Finding Peace

Someday soon I will be able to write that the accidental business is officially closed. Not yet, but the day is coming. There are still hoops to jump through. All sorts of thoughts have festered in my brain over the past few months, as we prepare for this day.


Am I sorry? Sometimes, but not for trying. Fourteen years ago, I would have still aged fourteen years even if I hadn't ever started an accidental business. In fact, in countless ways I am grateful for this experience. I have knowledge that makes me a better real estate agent, property manager, business person, wife, mother, friend and human being. I have learned compassion and humility in ways I never thought possible--nor in ways did I know might wish to learn. I have made friends along the way I never would have met. I have learned to find enormous gratitude in small, inconsequential acts. I have been touched by others' experiences and that has made me who I am--good and bad.


I still struggle with this as a personal failure, from time to time. But as I look back, I know that isn't necessarily true. There are those armchair critics who seem to know my accidental business better than I who have given me the "you should have" post-crisis advice. "You should have never gone into Alabama." "You should have paid cash or not bought when you did." "You should have never partnered with Mr. Partner." "You should have gotten out when the economy crashed." "You should sue this person or that person for wrong-doing." "You should... (fill in your own judgement here--I have probably thought it or heard it)." None of those people walked my shoes.


I can say with a clean heart that every decision with the accidental business I have made has always been with an eye towards doing what is right at all times. I am fairly sure I can stand in front of St. Pete and have a clear conscience. I haven't defrauded people. I haven't stolen or cheated. There are times Marty and I purposefully chose to sacrifice for the good of others. Most of the times it came back in ten-fold. Those times were personal and the rewards were greater than the sacrifice. The times it didn't work out made great blog fodder, would you not agree?


I have run a clean business, even when others didn't. For that I can stand proud. If my choices which didn't work out made me a failure, so be it.


Soon, we will be rebuilding our lives. I am looking forward to that, actually. I am almost 50 and starting over with virtually nothing to show for it. What a great adventure that will be. There is a saying in the South, "It can only go up from here." How true.


Will I start another accidental business sometime down the line? Maybe. Right now, no. I have my hands full just closing this one and rebuilding. But I am not against it.

The Martin Home

I didn't write about loosing the Martin house. Last year when Mr. Partner and Mrs. Roebuck were going back and forth, I offered to let Mrs. Roebuck move in as a guest until she could find a better deal or until the bank took the house away. The bank came in March and I wished Mrs. Roebuck well.


In this house lived three or four sets of folks. It was the first house Marty and I bought in Alabama without Mr. Ex-Partner. At the time, Mr. Ex had annoyed me about something so I cut him out and didn't tell him we were buying the place. For the most part, it was a good rental. It always cash-flowed and the neighborhood is still good. 


Mrs. Gray lived here. She was a hoot. When she found out I was going back and forth to Birmingham on a regular basis and not stopping by to see her, she went ballistic and turned into an outraged grandmother on me. By the time she was done, I had so much guilt all I could say was "yes, ma'am" and "no ma'am." When I finally did meet her I wasn't disappointed. She is an amazing woman.


Mr. Gray was a bit unusual. One time there was a leak in the roof. It was in the process of getting fixed, but not quickly enough. He called me to announce it was going to rain. He basically suggested I stop what I am doing, fly out to Birmingham, run over to Home Depot, buy a tarp and stick it on the roof in the next 30 minutes. When Mrs. Gray found out about his outrageous suggestion, she had him call me back and apologize for bothering me.


She was in the back, while he was on the phone, giving him a what-for, "How dare you call her with this. You get off the phone and drive yourself to Home Depot and get a tarp!" "Who do you think you are? She's a mother, for crying out loud she has her own children to put up with! She doesn't have time to run your errands..." And interspersed between his apology to me was several "yes ma'ams," to Mrs. Gray.


I let the Grays stay longer than they should have. It was a rough time for everyone. The economy was in tough shape. Mr. Gray was out of work. Mrs. Gray was working two jobs. When heard about this I knocked a few dollars off their rent. I was still covering the mortgage, but barely. They offered to move and the third time they offered, I let them.


On holidays I often hear from Mrs. Gray with a text message wishing me a Happy Easter/Christmas/Arbor Day. They are top-notch people and I am glad I met them.

Diamond Jim Update

Diamond Jim's son never got back to me. I now have a good friend seeing if she can locate him through means I don't have available. I just had a chat with Diamond Jim where he insisted we never talked yesterday. I did that stupid thing where I tried to jog his memory--yes we did, here is what we discussed--instead of just saying, "Oops! You are right. What was I thinking?" It was as if the more I insisted, the more he dug his heels in. I knew better, but I am new at this with Diamond Jim. I really hope I find Diamond Jim junior soon, or he finds me. 


Update:


I found Diamond Jim Junior. It was a difficult conversation, but he knew everything I was saying was true. He and I don't have any answers. I did make it very clear, this absolutely needs to be his last tax season.

The End is Near

I spent several maddening hours in the attorney's office this week going over paperwork, which will allow us to close up the accidental business. There are a lot of i's to dot and t's to cross. If that wasn't enough, she gave me a stack of paper that probably came from a small rainforest somewhere for Marty and I to review and look for changes. I found a few changes and have my small rainforest-sized stack, complete with mark-ups and sticky notes to hand back to her. This coming week, I will meet with her again to finalize everything.


Not to jinx it or anything, if all goes well, we will be heading into the home stretch.

I Need to find this Owner's Blog

So I found this.


Here's a snippet of the story:




“Upstairs apartment cannot be shown under any circumstances. Buyer assumes responsibility for the month-to-month tenancy in the upstairs apartment. Occupant has never paid, and no security deposit is being held, but there is a lease in place. (Yes, it does not make sense, please don’t bother asking.)”

Tooltime Tim Was Finally Given the Wall Compound

This used to be stuffed with Alabama stuff.
Now it is condensed into the bottom two
drawers of the cabinet on the left.

Marty Sunshine and I spent the weekend cleaning out the garage. We have been in our home 14 years, and I am pretty sure nothing in the past 14 years has voluntarily left the garage until this past weekend. Of course, over time, lots of things have made their way into what we euphemistically refer to as the "room of requirement."

This weekend project wasn't brought to you by some sort of marriage retreat organization, which sends unsuspecting couples into their garages all over the world, with the idea the couple will have a loving bonding experience as they sort through kid-roller blades, real estate open house signs, kitchen gadgets, tools and a plethora of half-used plastic bottles with names like, "ant killer," "Draino" or "Rainex." Though I have to tell you, if there is someone reading this that happens to run a marriage retreat and is thinking "what a great idea!" please call me first before you add such a project to your curriculum because I promise you, there are many other ways to have loving bonding experiences that don't require spouses to spend 20 minutes debating whether or not we should keep a 3 gallon container of wall compound and 473 flashlights.

This weekend project was brought to you by the folks in Alabama who have destroyed our company. You see, we had to drain our savings account before we close down our accidental business. Our last major purchase was commissioning Tooltime Tim to build a palace shed in our back yard. As Tooltime Tim was planning the shed, I had a philosophical discussion with him about how I don't want to put an adorable wraparound porch on the outside of the shed. Nor do I want specialized rooms on the interior. I just wanted four walls and a roof. What I ended up with was Tooltime Tim's rendition of a shed. But the great news is it is painted the same color as my home and it is sturdy enough to survive a zombie apocalypse.  Anyway, this weekend, we cleaned out the garage, moved all of our worldly garage possessions to the trash, thrift store or the indestructible 12 foot monument in the back yard.
 

For the past gazillion years, the records for the accidental business have lived in two filing cabinets and two fireproof strong boxes. Over the years there have also been banker boxes, and lots of other storage places, which also took over a good portion of the garage. Last year, I took--and I am not making this up--21 banker boxes to the shredder. I was finally given permission to get rid of old files. This weekend, I was able to take care of even more. All of our Alabama stuff is now condensed into two drawers in the large, metal cabinet. In a few weeks I am hoping I can toss another round into the trash heap.
 

The best part of the garage clean up--other than I can now possibly park two cars in there--is that it signaled to me the beginning of the end. Extraneous Alabama business stuff is gone. Pamphlets I passed out to lenders during a few meet and greet Alabama trips I took years ago were found and dumped. Marketing materials, old home inspection reports and other needless papers I have been required to keep were tossed or shredded. They are gone. Forever. And that means we are almost ready to close.

Quiet Enjoyment

Tammy called me. She introduced herself as a real estate agent. Then she started doing that thing people do when they have something unpleasant to say. You do know what I mean. They pause between sentences and always enunciate the last word, putting the other person on notice. In Tammy's case it went like this, "How are you..." long pause "The reason I am calling..." longer pause. "You see... I have listed a house... and I wanted to make you aware..." super long pause.

So, here's the gist, a few months ago, I was the responsible agent involved in renting out a six bedroom house. You Three may remember the story, if not, you can read about it here. Take your time I am not going anywhere.

For those of you allergic to hyper links, the Twitter version goes like this: I rented out a 6 bedroom house to a family of 12 adults. The owner approved the lease. They moved in with marginal drama but calmed down. The end.

Well, it was the end. That is, until Tammy called. You see, Tammy is the listing agent for the house next door to this six bedroom property (it is now a seven bedroom property, as they turned the rumpus room in the basement into another bedroom). Tammy called to tell me that her clients (the next door neighbors to the house I rented) have observed that there are many cars out front and "people coming in and out at all hours of the day."

I asked, "is the place unkempt?" No. "Are there loud parties after 10 p.m. every night?" No, in fact, these people are quiet and keep to themselves. "Are they parking in front of your clients' house?" No. They park in the driveway and in front of their own rental home. "Is there a strong 'herbal' smell wafting from the back yard?" No. "So your client has noticed no illegal activity?" Correct.

But me checking to see if there was no illegal activity didn't mollify Tammy. As soon as I went through my checklist, Tammy abruptly informed me her clients know how to reach the owner of this house and it is just a formality that they called me first. And by the way, sweet and professional Tammy was now a cross rabid zombie. When I explained there are 12 adults legally living at the house--and the owner has approved this--so there was nothing anyone could do, I could tell through the phone her eyeballs were popping out of her head.

And then, I asked this innocent question: Did Tammy's client--the next door neighbor to these folks--walk on over, ring the door bell and ask them not to park in front of their home? At that point, you would have think I called this woman's (hypothetical) child an ugly raging brat. But the answer was obviously no.

I did remind Tammy that the tenants, who are doing nothing illegal, have the right to quiet enjoyment. That is, they can live there as long as they pay the rent and behave themselves and there is nothing anyone can do. They are allowed to live in the home. They are allowed to park their cars on the street--and the street belongs to the City of Mesa, not to her client. And, unless Tammy could point out some illegal activity or any lease violation, I was out of reasonable options. I did tell her, these these folks are the nicest people anyone could meet, and perhaps her client could just go over, introduce themselves (optionally bring a banana bread of a plate of cookies) and explain that somehow coming home at 1 a.m. was keeping buyers away. And while her clients were at it, maybe they could explain to these nice renters they want to sell their home and please don't park the cars legally on the street.

Hopefully Tammy's clients' house sells soon for these tenants' sake. I sure wouldn't want neighbors as ugly as Tammy's clients.

Missing the Point

Diamond Jim had a tough tax season. I mentioned this to a few people, who inquired about our tax saga. I didn't blog about the serious and significant details. I will tell you three it took until 8 a.m. yesterday to get my accurate taxes. Most people who hear how long it took just say, "find someone else to do your taxes," as if that were my true issue.

The issue is Diamond Jim. He had a tough tax season. He was confused. A lot. And scattered. And not himself. And all sorts of other strangeness that tugs at my heart. His children aren't nearby. Through the advice of another Dear Friend Jim, I believe I found Diamond Jim's son on Linkedin. I sent a message. Later today, I will probably have a painful conversation with this perfect stranger about his father.

Yesterday afternoon, Diamond Jim and I had a very real conversation about the medications he is on. He is part of a disconcerting group of people who just take whatever the doctor says as the Gospel Truth, instead of doing any research or being empowered to take matters into their own hands. I don't understand this. My peers don't understand it either. But we know there are those out there who do it.

When Diamond Jim and I talked about his medications, he said he thought there might be some drug interaction that was causing the problems he has been experiencing for the past few months. He said he mentioned this to the doctor a month ago. He didn't bring it up at this weeks' appointment, but he would say something next month.

No, I replied. Call the doctor right now and ask for this list. Tell him he has until close of business Friday to get this to you. "Can I do that?" he asked me, astonished one could be so bold. When we ended the call, he said he was going to immediately call the doctor. I hope he did so.

Diamond Jim has been with me for 14 years. He isn't only the guy who "does my taxes." He helped me shape my accidental business. He has become my friend. I eat breakfast with him twice a month. My kids call him "Uncle Jim." Polly cleans his house. He calls me when he needs a ride to the airport or to take care of an inpatient procedure. Marty and Buckaroo went with him to Oregon a few years ago and drove a moving truck filled with all of his worldly possessions and brought them back to Mesa.

Sure, someone else can do my taxes. I am certain Diamond Jim isn't planning on doing taxes any more anyway. That isn't my concern. My concern is only Diamond Jim.

And Another Thing

The other reason I am frustrated about our taxes not being done is that I cannot begin the process of closing our accidental business until I have turned in my taxes. I cannot get on with my life. Alabama is still there. I want to be done. I am ready. I want to start a new season in my life.

Taxed to the Max

My taxes aren't done. It is a long story and it boils down to MY TAXES AREN'T DONE. I don't need to hear, "well take them somewhere else..." I get that. With severing a business half way through the year--something I consulted experts to make sure was doable--it makes the tax situation very tricky. It is better if I stick with where I am now. If I started over with my taxes I would have to explain to a new accountant everything and it would probably take longer than what I hope is a short-term issue. With any luck, my taxes will be done tomorrow.

My expectations were such that I expected them to be completed by the end of February, because I purposely gave all of the 8 x 10 colored glossies, receipts and spreadsheets to Diamond Jim before President's Day. Then my expectation was I would have them one of the twelve times he told me I would get them. Then my expectation was I would get them by Tax Day. Last week, when I picked Diamond Jim up from the airport, my refreshed CPA told me "Friday, at the latest." Friday morning at 7:10 he left me a message saying, "Wednesday at the latest." I countered back with MONDAY.

Today, for those of you who don't have a calendar nearby happens to be said Monday. I did see him. I even spent an hour in Diamond Jim's office, chatting merrily and going over everything because getting downright pissed doesn't get these taxes done any faster. But, for the sake of disclosure, let's just say, my stomach lining is burned through. He now promised tomorrow night. I told him 11 tomorrow morning. At 11:01 tomorrow morning I better have taxes or a jury of my peers.

I am not angry at Diamond Jim. Frustrated, yes. He is 14 years older than when we started this accidental business. This tax season was difficult on him. He forgot things he shouldn't have forgotten. He asked me questions he had the answers to. He made strange and questionable mistakes I truly don't understand how he could make. I have watched him as I helplessly realized age and mobility are catching up with him. A few weeks ago I tried contacting his son to express my concerns, only to find out he doesn't have the same cell number any more. Diamond Jim isn't the only person in my life in his situation. I see it more often than I want to admit. If nothing else, it makes me love and appreciate my older friends, so much more.

Today in his office, we discussed him "cutting back" which is a fancy, flowery way of saying "retiring." He tells me he doesn't know what to do if he cuts back. I tell him to travel to his kids' homes, visit the grandkids and great-grandkids. Take a month or two off and enjoy himself. Please. But first, finish my taxes.