Picky and Bitchy

The morning that the sheriff’s department arrived to shut down The Howards Group due to Mr. Howard’s arrest for grand theft of escrow funds, the soft-spoken and sweet Monica was there to represent us little guys.

December 18, 8 am, Monica, a licensed realtor employed by The Howards Group showed up for work thinking, “business as usual,” and instead ran into two officers guarding the front door. She pleaded to have access to her office and files. Her requests were met with stern rejection. Goddess, I wish I could have seen this first hand when she stood up to the armed bulldogs and informed them that this is beyond punishment to the criminal; their refusal to allow her access affects at least 20 innocent lives. She was granted five minutes to grab what she could. As fate has it, I am blessed to have been one of the more recent files stacked on her desk. After hearing her account on the phone, I had to say again to myself, “Damn, I’m a lucky girl.”

Since then, Monica has shown the Tree House several times. No one can ever say she hasn’t done her best to make up for what Daniel lacked. For one, the woman has follow through and two she has mad patience for a radical seller such as myself. My freak flag started to fly one day after she brought the one millionth prospect over while I was away.

I left the condo for an hour, knowing that they would be there soon. She is always punctual - almost to a fault. As soon as I opened the door upon my return, something felt “off.” Slowly, I put one foot in front of the other, like a cat sniffing out new territory. I opened the half bath in the hall and the hairs stood on the back of my neck. As I made it to the living room, goose bumps showed on my skin. In the bedroom, I could hear dangling remains of the conversations that were happening only moments before. “Ack,” I thought, “your imagination is working over-time again.” But this feeling of being judged, almost violated wouldn’t go away. After a few minutes of arguing with myself, I called Monica.

“Hey, Monica, thanks for showing the apartment today,” maybe if I try a gentle approach, I won’t seem like such a monster.
“No problem,” which is often her answer, even when it is a problem.
“I have a coupla questions for you about the buyers that were just here.”
“Sure.”
“So, there was more than one here. Right?”
“Yeah, there were.”
“A couple. Two boys...?”
“Uhhh huh,” she confirmed.
“What were their attitudes like?”
“Uhmm,” I could hear her confusion starting to swirl.
“Okay, I’m gonna cut to it. I have the feeling that there were two bitchy, judgmental Queens in here and they had some unflattering things to say during their walk through.”
“Yeah, I wouldn’t have thought to put it that way, but, yes, they did have an edge,” she confirmed in her gentle manner.
“No potential of them putting in an offer?” I already knew the answer.
“No, it was relatively quick. We probably won’t hear from them again.”
“I apologize to hit you with this, Monica, but I can feel them here and they left a trail of yuck in their wake. Sometimes, I can be overly sensitive to that kind of thing. Is it possible to screen those kind of people out? It would save us both time, and I wouldn’t be left with this funky feeling.”

The last thing I was thinking was that this was her responsibility, but the negative ooze that dripped from my walls was overpowering and I had to speak up. Would you believe, she gracefully apologized on behalf of those guys? All done without compromise to her own confidence or capability. Where do they grow people like that?

After hanging up the phone, I immediately went on to thoroughly smudge the Tree House with burning sage.

The next potential buyer was much more respectful, even goofy in a very sweet way. Monica was not only on time, but 15 minutes early for the appointment and caught me with my pants down. Literally. I stuck my head out the door, asked her for two minutes while I threw on some cut offs and a pair of flip flops. Tousled and sloppy, I scooted past the party for a short walk on the property by the canal while they explored my living space, room by room, closet by closet. I keep the place tidy and relatively clean, but leave belongings like books, photos, and a couple altars exactly as they are, where ever they are. A tapestry of Ganesh, a Hindu God, hangs on one wall, pictures of Ammachi - a living saint from India, are on both my altars, crystals and Om symbols are scattered around and a sticker that says, “Namaste,” (a sanskrit greeting used in India, pronounced nahm’-uh-stay) is stuck on the inside of the front door at eye level. None of which is unusual to me or most of the company I keep, but I have had a couple, “normal,” friends over in the past that commented on my few art pieces and small statues. “You have a thing for fat guys?” one of them asked. “What would make you say that??” I was totally confused by the question. “Because you have all these little statues of fat guys around here. What’s that all about?” After I took my friend in for a moment, I realized he was serious. “That would be Buddha. He represents the realized man,” I answered stifling a hearty laugh from my own belly. So, I can only imagine how my choice of objects may look to the “straight,” eye.

After what must have been at least 20 minutes, I returned from my walk to the Tree House and didn’t expect to cross paths with Monica and those with her. I was kind of hoping that they would be finished with the walk through and that Monica had locked up, like she’s done in the past. Before I reached for the handle, the door opened, “Oh good, here you are. We have a couple questions,” Monica said as the buyer and his realtor filed out of the condo behind her. He had an eager, childlike look on his face and was trying to catch my attention with his eyes. Feeling a little exposed, I quickly smiled back at him and turned my focus to Monica as she asked her questions. My answers were directed to all three of them. “Anything else you need to know?” I asked. “That’s all. Thanks, Tara Shea.” After Monica and the other realtor stepped toward the elevator, the buyer stood in front of me, brought his palms together and bowed clumsily as he said, “Naam-eh-stee.” My heart melted at his gesture. I felt seen and respected. “Namaste,” I honored him in return.

If only the others could have been remotely as gracious.

Monica and I were having difficulties coordinating our schedules for a couple buyers and decided that it would work best if we put a lock box on the door for days that neither one of us could be there. We agreed that only perspective buyers accompanied by a realtor will be able to see the apartment without Monica or myself present. Seemed like a brilliant idea to me.

I can be so naive sometimes.

One afternoon I came home after another realtor brought their client to do a showing in my space and found the stove pulled several inches away from the wall. What were they looking for? Crumbs? Also, it is customary for a realtor to leave a business card behind in a conspicuous location before leaving an unattended showing. There was no card to be found.

Only a couple days later, we had another interested party come to see the condo. This time the evidence of their presence needed to be swept up with a broom. One of the most detestable features of these apartments in Royal Park are the 4 1/4 ceiling tiles and filter right above the front entry, covering the air conditioner and air intake. One of the tiles in the Tree House had an old water stain from a backed up drain. In the past, I had the unsightly tiles covered with a tapestry but removed it just before this showing to have it cleaned. The ugly tiles and the stain were in clear sight. During their walk through, someone reached up and moved them for a better view of the even uglier, ancient machinery above. When I returned there were parts of broken ceiling tile on the floor and those on the ceiling were disheveled leaving the air conditioning unit exposed.

Yes, I know, I’m a little sensitive, but can we maintain some dignity here? Understandably, I’m in a short sale and I should be grateful for everyone that takes an interest in the condo. The cliche, “beggars can’t be choosy,” seems to run circles in between my ears, but this is still my home and my misfortune does not give people the right to treat my space with any less civility or dignity than they would a multi-million dollar mansion.

As I stood in the kitchen, dog earring the realtor’s business card and contemplating how I would express my disdain for her clients’ tact (or lack thereof), the phone rang. It was Monica. “They want to know what is wrong with the air conditioner,” she innocently asked. “Tell them there is nothing wrong with the A/C,” I answered tersely. After a breath, I calmly explained to her the ceiling parts I found on my floor. She showed surprise and disapproval. This time I asked, “Am I asking too much?” “No,” she consoled, “that sort of thing really shouldn’t happen. You’re right, it’s totally inappropriate. Lemme call her right now and I’ll get back to you.”

She called later in the day, not to discuss our previous conversation but to schedule another showing for more prospects. This time, I was prepared and posted this note:



It hung in the kitchen door frame facing the entry, so it was the first thing the buying party saw upon entering. No one ever saw it though. Monica called once again to say that the ceiling tile wreckers want to put in an offer and she was confident the bank would accept. So there is no need to endure any more tire kickers kickin around the Tree House.

Monica stopped bringing people over all together - these buyers are serious. And just in the nick of time; the countdown to foreclosure continues.

It's Not Sad, Only Temporary

I would like to address a couple of the comments I have received since openly announcing to the world my grim state of financial affairs and potential homelessness. More than once, people have said how sad my circumstance is. Call me crazy, but all I see is good fortune and abundance. I have been given the opportunity to spend time on myself and focus on some deep emotional healing. This has also given me the opportunity to work on a very time consuming project that may lead to some financial abundance. But at the very least, I have had adventures that would be impossible otherwise. Other than the cat companion I had for three years, it’s just me (and maybe a few of my demons). There’s no children, no “significant other,” or ailing parent. There’s no crippling disease or any reason why I can’t get out there and make the money it would take to save this ship from sinking. Oh, but there is a reason - I insist on doing it my way. Not necessarily the smart or easy way, but I refuse to be another desperate zombie going through the motions of “what we’re supposed to do,” to be successful, which in turn should make us happy; because that doesn’t make me happy. I’m still not entirely sure what DOES make me happy, but as a result of getting tangled in this snowball of investments and wreckage, I have been afforded the luxury of time to find what might make me happy. From field experience and research, I’ve found that teaching, dancing, hula hooping and writing make me happy; all the while bringing a little happiness to the people in my classes. Unfortunately, I haven’t figured how to use my talents to any financial advantage. (Yet.) But none of this is sad. It has all been a blessing.

I have been on evacuation stand-by for roughly 20 months. Nothing is certain, except that this place is the closest thing to “home,” that I have ever known; more so than the house where I grew up. Even if I leave the Tree House only to get the mail, there is an instant relief when I return and open my front door. This is my Home, my nest and there is a loving comfort that cradles me every time I enter.

One night, just over a year ago, I realized that time was running short here. There was no way I would be able to keep up with the mortgage, taxes and maintenance fees - not to mention all the elements of a home that need constant repair and replacement. It was early evening, the sky had wispy clouds and strokes of blue, gold and pink. The trees across the canal looked especially green and camouflaged an elegant blue heron. I stepped out on to the balcony, sat in my deluxe camping folding chair with the built-in foot rest and cup holders and rolled myself a cigarette. My movements were slow - this was my meditation for the evening. Consciously, I drew each breath in from my tobacco and said farewell to every tree and every animal that lived in them. I memorized how the water rippled on the canal and the air felt on my skin. The day was coming soon that I would have to leave and I wanted to be ready. In my mind I decided, “This is my choice to leave." And so there was peace.

Since that night, I have flip flopped like a regular John Kerry (no offense, just thought it would be a vivid reference) as to whether or not I would be able to save 105 2E. Never did I not want to keep my home - I’ve just done my best to be realistic, practical. It’s been like that on again off again relationship. You know, you’re crazy in love with that awesome person but sometimes love and comfort aren’t enough to keep it together.

Each day that I am here, in the Tree House, is a gift. It has been especially cold these past few weeks and that makes Home even more comforting. Now, there is very little furniture inside; on the balcony only my pink bicycle and Tibetan prayer flags. (The previously mentioned camping chair, went out with almost all my other possessions exactly one year ago.) Yet as soon as people enter my Home, what I hear most often is, “Cozy.” And it is. A couple months ago, I got a little country style kitchen table, the kind with the white tile; it’s nestled into the corner under the window, across from the fridge with two chairs at right angles. Someone moving out of a friend’s building gave it to her and her to me. In the hallway to the living space, across from the archway to the kitchen, is an embellished tapestry of Ganesh, the most beloved saint of Hinduism. He blesses me every time I leave and greets me every time I come home. Inside the living space, I’ve made a desk out of cinder blocks and a sawed down, interior door. My ex-boyfriend gave me this ergonomic chair; the kind with the big, blow up Pilates ball in the center. He also salvaged a wheeling cart with three exposed shelves from a friend that was going to throw it away. The desk, cart and a contemporary “bronzed” lamp, make for my “office.” Just past my desk that is slightly angled from the wall are two Persian “looking,” rugs. They look like a million bucks but are Home Depot fakes. My friend Chase, who lived two buildings away, left them for me when he moved to Boca with his girlfriend. The rugs cover the width of the living room. Chase also left his daughter’s twin bed, which I put to good use. My Moroccan family gave me a handmade, low profile, leather ottoman from Fez. It was stuffed with tapestries and wool. One of the pieces from inside this ottoman was actually a duvet cover. A deep olive green, satin cover made for a queen size duvet. So, I wrapped the twin size bed with some old blankets to give it a little softness and stuffed it all into the duvet cover. Ziiiip. Threw on a couple yellowish/gold pillows I reclaimed from Will’s place upon my return to the states and viola, I have a Moroccan lounge! Included in the “lounge” is a money tree that I nursed back to health from the ex’s house. And the floor lamp my friend Karen salvaged from bulk pick up. The bolt that connected the lamp’s top to the bottom was stripped, so I fixed it with copious amounts of wood glue, vice grips and patience. The television and the two-in-one DVD, VCR player were also hand-me-downs. (Or are they on “loan?” I can’t remember at the moment.) They both sit on a coffee table that I’ve had for years; another one of the many pieces that I gave to Chase when I left the country, ne’er-to-return-again-but-did. He was very understanding when I reclaimed whatever his cats didn’t spray in my two month absence. Then there’s my guitar, a narrow, old wooden, Italian chair that was my grandmother’s, a spindly end table from 1950-something with the veneer peeled off and a few original art pieces from Chase and another super talented friend.

A few times, it’s been tempting to add more comforts to the place where I finally found Home. Especially when I see an undiscovered treasure from Goodwill or a rock bottom sale at Ikea or a post from FreeCycle announcing a most perfect love seat free for the taking. But then I remember, my time is limited here. There is an exciting journey soon ahead and I prefer to travel light. And that’s not sad, nope. Maybe, as a result of these circumstances, I’ll even finally find my happiness. Don’t you see? The possibilities are endless! Well, except for the possibility of getting another loan anytime soon....