and got back on track. And then years later there was a divorce. And they started over again and pulled out of that too. 

For Marty Sunshine and I, starting over won't be this dramatic. I hope. Brother #1 pointed out that my father has had a comfortable retirement for the past sixteen years. He also said, "Dad got back on his feet and he doesn't have even half the drive you and Marty have."

At this moment, I feel like we are fine-tuning our strategic downsizing. Will it be one or all we loose? Can we straighten this out in one year? Will we loose everything? Will we file bankruptcy? One of the asset managers told me a few weeks ago, that we are going to have a hard time convincing the banks we mean business when our credit has been so good for so long. Essentially, we can expect this to be an uphill battle.

I am ready for a new season in my life. The accidental business has worn me down. I asked for this downsizing years ago, and it took this long to convince Mr. Partner to do so. I am tired.

But my brothers are right, I have a lot of life left to live. And I am ready for a new adventure.

The Top Ring of Deadbeat Hell

One of the biggest concerns I had when we decided to "strategically downsize" was that the creditors would start calling. I didn't want them to talk with my children.

It is fair to say I had a right to be concerned. The calls come. Sometimes--like this past Friday--six times in one day. I have had to tell these folks, whose first language is obviously not American English, not to call me before 8 a.m. I have repeatedly told them not to call my cell phone (which is my work phone). And every time they call, I explain I have already spoken to asset managers. That seems to confuse them, as one man confessed, he had never heard of an "asset manager" and was pretty sure his company didn't have anyone in that position.

Generally the calls go like this,

Them: "Is this Marty Sunshine?"
Me: "No."
Them: "Is this Mrs. Marty Sunshine?"
Me: "Can I help you?
Them: "I am Some Random Person from the mortgage company. Would you please verify your social security number?"

At which point, I seem to throw them off their script. My former answer was, "No. I will not." The person on the other end would then explain that they can't continue the call until I give them my social security number. "That's fine. You called me. If you can't continue the call, I have other things to do anyway. Please have an asset manager call me," I will say, and they get confused all over again.

Friday I tried a new strategy. When asked what my social security number is, I said, "Why don't you give me your social security number instead?" Apparently the woman on the other end of the call found that utterly unacceptable. When I pointed out the irony, she wasn't impressed and hung up me.

Friday afternoon, after my sixth call, I e-mailed two asset managers (of the three we are dealing with), asking them to call off their goons. Loosing homes is humiliating enough. I don't wish to be reminded I am a deadbeat every day, six times a day.

The Last Six Weeks

About 40 years ago, Marty Sunshine's parents saved every last penny they had, shoved their five kids into the 1963 Ford Falcon station wagon, left their single-wide, which is (still) located 50 miles North of the US-Mexico boarder in the middle of nowhere, and traipsed over to that great amusement park in Anaheim for a vacation of a lifetime.

As the story goes--and I have confirmation from Marty and three of his siblings (the youngest was still a baby and didn't remember)--about an hour after arriving at said theme park, Marty's father came down with a case of the stomach flu and instead of letting his wife and children enjoy their day, he insisted they all leave, hang out at the hotel while he threw up and then promptly drove them home the next morning.

And thus, a life-long obsession was born.

Looking back now, I realize how much more simple and cheaper therapy might have been. Instead, Marty's (and now my children's) idea of a vacation involves Walt and the Mouse. I have fought this for years and finally decided:

1) my kids like it, we all have a good time, they won't be little much longer and there really is something magical about going into the Happiest Place on Earth for days on end,

2) as long as the trip is paid for ahead of time (generally with the commission from my most obnoxious client at the time--this year it was a Canadian couple who got a sweetheart of a home, $70k under market and then proceeded to tell me how "incompetent" I was--even though they wouldn't have gotten this home without me because it wasn't on the market) and in no way does any of it go on the credit card I will be somewhat ok and

3) Marty's Uncle Sunshine lives on this really cool island off the Gulf coast of Florida. Seeing him, the island and having a place on the beach to unwind and relax isn't all bad and makes up for the over-commercialization of Orlando.

When we set up this vacation, we were somewhat strategic. We knew it could very likely be our last big vacation for a while. When one is in the midst of financial ruin, a lot of things get to be put on hold--like vacations.

The major byproduct of this trip was that I was able to relax, something honest and brave friends told me (repeatedly) this past spring I needed to do. Loosing homes is not very relaxing. In fact, it is very stressful. How do people purposely not pay their bills? I will never know. I have spoken to many folks over the years who didn't pay me what they rightfully owed and didn't blink twice. Some told me I was a "nice" person as they personally stole from, as if sweet-talking will somehow make their debt magically disappear. After the last six weeks of fielding calls from mortgage companies, I can assure you, it doesn't work that way.

Our vacation ended three weeks ago. I am no longer relaxed, though I am not as crazed as I was back in early April. However, I am stressed. Even baseball isn't comforting.

In an effort to diffuse the monumental pressure I am feeling, I am caving. With the exception of very few and select people, I am keeping to myself. My social anxiety is running rampant. I am staying off Facebook completely because reading my cousin's excessive posts--even from 3,000 miles away--about how she has a new haircut, how much she loves children and how she needs urgent prayers for her neighbor's puppy even stresses me out.

I am not making apologies for staying away from others. My true friends understand this is what I do when I have had enough life in my day. Extreme caving is a new sort of self preservation, but it is keeping me able to function in my daily life. And that is necessary because my real estate clients truly don't understand or appreciate "caving." I need a balance.

That said, we are entering a new season of our Accidental Business. What it will look like a year from now, I do not know. I do know Marty and I have a new business we wish to pursue in the next three or four years--depending upon how long it takes to clean up our current mess. But for now, the Alabama homes are still around, whether or not I like them to be. And I have to learn to cope with this new normal, because I can't vacation forever.