I'm Opening an Indoor Ice Rink

Mario's Minion, Bruce called Marty Sunshine this morning at 6 a.m. I would have relished in delight that it wasn't my phone that was lighting up, but I was zonked out, starting my fourth day of this flu hell and not much was going to make me relish in delight. Besides, Marty has a job and I would be a fool to think--flu or not--that I wasn't going to somehow get involved in this mess.

Bruce doesn't like to call me. Frankly, I don't think he knows how to take me. All of the labels that may have been bandied around about my personality were hopefully dispelled by Kirby, who voluntarily swore to me one day that he told all what an awesome a person and landlord I really am. At the time I didn't ask why my name came up, though right now I am pretty interested. But, I digress.

Bruce's issue on Friday was that the tenant in the one and only house Bruce and Mario manage managed to screw up again. This time a pipe burst. And, it flooded the downstairs, which is 97 percent of the house. And--as I found out when Bruce called me later and related the entire scenario to me once again--the house is uninhabitable.

Though I blame it on the illness, I shortly asked Bruce, how stupid is this tenant? Did she not think to open a pipe--knowing it was freezing and then would thaw? And come on! This wasn't the first time this particular tenant has done something utterly boneheaded (and through my drug-induced stupor, I rattled off a pretty darn accurate list). Did she live in an actual house before she rented this place? I really did expect an answer to that last question, given I have seen what as passed for "shelter" in swampy areas of the south. And I assure you if the tenant lived in one of those shelter-y things, they probably never dealt with running water.

After a couple of hours of this nonsense, I have spoken to two insurance folks, Bruce and relayed messages through him to a plumber, restoration company and tenant. I am told no less than 100 gallons of water has gone though that house today. I have visions of people donning ice skates zipping across the living room. Perhaps if Bruce charges enough for admission it will cover the deductible. Of course the insurance adjuster may not get around to going over there for a few days, given he is probably busy with other claims of similar nature. And now I have one more house to tour when I make my unscheduled trip out to there this spring.

According to my cyber pal Lori, no matter when things happen during the week, a tenant will wait until Friday to alert landlord. That pretty much sums it all up.

An Open Wound

I found this business card today.

It made me cry.

Random Bama

Though I have been silent, I have a few blog posts brewing. For now, you are stuck with these tid-bits.

Mr. Partner and I have been at odds for the past couple of days. Apparently he is trying to fax me and the fax isn't going through. Would I please check my connection?

My connection is fine. I get faxes every day. But for whatever reason, I cannot receive his fax. I haven't suggested the obvious: scan. Or mail. Or as he is driving right by my home on his way to work, stop by. Or even better, give the said documents to Marty Sunshine while they are at the office. But whatever.

I hope he figures it out.

____________________________

I have two vacant homes. Actually, I have three. But one I am told will be rented by Feb. 1st.

Marty and I are bandying around whether or not I need to haul my butt to Birmingham and have a talking-to with Daisy and the new property management company in the next few weeks. I am voting no. Hopefully the property management company will concur and rent out the darn homes.

Besides, my other choice is Mario.

____________________________

And finally I got a lovely letter from Attorney Flip the other day. He sent me my bill and a super-sweet note suggesting a "Significant contribution towards my balance would be appreciated."

No kidding? As an amazing coincidence, the plumbers I use in Birmingham feel the exact same way. And statistically, I will need a plumber before I need a lawyer again so the plumber wins.

Birmingham Hath Frozen Over

Ms. Angie sent me a text yesterday. Because I was in the throes of a parenting crisis (Buckaroo and two of his buddies were missing for two hours--turns out they took it upon themselves to go to the park a mile away without permission, however at the time we were thisclose to an Amber Alert), and because she sent me a text instead of calling, I didn't realize the enormity of what she was suggesting.

It wasn't until I finished with Buckaroo did I let Ms. Angie's text message sink in. Her outside pipe had burst. Water was rushing. The only way to take care of it was to shut off the main or get a new pipe.

For those of you enjoying today's 67 degree Arizona day, let me explain. The rest of the Northern Hemisphere is dawning the realization that Mother Nature is on crack. Record-breaking low temperatures are rampant. I spoke with a friend in Chicago the other day who said it was minus 8 degrees at 4:00 p.m. Yay them. Even Birmingham, which might get a smattering of snow flurries here and there every January has succumbed to the Arctic weather.

Though I live in the desert, even I know with cold temperatures, one needs to leave a faucet line open so that if water freezes in the pipe, as it thaws the pipe will not burst. Apparently I am of  a small minority who is aware of this tid-bit because I just talked to Daisy and the plumber who are both inundated with calls of this nature. Daisy tells me I have three homes with piping issues right now. However, she said that is a small number based on the overall calls she is getting. I asked her not to get any more calls from my tenants.

But back to Ms. Angie. Because water was gushing everywhere, I ended up paying time and a half for the plumber. I did tell the plumber's charming phone person that I would appreciate it if they would send out their most competent person who can fix the problem in 10 minutes. I don't think the charming phone person thought I was serious. Apparently there isn't any damage worth noting. And hopefully Ms. Angie now fully understands one needs to keep the pipes open. 

Kirby

After spending New Year's day fretting about if Kirby paid me the rent money he owed before his company disappeared into the dust, I followed Marty Sunshine's gentle patient frustrated urging and actually called Kirby. As I kept explaining to Marty, Kirby isn't one to actually answer his phone and promptly calling people back isn't really his thing.

"He likes you. You were his favorite." Marty said for the twentieth time and I finally caved.

You see, at the end of every month, Kirby e-mails me a statement saying he paid me the rent money to me. In December I hadn't received it. Therefore I had no way of knowing if the money had been transferred to my account until many days later (the bank process is slow. It is a Southern thing). I needed to know as soon as possible, because I had mortgages due.

I did call Kirby. And by some miracle, he called back almost immediately. He had made one last deposit into my account before his company went poof at midnight. However, he had just forgotten to send me the monthly statement. We ended up talking about this and that for about 20 minutes, and I got the distinct impression he didn't want to get off the phone.

Kirby did tell me I had been his favorite landlord. He said, "Sometimes you would get squirrely like the rest of those owners, but I would get you back into shape and you'd come around." I believe if I am translating that correctly, he meant that he would ignore me and let the issue in hand pass over. When I said as much he laughed and said, "That has to happen sometimes to get those owners into shape."

Though I will miss Kirby, I will probably be better off with a different company. Perhaps one better organized. I suspect Kirby was running himself ragged. He didn't really have enough people to handle the amount of work he had. I am hoping I will have a chance to stay in touch with him down the road. Because he really was one of the bright spots in this journey.

I Really Do Hate to See a Grown Man Cry

Good riddance 2013. It was the year of the perpetual migraine.

This morning I signed an agreement with an new property management company. I negotiated a few things, including sliding scale management fees at a reduced price. Also, I asked to be able to take back the properties after 30 days of vacancy with 10 day's notice. They had 60 days of vacancy with 30 day's notice (that would equal 90 days for those of you who are skimming this paragraph). I also asked for this and that and threw in a few weird things that I was pretty sure he would balk at--including tenants pay for the stupid repairs they cause. He gave it all to me, making me wonder what else I should have requested while I was at it.

Allegedly Daisy is going to be hanging her real estate license with this dude. I called, e-mailed and texted her yesterday making sure before I gave him my contracts she would for sure be there. I never heard back, which put me in a real pickle. I had until today to change companies or I was going with Mario. So, hopefully she is there. Otherwise some one other than Daisy is my new contact.

Speaking of Mario, he sent me one last e-mail yesterday afternoon. He told me Bruce (his top minion) is crying himself to sleep every night because I did not move my homes to his company. His note made me laugh but I didn't reply. I almost asked him to post a short video of Bruce doing this and post it on their site so I could see it. But, I thought that might sound snarky and I don't want to fight with Mario. I am concerned I may need him sooner than later.

The only loose end, and it is a bit of a biggie, is I haven't seen December's rents from Kirby yet. I would tell you I am trying not to panic, but that would be a bold-faced lie. My chest seized last night and my blood pressure--which is usually pretty low--went through the roof. I am in a happy place right now and going with the optimistic idea that the rents will magically appear in my bank account like they are supposed to by the end of December before Kirby's company poofs into dust. Because I would prefer 2014 does not start out as the year of the defibrillator.

Had My Fill

I have dealt with Mario and his minions more in the past 12 hours than I have in the past 12 months. First, I had an administrative tax issue. I have been trying to get this resolved since last January. When I have asked about it before, I am told to go to their web site, watch a "short" video and voila! my question will magically go away.

In the real world, watching videos don't make problems go away. Even in Propertymanagement Land. So, this slight issue has been dragging. And in two days, if I don't get it resolved, Diamond Jim is going to have to jump through a lot more hoops and the IRS might get cranky. So, today was the day.

Anyway, after spending a good portion on my morning playing with their site (seriously, do I really need a capital, numeral and non-alphanumeric character in an 8 character password for a property management web site??? Who wants to steal the work order information telling me the garage door doesn't open properly?), I broke down and e-mailed Mario and asked him if he could provide me with a link, or dare I say it, the actual forms to fill out to change my tax ID number and bank account information? Wouldn't you know? Mario got back to me in record time with words like, "Fantastic," "Happy to help" and "How was your vacation?" (which I did not tell him I was taking).

Later today I got a cryptic e-mail telling me the gas fireplace smells like gas when the tenant uses the fireplace. The e-mail was from someone named "Manny" said, "Please help us to keep a happy tenant by contacting them as soon as possible to let them know that you have received it and you are working on it and/or setup a time to get the work completed."

I beg Manny's pardon, but I was under the impression I have a property management company so I don't have to call the tenant and reassure her this is under control. It isn't that I mind doing so, but Mario charges enough as it is. Manny can do his job and call the tenant himself. And besides, the note was kind of ambiguous as to if I was supposed to get the issue resolved or just pat the tenant on the head.

Because I have had enough of Mario for one day, and because Mario and his minions seem to do much better when Marty Sunshine calls them, I made him call. Bruce--Mario's top minion--is going to look into everything and let me know if I am calling someone or patting someone's head.

Bruce also said to Marty that it pains him that we didn't move our properties to his company. Marty gave some diplomatic answer about their Web site being a hassle, all while I was gesticulating wildly and holding up hand-written pieces of paper about the real reasons I am not using them. And I have many. Though I gave examples on my handwritten signs, Marty ignored them and kept on talking to Bruce promising that we would give them a try if the new company didn't work out.

In the mean-time, Bruce is set to call Marty back with an update on our maintenance issue. And with any luck, that should be all the contact we have with them for the next twelve months.

"Truce in the Forest"

This story was brought to the public's attention during an "Unsolved Mysteries" episode in the mid-1990s. Apparently there was a man named Ralph Blank in a nursing home in Fredricksberg MD telling a similar story. The two had been independently searching for each other and the other members of that 1944 party for years. 

I first heard about this story last night. I thought it was worth sharing. 

Merry Christmas

"Truce In the Forest" by Fritz Vincken

It was Christmas Eve, and the last, desperate German offensive of World War II raged around our tiny cabin. Suddenly, there was a knock on the door...

When we heard the knock on our door that Christmas Eve in 1944, neither Mother nor I had the slightest inkling of the quiet miracle that lay in store for us.

I was 12 then, and we were living in a small cottage in the Hürtgen Forest, near the German-Belgian border. Father had stayed at the cottage on hunting weekends before the war; when Allied bombers partly destroyed our hometown of Aachen, he sent us to live there. He had been ordered into the civil-defense fire guard in the border town of Monschau, four miles away.

"You'll be safe in the woods," he had told me. "Take care of Mother. Now you're the man of the family."

But, nine days before Christmas, Field Marshal von Rundstedt had launched the last, desperate German offensive of the war, and now, as I went to the door, the Battle of the Bulge was raging all around us. We heard the incessant booming of field guns; planes soared continuously overhead; at night, searchlights stabbed through the darkness. Thousands of Allied and German soldiers were fighting and dying nearby.

When that first knock came, Mother quickly blew out the candles; then, as I went to answer it, she stepped ahead of me and pushed open the door. Outside, like phantoms against the snowclad trees, stood two steel-helmeted men. One of them spoke to Mother in a language we did not understand, pointing to a third man lying in the snow. She realized before I did that these were American soldiers. Enemies!

Mother stood silent, motionless, her hand on my shoulder. They were armed and could have forced their entrance, yet they stood there and asked with their eyes. And the wounded man seemed more dead than alive. "Kommt rein," Mother said finally. "Come in." The soldiers carried their comrade inside and stretched him out on my bed.

None of them understood German. Mother tried French, and one of the soldiers could converse in that language. As Mother went to look after the wounded man, she said to me, "The fingers of those two are numb. Take off their jackets and boots, and bring in a bucket of snow." Soon I was rubbing their blue feet with snow.

We learned that the stocky, dark- haired fellow was Jim; his friend, tall and slender, was Robin. Harry, the wounded one, was now sleeping on my bed, his face as white as the snow outside. They'd lost their battalion and had wandered in the forest for three days, looking for the Americans, hiding from the Germans. They hadn't shaved, but still, without their heavy coats, they looked merely like big boys. And that was the way Mother began to treat them.

Now Mother said to me, "Go get Hermann. And bring six potatoes."

This was a serious departure from our pre-Christmas plans. Hermann was the plump rooster(named after portly Hermann Guring, Hitler's No. 2, for whom Mother had little affection) that we had been fattening for weeks in the hope that Father would be home for Christmas. But, some hours before, when it was obvious that Father would not make it, Mother had decided that Hermann should live a few more days, in case Father could get home for New Year's. Now she had changed her mind again: Hermann would serve an immediate, pressing purpose.

While Jim and I helped with the cooking, Robin took care of Harry. He had a bullet through his upper leg, and had almost bled to death. Mother tore a bedsheet into long strips for bandages.

Soon, the tempting smell of roast chicken permeated our room. I was setting the table when once again there came a knock at the door. 

Expecting to find more lost Americans, I opened the door without hesitation. There stood four soldiers, wearing uniforms quite familiar to me after five years of war. They were Wehrmacht! Germans!

I was paralyzed with fear. Although still a child, I knew the harsh law: sheltering enemy soldiers constituted high treason. We could all be shot! Mother was frightened, too. Her face was white, but she stepped outside and said, quietly, "Fröhliche Weihnachten." The soldiers wished her a Merry Christmas, too.

"We have lost our regiment and would like to wait for daylight," explained the corporal. "Can we rest here?"

"Of course," Mother replied, with a calmness born of panic. "You can also have a fine, warm meal and eat till the pot is empty."

The Germans smiled as they sniffed the aroma through the half-open door. "But," Mother added firmly, "we have three other guests, whom you may not consider friends." Now her voice was suddenly sterner than I'd ever heard it before. "This is Christmas Eve, and there will be no shooting here."

"Who's inside?" the corporal demanded. "Amerikaner?"

Mother looked at each frost-chilled face. "Listen," she said slowly. "You could be my sons, and so could those in there. A boy with a gunshot wound, fighting for his life. His two friends lost like you and just as hungry and exhausted as you are. This one night," she turned to the corporal and raised her voice a little, "this Christmas night, let us forget about killing."

The corporal stared at her. There were two or three endless seconds of silence. Then Mother put an end to indecision. "Enough talking!" she ordered and clapped her hands sharply. "Please put your weapons here on the woodpile and hurry up before the others eat the dinner!"

Dazedly, the four soldiers placed their arms on the pile of firewood just inside the door: three carbines, a light machine gun and two bazookas. Meanwhile, Mother was speaking French rapidly to Jim. He said something in English, and to my amazement I saw the American boys, too, turn their weapons over to Mother.

Now, as Germans and Americans tensely rubbed elbows in the small room, Mother was really on her mettle. Never losing her smile, she tried to find a seat for everyone. We had only three chairs, but Mother's bed was big, and on it she placed two of the newcomers side by side with Jim and Robin.

Despite the strained atmosphere, Mother went right on preparing dinner. But Hermann wasn't going to grow any bigger, and now there were four more mouths to feed. "Quick," she whispered to me, "get more potatoes and some oats. These boys are hungry, and a starving man is an angry one."

While foraging in the storage room, I heard Harry moan. When I returned, one of the Germans had put on his glasses to inspect the American's wound. "Do you belong to the medical corps?" Mother asked him. "No," he answered. "But I studied medicine at Heidelberg until a few months ago." Thanks to the cold, he told the Americans in what sounded like fairly good English, Harry's wound hadn't become infected. "He is suffering from a severe loss of blood," he explained to Mother. "What he needs is rest and nourishment."

Relaxation was now beginning to replace suspicion. Even to me, all the soldiers looked very young as we sat there together. Heinz and Willi, both from Cologne, were 16. The German corporal, at 23, was the oldest of them all. From his food bag he drew out a bottle of red wine, and Heinz managed to find a loaf of rye bread. Mother cut that in small pieces to be served with the dinner; half the wine, however, she put away "for the wounded boy."

Then Mother said grace. I noticed that there were tears in her eyes as she said the old, familiar words, "Komm, Herr Jesus. Be our guest." And as I looked around the table, I saw tears, too, in the eyes of the battle-weary soldiers, boys again, some from America, some from Germany, all far from home.

Just before midnight, Mother went to the doorstep and asked us to join her to look up at the Star of Bethlehem. We all stood beside her except Harry, who was sleeping. For all of us during that moment of silence, looking at the brightest star in the heavens, the war was a distant, almost-forgotten thing.

Our private armistice continued next morning. Harry woke in the early hours, and swallowed some broth that Mother fed him. With the dawn, it was apparent that he was becoming stronger. Mother now made him an invigorating drink from our one egg, the rest of the corporal's wine and some sugar. Everyone else had oatmeal. Afterward, two poles and Mother's best tablecloth were fashioned into a stretcher for Harry.

The corporal then advised the Americans how to find their way back to their lines. Looking over Jim's map, the corporal pointed out a stream. "Continue along this creek," he said, "and you will find the 1st Army rebuilding its forces on its upper course." The medical student relayed the information in English.

"Why don't we head for Monschau?" Jim had the student ask. "Nein!" the corporal exclaimed. "We've retaken Monschau."

Now Mother gave them all back their weapons. "Be careful, boys," she said. "I want you to get home someday where you belong. God bless you all!" The German and American soldiers shook hands, and we watched them disappear in opposite directions.

When I returned inside, Mother had brought out the old family Bible. I glanced over her shoulder. The book was open to the Christmas story, the Birth in the Manger and how the Wise Men came from afar bearing their gifts. Her finger was tracing the last line from Matthew 2:12: "...they departed into their own country another way."

Warm and Fuzzy

I got an early Christmas present today. Diamond Jim called me just to wish me a merry Christmas. And, he has decided to be a willing participant in this next years' tax preparation.

The Rest of the Story

Back Story 1: Last year I had a horrible client who went out of his way to be just as nasty as can be. I brought him five offers in 36 hours. This wasn't because I was a rock star real estate agent, it was because of the market conditions at the time. However, three of the offers were over asking price. In return for selling his house (twice--the first buyer walked because he was such a jerk), he belittled me, abused me and made me question whether a true jury of my peers could possibly question my motives. As soon as my commission check came, I slapped it down on a vacation to Uncle Sunshine's island and to visit the MouseHouse in Orlando as a way to celebrate Marty Sunshine's upcoming 50th birthday.

Back Story 2: The day before Thanksgiving, I was attacked by the feral kitten I was rescuing from certain death. As a reward for saving this cat's life, the beast rendered my right thumb unusable for more than two weeks. Even as I type this, there is still a little bit of sting where her fang went straight through to the bone. Stupid cat.

So, I went to visit Uncle Sunshine's island paradise. The major downside of this is that it is 2,300 mile drive from my desert home. In exchange for pleasant company and a little bit of helping out Uncle Sunshine with odd jobs, we had a fabulous beach house to stay in where Marty, the kids and I could just forget 2013 even happened--which was fine by me. So, as we were hanging out one night I got a "welcome to the family" e-mail on my phone which told me Kirby has sold his company to Mario.

Many things happened from that e-mail. First, it put a major damper on my vacation. And, because my texting thumb was incapacitated (stupid cat), I was unable to completely express my displeasure about this arrangement. Not that anyone cared what I thought anyway. But the major issue I faced was my gut tied in about 16 knots and I felt green. The result being that I knew I would rather go back to managing these properties myself than go with Mario.

As I toyed seriously with calling Carolsue, seeing what she had going on for the next 18 months and begging her to please drop everything and let me bug her endlessly until the end of time, Daisy came through with another plan. This plan would bring a bit more sanity to Carolsue. Daisy--who was about to be unemployed--was shopping around for another property management brokerages to work with before her last day with Kirby's now-defunct company. She had a couple of interviews with different property management firms. And, great news! None of those companies are ones I have personally sicked the Alabama Attorney General's office on.

Even though Daisy was changing companies, I wasn't sure I really wanted to follow her either. After all, what if her new company was one of the previous rejects from my already long list of, "I will never do business with in Alabama. Ever."? She eventually found a company she liked. I actually talked to the broker for 30 minutes while waiting for my family to get off Splash Mountain. I asked all sorts of question that either baffled or impressed the new broker.

"Do you have a clause in your tenant agreement that says if the landlord is forced to call a repairman for something stupid you caused, you--Dear Tenant--will pay for it?" Yes they do.

"Do you give keys to random strangers who say they want to see a vacant home and then just expect this person off the street to go view the property, lock the house back up and return the key (without making a copy, stealing the copper or just moving in?" No. They don't.

And of course, there was my essay question as well: "How do all'y'all feel about Section 8 tenants?" He and I were of a like mind on that one.

As it turns out, the new company sounds acceptable. I negotiated a reasonable rate with them--that's something you can do when your new leasing agent is offering to bring over landlords with a gazillion homes to add to your inventory.

I was able to send one long-ish e-mail with hopefully no typos to Mario on my phone (stupid cat) explaining he was not getting my gazillion homes and please stop sending me endless boilerplate e-mails about what a "great opportunity" this will be for me. To his credit, Mario handled the news with a lot of class and asked if we could "discuss this further." (Note to Mario: No. No we can't.) And Bliz--God bless her--wrote a letter on my behalf cutting my former ties. Apparently my phone/e-mail wouldn't do. It had to be a letter and it was very time sensitive.

Hopefully this new change will be the start of a brighter future.

Everyone Should Know

Happy birthday to Marty Sunshine who just happens to turn 50 today.

Hope it is a wonderful day! 

Coming Up Daisies

I am in week two of my vacation and about as relaxed as a girl can be. Under the circumstances.

Maybe even a little bit more.

To back up, the Friday after Thanksgiving Daisy sent me an e-mail saying my home in Pinson is about to be vacant and she may want to rent it out herself. This was news to me because I had no idea it was about to be vacant. Daisy said she was traveling that weekend and just let her know. What I found out through the course of the next few days is that Daisy's brother was on life support and they were planning on saying good-bye the following Wednesday. That would be the same Wednesday that Mario sent a "welcome to the family" letter to me and all of Kirby's landlords.

I knew about Daisy's situation so I thought I would wait until Thursday to ask her what was going on. However, many landlords who were unaware of her family issue did not know and they called her immediately--while she was in the hospital grieving over her dear brother. And that's how she found out she was going to be unemployed at the end of the year.

Meanwhile, Daisy and I chatted via text, with me hearing from her every so often with a note from her saying, "I will call you in 10 minutes," which she never did. Finally today--the day after the funeral--I called her. Though I wish to be sympathetic to her situation, I still needed to figure out what to do.

It turns out Daisy has been offered another another position with a different company and if I wanted, she would take my homes with her. Apparently her opinion of Mario and mine are about the same with her saying a few more choice adjectives to describe him and his lineage.

Truthfully, I wasn't sure if I wanted her to take all my homes. "Is the company you would be working for the same one I had discussed in length with the Alabama Attorney General's office?" I asked? No. "Is it any of the following companies I immensely dislike?" I asked, listing off about six of them. Apparently not. "Are other landlords going with you too?" Yes they are. "Will you honor the property management agreements I have in place already?" Yes she will. There were a bunch more questions. But you get the gist.

One idea was to let Mario have the other home I have in Calera (he manages one down there already) and my home in Alabaster. These properties are all located near each other and away from my other gazillion homes.  I also offered her a chance too not manage my vacant home in Centerpoint. Mario manages a few homes already on that street and that one seems to be a bit of a challenge. Daisy wanted to keep all of those properties. And all the other ones she takes care of too.

We also talked about my other drama that I was made privy of by Opal last week: My tenant in Fultondale is still behind on the rent. That is something for another blog and not something I want to address this week. Essentially, I want to get through my vacation first.

And yes, for the record, if Daisy wants to rent the home in Pinson, it was hers. But if she is living there it won't be in property management and she needed to fill out all of my applications and lease documents. She said she would let me know over the weekend if it would work for her. Hopefully this will all work out for the best.

Mario's Way or the Highway

Once upon a time, Mario called me up (at Carolsue's recommendation), introduced himself and told me he wanted to manage all my homes. I gave him one to try him out. While we were in the getting-to-know-you phase, Mario called me and asked for directions about the vacancy I had. I told him what I wanted done and without a moment's hesitancy replied, "Why don't you ask your husband what he thinks and get back to me."

Ten minutes after uttering those fateful words, he was on the phone with Marty Sunshine. Mario apparently lamented that perhaps his comment was a bit unseemly and he was pretty sure he lost any chance--ever--to manage all of my homes. Marty was sympathetic and non-committal to poor Mario, but the damage was done.

Though I am great at holding a grudge, it really isn't Mario's (Southern) attitude that kept me from dropping all of my rentals on his lap. It is the fact Mario is expensive. In the past, he has charged me a great deal of money--more than I have ever paid to turn over a vacant home. This has happened twice, with rent being withheld for months at a time. His vendors are pricey. I have worked hard to establish good relationships with my vendors but Mario won't use them unless I am forewarned there is an issue and I absolutely insist (which in the past I have). I can't prove it, but I suspect Mario's company tends to up charge his vendors. For example, if a tenant needs a plumber, he sends the plumber out, the plumber bills Mario's company and Mario's company adds a bit on top and bills me.

And then there is the issue of the useless expenses. One time the tenant had the AC company come out because they didn't change the battery in the thermostat. I fought with Mario's company about the $85 trip charge that I still don't think should have been billed to me for the tenant's laziness. Stupid expenses make me crazy. It isn't their money they are spending, it is mine.

Nor do I care for Mario's staff. I once sent an e-mail to one of Mario's minions asking a quick question. He replied, "go to our web site, log in and watch a video on how to handle this." All I wanted was the form needed to change the bank account number where we were getting our rent disbursement. I still haven't changed the bank account number because I can't figure out the stupid Web site and Mario's entire office insists on practicing tough love instead of customer service.

That said, Mario's folks have gotten the one house they manage of mine rented in record time. Twice. Perhaps it is the house (it is one of my nicest). Perhaps it is the neighborhood. Maybe they have just gotten lucky twice. But for whatever reason it is rented. For that I can't complain.

Kirby on the other hand doesn't nickle and dime me. I can use my own vendors and I have never gotten calls about tenants doing something stupid and me having to pay for it. However, Kirby has decided to sell his company. He has the right to do so. And Mario's company must be a decent fit for this merger. Kirby is big into service, happy owners (or at least happy me). But my houses are definitely vacant longer. And again, the houses Kirby is managing are in different neighborhoods and have a different feel than Mario's home, so I can't exactly conduct a scientific comparison.

I am not excited about this merger. The only certainty I have right now is that I do know I won't be managing these homes myself.

Heath Bell is No Longer a Diamondback and Other News

I was having a great vacation. And, to top it all off, I finally was connected to the internet and discovered Heath Bell had been traded to the Tampa Bay Rays. So, if being on a remote island wasn't great enough, finding out the Diamondbacks had rid themselves of a has-been player who (in my opinion) single-handedly blew the Dbaks first place lead was sheer heaven. Heaven I tell you!

Then I got an e-mail yesterday that changed my entire vacation outlook. Apparently Mario's property management company had acquired Kirby's company. The letter said it was a friendly merger--and it explains why Kirby hadn't bothered to return a few of my messages in the past few weeks. Messages that would have been relevant if he had long-term plans to keep his company--which apparently he did not.

I don't have a reference to know if this is good or bad for my accidental business. I don't like Mario. That's why he only manages one of my homes. I like Kirby. That's why for the next few weeks at least, he manages most of my homes. Mario will have to honor the contracts Kirby and I have in place, which means I won't be able to snatch these homes out of property management and then what? Manage them myself? Give them to another company? What company? I have interviewed pretty much every property management company in Central Alabama. To give you an idea of what I think about them, Mario's company is my second-favorite.

Daisy sent me a text this morning. She had been out all week, she knew I called Monday (not related to the merger). Her note said she needed to talk with me. She said she would call me when she could but right now she was dealing with the "disaster" of her company going away. Disaster was her word, the rest I am paraphrasing. I am guessing as soon as I talk with her I will have a reference on how I need proceed.

Checked Out

2013 has probably been one of the most yucky in my life. Thank God Alabama wasn't as much of a problem as it could have been. I am not sure I could have handled any more drama.

And there is drama. I got an earful I wasn't expecting yesterday when I called from a rest stop off of I-10 and asked an innocent question. I managed to mind my manners as Opal--Kirby's administrative assistant--spilled the beans.

I realized as she gave me an earful there wasn't much I could do about it at that moment. In fact, I am not going to do anything about it for a few days. For now I am here with a panoramic view of paradise on Uncle Sunshine's island. I told Bliz today that I expect to be totally relaxed by Friday. But I don't think she believes me.

Ta Da!

This is Mrs. Sherwood's new floor. Awesome isn't it.

Thanksgiving

So, I stopped by and saw my loan officer friend yesterday. He was introduced to me by Diamond Jim many years ago. As we were talking, he discovered that no, I had never lived in Birmingham. Apparently he assumed that was why I had bought a gazillion homes there. Nope.

After giving him the Reader's Digest version of how we ended up investing there and explaining I was frantically working on a Wayback Machine so I could go warn my 2002 self what I was in for, he said, "You are probably the only property investor I know who owns more than five rental homes and still has them since the collapse. Do you know how extraordinary you are to have made every mortgage payment?"

Extraordinary? I don't feel extraordinary. I feel exhausted. The extraordinary hat really doesn't seem to fit.

Yes. we have made all of our payments--sometimes at the expense of our personal grocery budget. We have made every payment on time too. I know there are investors out there who for one reason or another did not survive. I know what they went through. I don't think they gave up or took the easy way out. If we hadn't gone halfsies with Mr. Partner on our expenses we would be one of those folks. The odds were against us in 2008 and 2009. In fact, the only reason we survived in 2008 is someone bought one of our rentals. The money we made gave us enough cash to carry us through the summer of our seven simultaneous vacancies and one tenant bankruptcy.

I don't talk much about my faith. But if you know me personally, you know it is an important part of who I am. About 2009 Marty Sunshine and I started a family prayer routine with our kids. I believe in my heart it has been the cornerstone of what has kept us going with our accidental business. There have been many prayers for Alabama. For Mr. Partner. For the rest of the folks we work with in Alabama and beyond who have helped us along the way. We have prayed endlessly for our tenants. We still pray for a few past tenants--wherever they might be. And, we thank God for His continued blessings, the courage to embrace hard work and to recognize opportunities to fix our undercapitalized issues. Because we aren't truly extraordinary. We have just been blessed.

A Small Price To Pay

Other than undercapitalized issues, two vacancies and a third tenant who is thisclose to eviction (according to my sources), the only other Alabama drama going on right now is Mrs. Sherwood's flooring. You see, she has this carpeting in her kitchen that was installed in the early 1960s. It looks like--and I am not making this up--brown chain links on a dingy mustard background. Except the brown is more of a garish dried blood brown. At any rate, it is ugly. And old. And because it has 50+ years of spills, splatters and who knows what else landing on it, it is pretty gross.

When I went to visit earlier this year, Mrs. Sherwood and I chatted about her kitchen floor and she asked if she could have something newer and more attractive installed. Given Mrs. Sherwood has lived in this house since 2007, rarely pays late and handles all the minor fixes herself, this is a small request. After all, I have been expecting her to give notice any day for the past three years.

Also, I happen to know if she shopped around she would find out she is paying 2007 rental prices in a 2013 rental market (rents in general have dropped about 20 percent). So, if Mrs. Sherwood wants new flooring, I think I can find a way to accommodate that. Or at least I felt that way back in March when she asked. And besides, when she eventually moves out, I will have to have it replaced it anyway.

Fast forwarding eight months, when Mrs. Sherwood brought to my attention last month that I had agreed to new flooring, I was dealing with a bad-ass sinus infection threatening to turn into pneumonia and had a myriad of personal issues swarming around me. In addition, if you back up to last summer, on the Alabama front as you may (or may not recall), I had been dealing with attorneys, vacancies and Alabama Power. So, Mrs. Sherwood's kitchen floor was pretty far from the front of my to-do list.

Frankly, I had completely forgotten about the flooring until she brought it up again last month.

Though I remembered discussing this last March, what I wasn't certain about is what kind of deal we made. And finally, I had to admit this to Mrs. Sherwood. I hated to loose the upper hand, because for all I know I could have agreed to hardwoods throughout the house last spring. Turns out it was just the kitchen. And Mrs. Sherwood said that I had agreed to buy the materials and she would handle the rest. To her credit, she shopped around a bit, decided on a dark laminate and found a great deal for me. She tells me Howie the Handyman will be installing the flooring this week--just in time for Thanksgiving.

Hopefully the $600 I spent on flooring will keep Mrs. Sherwood happy for another several years.

Chalkville is Lovely This Time of Year

So I got a text from Daisy yesterday. Did I have any vacant upcoming homes in the new year? She was looking for herself. I would like to point out Daisy works for a property management company which manages about 250 homes. With an average industry turnover of five percent that company is looking at 12 to 13 homes per month coming vacant. So, she doesn't necessarily need one of mine to rent.

However, as it happens, I currently have two properties that might interest her. Daisy is intimately familiar with these homes, as I contact her about once a week to say, "It's rented now, right?" At which point Daisy takes a play from Kirby's book and ignores me--but thus answers my question anyway. I presume I would hear a choir of angels rejoicing moments before I got a call from Daisy saying, "I've got a tenant."

I threw both vacant houses at her at got a varied response of, "that one is a bit too far," (which I suspect means the same thing as, "that house is a half mile from Kirby's place") for the one in Chalkville to the very diplomatic-not-a-violation-of-any-federal-fair-housing-law-whatsoever response of, "I am not sure I am a good fit for the neighborhood," for my home in Centerpoint. Truthfully, unless she is a drug lord, murderer or has gang ties, I suspect she isn't a good fit either.

I was baffled by Daisy's request to rent one of my properties and wondered exactly what kinds of homes she sees every day in her job that makes mine so attractive. Not that mine are all that bad. They mostly aren't. No matter, if I can get rid of some of my dead wood tenants, that was fine with me. I have a Section 8 tenant whom I am not excited about. Her lease is up December 31st. I told Daisy to tour the house, if she liked it, give a 30 day notice to the tenant. I would love to replace the Section 8 tenant with someone different (one of these days I really should write about this tenant).

The tenants in house in Fultondale pay late every month. They give Kirby and Daisy fits. The tenants are in continual violation of their lease. I told Daisy if she wanted that house, go ahead and do the same there too.

In both cases I am serious. But I will let Kirby decide if this can happen. Otherwise, I have a lovely home in Chalkville that might be of interest if she needs to move sooner than later.

Changes

It was too easy. That's what I told myself today as I left my now-former broker's office. After 10+ years with the same company (the ones with the gold sport coats), I decided to go hang my license with a smaller brokerage.

The decision wasn't spontaneous. I had been thinking about it for some time. And, when I decided this is what I wanted to do, the particular company I am now working for was not high on my list. The broker--who now happens to be my new boss--got into the business at the same time I did. A former used car salesman, he was my mentor the first year I was in the biz. Over the course of time he got his broker's license. He bought a property management company and that is now what he is doing. Just like Kirby and Mario.

When I told my now-former broker I was leaving. She didn't react the way I expected her to, though I am not sure what I expected really. Crying and hysterics? A fist-pump along with a good riddance? I didn't expect she would take it so... so.. well.

At the very least, I expected her to tell me that being affiliated with a national company was worth something. Here's a hint for those of you who aren't in the know: the national company doesn't do a thing for agents. Agents still have to find their own leads. They still have to pay for their own advertising. All agents--no matter what size company they are affiliated with--have access to the same web sites, multiple listing information and the like. The difference is if one is affiliated with a national name, they pay more in fees.

And, in case it matters, if you need the services of a quality agent, the best place to look is one of those mom and pop companies. Why? Because no broker of a small company is going to hire a part-time or green agent. The liability is too great. The small boutique brokerages pay more for better agents because those agents don't have to be trained and there is a smaller chance of a lawsuit. When I negotiated my new pay structure I threw that at my new broker and he agreed--which will help my bottom line. But it is true. The new agents go to the mega-companies because the smaller brokerages won't take the risk.

But I digress...

When I told my now-former broker where I was going (something I was dreading her asking--given this was her top agent who left years ago and I am told by my sources there was some bad blood at the time) she said she had never heard of my new company. I figured it would take her about three nano-seconds after I walked out the door for it to dawn on her. Then she would either hate me or ask me to come back with a better offer.

For the record, she came back with a better offer. But money isn't the only reason I am moving on. And also for the record, it really is unproductive to entice someone to come back by throwing more money at them. If they want to leave, they will do it anyway--either now or later. And by keeping them just a teensy bit longer, all you have done is buy their loyalty for the short-term. This is true in business and in rental homes. Let them go.

The irony of it all is that I am working for a company that pretty much mirrors Kirby's brokerage. Both companies have about the same number of homes. This new company has a Kirby, a Daisy and an Opal. And now they have a me. I am excited. I am still a sales agent. And I won't be doing leasing exclusively (because my opinion of leasing homes hasn't changed). However, in the short-term, this is part of the deal. Which is fine given my under-capitalized issues being what they are and all. In the six hours I have been with my new company, I have already leased a home. I can't complain.The decision was right. It was time.