Realtor Rant: The Alabama Chapters

Oh, for the love of all things chocolate! What is wrong with these people? Do you have to submit to - and fail - some kind of psychological exam to get your realtor's license? OK, I know that's not true because we've had friends and family who had their real estate licenses and they were perfectly functional and downright pleasant. No, it's something about the magnetic field Zorak and I emit that draws the wonky ones to us, like bugs to a zapper.

So, allow me to fill you in a bit. We came to Alabama. We asked around. We received glowing recommendations on this one realtor. Zorak and I both left his office with her name from three different folks. They LOVED HER! We called her and spoke about our plans. We gave her our parameters: over twenty acres, under $X amount, we plan to do organic agriculture on the place, and we do not like new construction at all - it's not a good thing for us. She clicked, she got it. She was in the game, maaaannn! She even showed us one property that I'd have probably bought on the spot (it was so mountainous and lovely!), but which she pointed out wasn't quite what we wanted unless we planned to raise lopsided cattle with tremendous balancing skills. But it fit all the other criteria, and we really thought we had a winner. We headed back over the wall with great anticipation over the place she would help us find.

She called and said, "I have the place you are going to buy. It is perfect!" This was what I call "the first" - it was the first indication that we'd somehow failed to communicate our desires to this woman. It had less acreage than we wanted. It cost more than the limit we'd set. And the house was built in 2004. I gently explained the, erm, "drawbacks" to this property and how it really isn't what we want - at all. We thought she'd been recalibrated. Evidently you cannot undo a lobotomy.

So she emailed me a listing: even smaller than the first (so we're down to half the acreage)! Even newer than the first (have to work hard to do that)! And about $60 grand more expensive than the first (so now we're at double our original ceiling)!

No, no, nooooo. (And, speaking very slowly, I spelled it out.) How about this one? You know, with this MLS number, in this county, on this road. Can we see this one? It took her fifteen minutes to find the property, even with that information and a computer, but she finally found it and agreed to show us.

Sunday afternoon she picked us up in her shiny 2wd Yukon and drove us an hour north of here to look at a property. 85 acres of land, crappy old house, and in our price range. Perfect! We went with the full intention of being sold on the place. We called her the day before to request she bring a plat and a topo map and to make sure we had access into the house so we could see what condition it's in. That all seems so eerily straightforward, doesn't it? You'd think...

No. There's no lockbox on the house and it's in the middle of nowhere in Alabama, so naturally it was unlocked. But the tenant wasn't home, so we couldn't go in. Well, I'd have gone in, since she swore they knew we'd be there to see the place, but she wouldn't let me in.

Ok, let's look at the property. Oh. You have no topo map? You have no plat? You don't know where the property lines are? Well, here's a pond by the house. Is this part of the property? You don't know... huh. Ok. Barn? No. Pasture? No. Is there anything at all about this place you can tell us?

"YES! There's a back entrance to the property!" So we all hop into the shiny 2wd Yukon (I want you to remember this part) and drive down the road "a ways" (which is a legal definition in the really cool counties to live in!), make a turn and... she doesn't know which gate is the one to the property. And with no plat, no map, and no idea what she's doing... we weren't going to find it, either. We did see a neglected field with tracks running through it. The land was flat pasture. The land was dry, flat pasture. But she can't go down that road, because, "Oh, this is only a two wheel-drive." Good heck, woman! I'd take a Yugo down that road! No no. Let's go home. Would you like to make an offer on that place this afternoon or later this week?

Are. You. Kidding. Me. (No, I'm not joking. She honestly started in with the high-pressure sales pitch. On a property we haven't technically seen. At all. Riiiiight. Sign us up!)

Fast forward to today. Zorak gets off work, we load up in the Suburban (because I had insisted that we drive ourselves, you know, in our 4-wheel-drive vehicle) to go look at the property with the listing agent. Our realtor bailed on us this afternoon, claiming she had "fires to put out". OK, that's fine. The last time we went to walk the property she'd showed up in heels and capri pants. Zorak, the boys and I had jeans and boots, but she made a point of telling me, "And this time, you really need to dress appropriately for getting out and walking around." So, truthfully, I'm not terribly bummed that she isn't going to be there today.

We arrive. We get out there and drive the property. We climb out and walk the property. This lady seems to be a bit more on the ball (but they all seem that way at first, so we're leery). She showed us the barn, the ponds, and... she couldn't show us the house. Oh no. Our agent had told her specifically that we have no interest in the house and not to show it to us. She thought that was a little odd, and double checked, but claims "our" realtor was insistent. So. Um, yeah. We didn't get to see the house again. Like my going from door to door, trying each of them last time wasn't an indicator that I'd like to get in there? As if my nose prints on the grime of each and every window didn't tip her off? What the...??? The listing agent laughed and said, "Well, yeah, I thought it was weird, too, but she was so adamant about it I let it drop."

*sigh*

We need a new realtor. No, what we really need is a cattle prod and a bottle of muscle relaxants. But since that would probably not serve us well when the police confiscated the contents of the Suburban, I am going to have to just get another bottle of Rescue Remedy (I've sucked the last one dry, licking the dropper like a starving kitten) and find something funny in all this.

I wish we knew the secret code of Realtorese that would land us somebody who could help us. It really chaps my hide to think somebody is going to make more off the sale of whatever we buy than Zorak makes in a month - for doing pretty much nothing but irritate me and make me question my sanity. I have sisters who would do that for f-r-e-e, darnit.

There's more, but this is too long already. Now that you're mostly caught up, future Realtor Rants (Alabama Chapters) will be significantly shorter. I'll end tonight with a song, and apologies to Waylon and Willie...

Mamas, don't let yer babies grow up to be realtors.
Realtors ain't easy to like and they're harder to know.
They'd rather string you along to get that place sold,
New berber carpet and fresh painted kitchens
Add to that commission each day.
If you don't like this one, and you won't just buy it,
They'd rather you just go away.

Chorus:
Mamas don't let yer babies grow up to be realtors.
Don't let 'em quote prices and push all them features,
Let 'em be ruthless old lawyers and such.
Mamas don't let yer babies grow up to be realtors.
They're never at home and they're always alone.
Even with interest rates low....

Kiss those babies!
~Dy