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....

Wonderful News!

To echo and alter the wise words of Mrs. Gump, opening my mailbox is like a box of chocolates, only never quite so sweet. I’ve grown accustomed to stink-bombs in the mail. The most recent one came from an attorney who is representing someone that backed out of a contract to purchase the first house I ever owned. That would be the Progresso Park property; the next quadrant of Florida real estate predicted to BOOM that went POOF instead. Mr. Buyer wanted his $5,000 escrow deposit returned. A deposit dating back to August 21, 2008.

“Ooooh, yeah,” I muttered under my breath as I adjusted my eyes on the attorney’s letter. I was remembering how my broker, Daniel Howards, told me that this guy put in an offer on my property and a few others that Daniel represented. Mr. Howards figures that once the transactions had started, the buyer did some research on our beloved broker and saw that he has a record for “domestic violence.” Let me explain that a little further. Daniel (who stands at 6’2”, weighing approximately 190 lbs is Buff Boy thru and thru) and his live-in-boyfriend (is a mere 6’4”; not as solid but very able bodied), just a year before, got into an ugly lovers’ brawl. Teddy, the boyfriend, had some more powerful municipal connections and beat Daniel to the punch (pun totally intended) and pressed charges. Whatever happened, I’m sure neither one of those boys are wearing halos. According to Daniel, that’s why the buyer didn’t want to do business anymore. Also according to him, a buyer losses their deposit when they terminate a contract. Security deposits are the same as escrow. That kind of deposit money, I learned only until reading the attorney’s letter that day, does not rightfully go back to the home owner unless the buyer “executed a release of escrow form.” And of course, my buyer did not do that. Not only that but the buyer was “protected from any rejection of the offer AS PRESENTED to the short sale lender, or if the Buyer cancels the contract prior to any confirmation of short sale from the Lender.”

Have your eyes begun to cross from this jargon yet? Welcome to my world.

The letter demanded I return any of the escrow money that I may have received. Well, that’s easy, I haven’t seen didley from any of my properties since 2005. Daniel swore that he had initiated the process to apply for the escrow money which he guaranteed to be legally mine. He said we would split the money when everything cleared. As stated by this letter, the attorney’s client, Mr. Buyer, had made several attempts to reclaim the deposit, which as far as I can tell, is rightfully his anyway. But then again, my melon gets totally twisted on all this legalese and grown-up speak. Further, the letter gave me a deadline - 8 days to advise the attorney’s office as to whether or not I will “execute this return of escrow, thus demanding that the Howard’s Group to return funds to [the attorney’s] client.” Meaning, I sign this paper saying that I, Tara Shea Ananda, don’t want anything to do with this money. I was further warned that the client was prepared to move forward with a legal action, blah, blah, blah, “PLEASE GOVERN YOURSELF ACCORDINGLY.” So I called the lawyer directly.

He did his best to explain what the letter meant without providing any legal advise. Basically, if I don’t sign this request for return of escrow, I could be personally held accountable for the $5000. (Which is almost laughable. Have you ever heard of blood being drawn from stone?) His only suggestion was to get myself a lawyer. Resourceful as I can be at times, I remembered a yoga friend of mine who specializes in real-estate law. As she reviewed the letter and enclosures, she shook her head, “How do people do that? How can he be getting into the escrow money?” I’m not sure if she was speaking logistically or consciously. “Sign it,” she said referring to the form relinquishing my interest to the monies. “You could contest the demand. But do you think $5000 is worth the stress of a law suit? Save yourself the burden and walk away.” I nodded, “Yeah, that’s what I’ve been feeling too.”

My next stop was to the attorney’s office who generated the letter. He and a witness met me in the conference room to discuss and sensationalize the situation at hand.

A few weeks before the delivery of the most recent stink-bomb in my mailbox, the mortgage broker who had been working on the short sale of a property in Boynton Beach and the Tree House called to let me know that she quit working for Daniel and The Howards Group. Twilah is a soulful, christian woman who has confided in me much about her personal life and her struggle to lose weight and gain respect. “Girrrrl,” she warns, “that Danny boy, he up to no good. I couldn’t take it no moe. I qui.” Twilah often avoided the consonants in her words. “He werk me too hard and don’t pay me enuff. He jus mean. And you know,” she added in a hushed voice, “he be takin escrow money.” You know the cliche....all stories have at least two sides. It’s not that I didn’t believe her, I just needed to investigate a little further on my own. At that moment, I was more worried about where she was going to work next. “I dunno,” she responded to my concern, “I’m jest prayin.” “Please keep me updated, Twilah, okay?” “You got it, Baby Cakes.” I knew it wouldn’t be long for her to find another office to hang her license. She is a short sale miracle worker. Several days before my visit to the attorney’s she called me again, “I gotta place,” she announced. “Can you finish my files?” I asked. “Yeeeaahhh,” was all she said calmly with a little squeak. After some silence she said, “Well, you’ll hafta fill out some papuh werk to release The Howard’s Group.” “Okay, let’s do it,” I was eager to get going on the plans to take my Tree House off the MLS (“market”) for a short sale and apply for a loan modification. In other words, the bank might be willing to adjust my monthly payments and allow me to keep the property. “Lemme call you tomorrah and we’ll arrange a time.” She didn’t call, didn’t answer and never returned my calls. That was, until I was leaving the friend’s office, gearing up for my next destination.”

“Soooo, when can I see you?” I asked Twilah. (I am so slow to learn sometimes.)
“Where you at now?”
“Just west of 441 on Commercial.”
“Oh, girl. You right by me,” she might sound informal, but this woman knows her shit when it comes to working with the banks.
“Well, I’m on my way east. Why don’t I come by now before my next appointment?” I’m juggling a steering wheel, mobile phone and pen and paper ready to write directions.
“Can’t right now. Maybe this afternoon or tomorrah.”
“Okay, Twilah. You just let me know.”

That was it for me. Of course it was several weeks before I heard from her again. Even if she did call me back the next day, I had decided I was not going to work with Twilah. I don’t have anymore time to waste. According to my most recent notice from the bank, I only had 40 days to foreclosure unless I can generate a contract or stop the process by applying for a loan modification.

While meeting with Mr. Attorney I learned that his client is fighting for over $20,000 in escrow money to be paid back by Daniel. “But he backed out of those contracts, didn’t he?” I asked about the buyer. “As the letter states, Ms Hendrick, those funds were never to be released by my client, except to his possession, as he never executed any release of escrow form. In addition, Mr. Howards never fully executed a contract and never returned any phone calls or correspondence after the checks were made out to escrow.” And really, that’s the catch, a contract on the property was never fully executed by my broker. He said, she said, yadda, yadda, let me just sign the flippin paper to release my interest and be done with this. And so I did.

With Twilah no longer working on my files, another mortgage broker, the soft spoken Monica, has stepped in trying to pick up where the other left off. From what I understand, Twilah was making a deeper cesspool of the Progresso Park property and hadn’t touched the other two. *Sigh* What do I know about anything.(?)

I do know this; according to an email that I got from Monica this morning, Mr. Daniel Howards is in the clink. Yeup. Grand theft. “Of what?” you ask. ESCROW FUNDS.

Turns out stink-bombs have gone digital.

Repeat Encounters

“Big city, small town,” is one way to describe our sub-tropical, concrete jungle here in Fort Lauderdale. I often say, “You never know who you’re talking to or who is within earshot,” because again, “Big city....” It can keep you on your toes.

Growing up, my dad would come home from work with some of the most outrageous stories of his clients. Pops owned a pool table and billiard supply business. His clientele ranged from pro sports celebrities to the elite to seedy club owners to upper middle class families. Often, he would get to know the families that purchased pool tables from him. There seemed to be a consistent order of events in this process. The “man of the house,” would wander into the showroom dazed by all the neon and felt and carved wood and start to talk about .... pool tables. Then, the Mr. would come back with the Mrs. for a second look at his favorite floor model, only to return a third or fourth time to kick more tires. Sometimes the kids were dragged along too. Purchasing a pool table was an extravagant expense; rarely a snap decision, so in the evaluation process my father often got to know the whole family before the final install. Some of the stories and their characters, I will never forget. Especially the one of the two psychic boys.

I was 15 at the time when my dad came home and told the story about a customer with two unusual boys.The older son, the 14 year old was “normal,” in appearance and outgoing; and the younger son was showing signs of withdrawal, problems with emotional development and avoided physical contact. What was so sensational was that these boys would see flashes of a person’s life - past and future when they touched someone. How this information was revealed to my father is beyond me; Pops always had a way of getting involved in the most obscure conversations with people. The Mr. was not the biological father of these fascinating boys, but the step father that raised them with a stern hand, customized by the U.S. Marines. Terribly traumatized by this “gift,” the younger boy shunned much interaction with other people. Even though he did not care to experience these visions, the elder son handled them more gracefully and in stride.

The cherry on this feast of a tale was on the day of delivery for the family’s pool table. Pops had two men from his crew do the installation. One of them accidentally left a “special bag,” behind. That evening at the dining room table after a meal, my dad laughed through his cigarette smoke as he retold my mom about how one of his guys left a fresh bag of weed at Mr. Marines and the psychic boys' job site. The weed, never to be found again.

~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~

Daniel and I developed a friendship from the hours we spent in Pilates sessions together. As superficial as he can be, Daniel also has a very spiritual side. We are both fascinated by the occult and we started to dabble in Tarot classes together. He bought me my first deck. Then he became my real-estate broker, and finally, we became business partners. There were a pool of investors that Daniel worked with, it was almost incestuous. Before I knew it, I was buying property with my immaculate credit and he was bank rolling them if we didn’t fill them with tenants in time for a mortgage payment. I was a design student and Pilates/Yoga teacher - I had no money to float investment properties that were coming up in the red. And they were all in the red. The plan was to put Daniel on the deeds to three of my most recent purchases. Legally, he had no obligation to any of these investments - all I had were verbal promises. Once the equity grew, we would sell the property and share the profits. That was the plan.

The very last property I purchased was in the remaining land of “transitional neighborhoods,” that never transitioned. Major work needed to be done on the house before we could get a tenant in there and Daniel was handling the details. At this point in his career, Daniel was pulling the strings on all aspects of property investment: real estate, mortgage brokering and property maintenance. He was the conductor and the symphony of this (nearly) one-man-show. So, I get into this property and I don’t feel good about it. I just sold a terrible money pit of a house a couple months before and got that burden off my hands. Then, for some ungodly reason, I trusted Daniel on this new purchase. In addition to that, I had two other condos and a house. The house was my first ever purchase, the condos were part of our “partnership,” deal. Things weren’t going according to Daniel’s plan when two months go by and there’s no tenants and mortgage payments are due. Getting him to keep his end of the bargain was getting more and more challenging. Then, one day, he stopped answering phone calls. Finally I called his new(er) boyfriend, Allan, and learned that Daniel was in jail for some violation of his probation from the domestic violence incident. I was totally screwed.

Every property I own(ed) has a nick name. This one was, “Lauderdale Manors.” I was trusting, naive and uninformed when this property was purchased with my minimal involvement. When Daniel went “missing,” I took matters into my own hands and visited the property.

There was a man there - one of Daniel’s goons...er, I mean, upstanding crewmen, doing renovation work - like turning a carport into a bedroom & bath “renovation” work. I might not know much but I was smart enough to deduct that there was no permit, this guy was not licensed and barely spoke English. Thanks to my crude knowledge of Spanish, he was able to understand that I owned the property and wanted him gone. “Shiiiit. Now what do I do?” I assessed the partly completed work and shuffled in the construction dust looking at hundreds of dollars of product from Home Depot. Daniel was paying this guy, although little did our “construction,” worker know that he would not be seeing another paycheck. I knew I was in over my head and sought consult from a friend of mine that did commercial real estate law. “If you do that kind of construction without a permit, then sell the house, and let’s say 10 years down the road something happens - there’s an inspection....you could be liable. It has happened many times before. In other words, Tara Shea, THIS IS NOT GOOD.”

A few days after that conversation, I returned to the house. I am conspicuous in that neighborhood and stand out like an albino. But there was a peacefulness and it was quiet there. Maybe I’ll see something and get some ideas. Instead, I find two huge planes of mirrors hidden in the tall grass of the back yard and an even larger receipt from Home Depot on the newly formica’d kitchen counter. Forty minutes later, the car was loaded with unused bags of mortar, plywood, interior doors and a porcelain toilet. Thank God I work out.

Everything was returnable....for credit. “I’ll take the credit,” I told the cashier.

Two months had gone by since the purchase of Lauderdale Manors, and Daniel had been “away” for a month. There were two lien holders, both local guys. That’s right, not banks, but private individuals. I still don’t understand what THAT was all about. The first lien holder was all up my ass. He didn’t care about my dilemma or charm. Franco wanted a payment.
“You know Daniel is my business partner on this purchase?”
“Maybe so, but it’s your name on the title, lil lady.” I never met Franco before in my life.
“I don’t have anything right now. What are my options?” I was desperate to buy time.
“You’re already two months behind. Make a payment and I won’t default your loan.”
“Gimme a week, Franco. Ok?”
“One week. You got my number.”
I felt like I was dealing with the mob. Especially when I called him back the following week and we arranged a “meeting,” at the Heavenly Hot Dog on Sunrise Boulevard. I paid him $1000, cash; money that needed to pay that month’s mortgage on the Tree House.

With the help of John my commercial real estate law friend, I learned about a “Quit Claim Deed.” Basically, I needed the second lien holder to take responsibility of the first mortgage. Of course “Mobster #1 had to agree to Mobster #2 signing this transference of the deed. Franco willingly gave me Ron Rollins’ phone number. He was the guy I needed to convince to take the mortgage over. I knew Ron and Daniel had history, Daniel worked with the same people several times over. Or was it he worked them several times over? I digress.

After a couple phone calls, Ron agreed. He was willing to sign the “Quit Claim Deed.” It was only two or three weeks after I made my payment to Franco.

I met Ron for the first time at the attorney’s office of his choice. My friend John had drawn up my own legal documents - just to be sure. May 7th, 2007, the papers were signed. I am no longer responsible for the future of property “Lauderdale Manors.” “There’s an attorney’s fee of $500,” I am informed that day. “Ron, when I get it, I will pay you,” I was sincere and uncertain all at once. A couple weeks later, Ron called. “I have some copies that you may want for your records.” He gave me directions to his home; his gorgeous, newly renovated, $25K-brand-new-kitchen home that he shared with his husband of several years and two Yorkie dogs.

~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~

One day, early in our knowing of one another and after a Pilates session with Daniel, I unintentionally surprised him and touched his left upper arm. He gave a shudder and said, “Don’t do that. Please don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t always do well when people touch me. Especially when I’m not expecting it.” Another time, shortly thereafter, he had his hand wrapped around the foot bar of the equipment and I reached to adjust his placement. Daniel looked up at me and tried to startle me with his insight, “You and your boyfriend will break-up. But that won’t last long.” Honestly, I hadn’t discussed the current issues I was having with my boyfriend. I hadn’t opened up to him that much yet. Our discussions were still mostly about him. Then suddenly, it clicked.
“Did your family get a pool table when you were a teen-ager?” It was a shot in the dark, but I knew he grew up in the area and that he was about a year younger than I, even though he was already going grey.
“Yyyyeesss,” he slowly answered. There was no expression on his face. Now, it was my turn to be the shocker.
“So whatever happened to the bag of weed that installer left behind?”
He was quiet for a moment. "The guy came back, but we had already found it. We denied to our dad that we saw anything. He was gonna kick that skinny guy's ass who accused us of stealing the stuff. My dad would have kicked our asses if he knew we turned around and sold it." He was quiet again. "WHO THE HELL ARE YOU??"


~~~~~~~~~~oooooooo~~~~~~~~~~

It was partly a stalling technique, since the last buyer for a short sale fell through and I was nearing another foreclosure date for my condo, and partly a sincere inquiry.... “Am I eligible for a loan modification?” So, just a few months ago, after lots of water under that proverbial bridge, I was back at Daniel’s office, exploring my options with one of his representatives. Twilah was helping me put together my package to apply for the modification. After knowing each other for less than an hour, we were getting along like old gal pals. Our work for the day was complete and she stepped away for a moment to retrieve my copies that were printed on a machine outside her door. I heard some conversation and Twilah’s voice say, “Yeeeeaah, that her name. You know her?” She returned to me and said, “Hole up. Der be sumbody here dat say he know you.” That always makes me nervous. She gave me a name that I didn’t recognize. I took the papers from Twilah to stuff them in my bag. Before I got up to face the door, my visitor came in for a little reunion, “Hiiiii, Tara Shea,” I heard his sweet voice with a Wilton Manors twang sing my name. It took me a second to connect the dots, “Ron?” Uh huh. Well slap me on the ass.

He Was MY Client First

Before I was a dim witted property investor/landlord, I was a yoga, dance and Pilates instructor. And certainly, a late bloomer. Even though I have two completed degrees and another that is perpetually pending graduation, I never had a “career.” That is partly my doing of course and partly, “Divine Intervention,” or sometimes I feel, lack thereof.

I have tried many things over the years and paid my dues, patiently, putting in the effort and hours, waiting for a ship, any ship to sail in. Exhausted by the constant struggle and looming student loans - I was searching for a solution, a way to get out of the “Rat Race.” That’s when I met Daniel Howards.

Body Builders is a private, personal training facility on the edge of Victoria Park, a gem of a neighborhood in east Fort Lauderdale. I had a separate space from the rest of the gym where I would work with clients on the Pilates equipment. Daniel Howards trained privately two to three times a week at Body Builders. Hyper active and easily bored, Daniel has a very busy mind and must know something about everything, so of course, he had to see what this Pilates was all about. He drove sexy luxury cars, talked about extravagant shopping sprees and the houses he lived in. Daniel loved impressing people with his intelligence and money. Gay as the day is long, Daniel is still hot, hot, hot; tall and hunky with pillowy lips and boyish brown eyes. As much as he is intense, he is fuun-ny .... nothing was off-limits for our discussions. My biggest challenge with Daniel was that Pilates takes focus and concentration, he didn’t want to have to think and even said, more than once, “I love personal training, they tell me what to do and I do it. I don’t hafta know what the exercise is for or what weight I’m working with. They even count for me.” As soon as I was foolish enough to think we might have quieted that cacophony of mental activity, he would jump off my machine and say, “I don’t want to do this one any more. Let’s do some of this,” as he made his way, pointing to another piece of Pilates equipment that he knew nothing about. It was like getting a two year old to sit still for an algebra lesson.

He talked about his friend, Kia and how she needs this “Pilates stuff.” “I’m gonna send her over and let her use one of my sessions. She’s a portly woman with a red face,” he explained. “Uhm, is that okay?” I wondered to myself about his choice of words to describe a friend. We made the appointment and Kia came in for her gifted session from Daniel. “Hi,” she shook my hand, “I’m Kia. Daniel’s portly friend.” Oh, I guess they’re cool like that, (cuz she certainly was so). She liked her hour with me and wanted to purchase her own package of sessions. The next week Daniel told me about their conversation, “Can you sell one of my properties?” she asked him. According to Daniel, she was ready to start training with me on a regular basis and also wanted to purchase gym equipment for her home, so she asked him to sell one of her several properties. (*Note and clarification: Not that the cost of my Pilates training packages compared to the price of real estate.) He also went on to explain that they were friends and business partners. Kia’s portfolio made Daniel so much money in commissions that he just gave her one of his cars when he decided to get another upgrade for himself.

Daniel loved to talk, so I opened the door for him to brag about what he did, what it was like being an investor and how he made a whole bunch of money for people like Kia. Finally, one day, I mustered up the nerve....
“Can you do that for me?” I asked.
“Of course I can,” was his answer. “You got any money?”
“Nope.”
“S’okay. Give this woman a call,” he scribbled a name and number on the back of a business card. “She’s one of the mortgage brokers that works with me. Really sweet. Answer all her questions and let’s see what we can do. Piece of cake,” he said confidently.

Almost two weeks passed before I made the call. Too easily, I was intimidated by matters of the “grown up world,” and felt like a stuttering child because I was so green. Successfully, whether intentionally or not, I have avoided any real responsibility and now, just by making this call, I was announcing to the Universe, “I AM READY.” I am ready to play “grown up,” I am ready to be successful, I am ready for a mortgage. “Piece of cake,” I calmed myself as I listened to the phone ring on the other end.

“Sweetie,” Amanda was warm and personable on the phone; I felt like I was talking to an older sister, “I’m a good Christian, Cuban girl. If I put you in a mortgage, I won’t be able to sleep at night.” Well, I guess that about sums it up. “Call me in a couple years when you have a little more stability.” “Okay,” I answered obediently. It didn’t take her long to gather my information and come to that conclusion. My credit score was in the low 700’s, but it wasn’t enough to convince the wisely prudent Amanda that she should present me to a lender as a reliable home owner.

“That’s alright,” Daniel reassured me in our next session, “something will come up. I know these things.” There was a funny smirk on his face. “No Daniel, it’s not gonna happen. Not now,” I was disappointed and relieved. There were moments though, in those two weeks of procrastination when I counted on this real-state thing to change my life. It seemed like everyone else was making money in the boom. It seemed so easy. Daniel explained that in this market, the days of “flipping houses,” was over. “What investors are doing now,” he detailed, “is fixing up the properties just enough to get renters, waiting for equity and cashing in.” It sounded like the Golden Ticket to me. I envisioned my student loans and credit card debts paid off, a dependable car and maybe even a surf adventure somewhere. I put all my eggies in that basket, because I had nothing else to hope for - or so it seemed. “How am I going to rise above this hand to mouth lifestyle?” was a frequent, gloomy, desperate thought. “Something else will come up,” Daniel re-iterated and paused, “I know these things.” All I knew was that I had another 45 minutes to get him to focus and find his core. “Breathe in, lengthen the spine .... breathe out, engage your abdominals and press......”

The Notice

Many years ago, I started the habit of waking up in the morning and saying, “Good morning, God,” rather than my previous habit of, “Oh God. Mornin.” It was a very deliberate practice at first to offset my daily struggle with the melancholies.

Since then, after several rounds with Rhonda Byrne and The Secret on my iPod, I have adopted a new habit of simply saying, “Thank you,” when I wake in the morning. “Thank you,” as I roll outta bed, “Thank you,” in the bathroom, “Thank you,” as I make my morning tea and so on. Sometimes I break right into singing a sanskrit chant, “Danuvad Ananda,” meaning “blissful gratitude.” I must admit, sometimes I “fake it til I make it.” In the evening, as I crawl into bed (the protective sealed, hand-me-down king-size that lies unsupported on the floor), I often look around my mostly bare, yet comfy space and say aloud, “I am a lucky, lucky girl.” And it’s true. I am a lucky girl. I know that. It is either miracle or luck that has me still in my Home-Sweet-Tree House.

After living here for about 12 months, the burden of too much overhead and not enough income was more than I could juggle. Other properties I owned needed minor repairs (and fiscal attention) or I risked losing the chance to acquire desperately needed tenants. The mortgage to my home was 30 days late and it would be another two weeks before I would see any more money coming in. Terrified and still unfamiliar with what a foreclosure looks like, I called the bank. I thought for sure they would send an officer out within the hour to rip me from my home. Rather, the patient man, with a southern drawl explained that I still had another 30 days before I risked being reported to the credit bureaus. He asked when could I make the next payment and why was I late. The honest answer was not anything I could say out-loud. He wouldn’t understand that I had just sunk $1000 into an investment property to fix a leaky roof and an algae infested pool. Instead I told him the overdue payment would be made in two weeks and two days from the date and that I was between jobs. The gentle man, with a sweet twang in his voice thanked me for keeping the bank updated, said he was making a note on the account and told me to relax and enjoy the rest of my day.

After hanging up the phone, without any thought I broke into sobs of relief and gratitude. Slowly, I walked around the apartment with one hand on my heart and the other touching doors, appliances, furniture, mirrors and cabinets as I repeated the mantra, “Thank you,” over and over again through streaming tears.



-----------------------------o-o-o-------------------------------

My productive times swing at seasons that my inner clock seems to invent; for blocks of months at a time I’m an early bird and others - a night owl. I was in night owl mode and my early morning, private Pilates clients were becoming few and far between.

It’s not often that I have unexpected visitors coming through the gated community to my door at 6:45 am. So when there was a rapping and pounding at the sleeping-unit-with- a-view, it took a few moments to identify the sound, verify that was indeed my door receiving the notification and to finally find my feet beneath me. Then the pounding stopped. Clumsily, I grabbed something to cover my slumber bareness and investigate. As I made it to my bedroom doorway, there was a terrible, high pitched knock, like someone beating my front door with a rock. Confused and half awake, I opened the door to a 5’ tall, dry faced wrench with long, greying, stringy hair and a rock in her grip. The heaving Napoleon quickly shoved a clip board and a pen into my hands. “Sign this,” was all she said. Before I could scold her with my morning breath, the miserable twat left me with my foreclosure documents for 105 2E. Was the rock REALLY necessary? I mean, really.

That morning; March 20, 2008, I forgot to say, “Thank you,” upon waking.

This morning, almost two years later all I can say is “Thank you, I am a lucky, lucky girl.”

Hand Me Downs

If it weren’t for hand-me-downs, my cute little “Tree House” condo would have nothing more than paint, poorly laid tile and my laptop. Tonight, I’m scrubbing down the latest addition to my hand-me-down collection, a king size bed. Nothing else, just the bed. Anything is better than that deflating air mattress I have been camping out on since my return home months ago.

Just less than one year ago, I did have a mattress and an apartment full of useful things, like tables, chairs, lamps and kitchen utensils. That was before I thought the deal on the condo was a sure thing. That was before I sold, donated or junked all contents of my home and left the country. My plan was never to come back. Not to the States, not to Florida and certainly not to 105 Royal Park Dr, Apartment 2E. The night before leaving for Morocco, an ex-boyfriend called and was in a pinch, he needed a place to stay. I mailed the key for him to a mutual friend, “You can stay there until the papers are signed or the property forecloses. Sorry, there’s nothing in there but dust bunnies. Enjoy!” When my relocation turned into a vacation and I came back to 105 2E, I was fortunate enough that my “tenant,” left behind an air mattress, a coffee mug and a 2 quart sauce pan. Good thing I never minded camping.

Considering its history, this king size bed is in manageable shape. It came from my girlfriend’s bungalow. Her ex-husband just returned the king mattress she left in his house, so now I am the proud owner of the bed that was once hers. She had it for only a few weeks, because before that – it was at Mango Rob’s house, a Fort Lauderdale landmark nicknamed the “Urban Hostel for Wayward International Wanderers.” We call him Mango Rob and his home the Mango House because any given day in the summer, you can gather 200 mangos, easily, from his property and trees. Mango Rob has lost track identifying all who have lived with him over the years and he swears that I was one of them. I am one of the few wanderers who have not. Yet. Wouldn’t that be an ironic resting place for this bed? And there is a chance it could still return to the nearly famous, always hopping, Mango House “estate.” We have talked about it more than once.

“Sooooo, Tara Shea, what’s going on with your apartment?” (that has been an ongoing question for …..well, longer than I care to admit). “I dunno, maybe I’ll just leave the keys on the counter and walk away from it all,” I jest. Sorta. “I still need a house-mate and fast,” he enunciates his words, “I’m leaving again in a few weeks and don’t know when I’ll be back. Really cheap re-ent,” he sings as a last temptation. Mango Rob no longer calls Fort Lauderdale home, it is his hometown, but home is now in Manila,or someplace in the Philippines. He has some golf company he invented that is thriving there and wants to make sure he has reliable tenants before returning to his new home across the pond. “Mango,” I take a deep breath, “it could be next week, or next year. Or maybe some unknown benefactor of mine will drop dead leaving me a fortune and I can save the Tree House. I’ll let you know as soon as I know. In the meantime, you can’t beat the rent I’m paying.”

My condo/Tree House, sits in a quiet, gated community. Except for when the trains scream by, then it can get embarrassing, especially while on the phone with a client. Must sound like I’m living on the tracks in the ghetto from their end. This place has been a refuge from my “pioneering” days in a less desirable part of town. Investors were speculating that property in Progresso Park was going to be the new Wilton Manors, it only needed a couple more years for transition. My residency in that fruitless investment lasted only a year and a half. I’ll take the rumble of the train tracks blowing into my open apartment versus barred and barricaded windows any night. From my sliding glass door, the Tree House overlooks a canal that surrounds the apartment complex, on the other side is John Easterlin Park. It’s a lush county park, that was even more robust before hurricane Wilma. Despite the park’s loss of green, my back yard is home to fish, turtles, blue herons, white egrets, mischievous raccoons and tons of iguanas. I wasn’t living in 2E yet when Wilma ripped through here, but the neighbors say that John Easterlin’s foliage completely buffered the sounds of passing trains and traffic from the I-95 overpass. While looking for a (safer) place to live, I cockily informed my agent, who at the time was also my investment partner, “Don’t even bother showing me places west of I-95. I don’t live west of I-95 unless it’s also west of the Mississippi.” Three weeks after moving into my new Tree House, I’m heading east to run some errands and finally take notice of the overpass. Calculating the map in my head, I ask myself, “Wonder…. what that… is for….DAMN!” Of course, it could only be 95. That was not the first or last time Daniel Howards “yeah, yeah’d” me.

Even though I’m technically west of I-95, I love my Tree House, this is my little piece of solitude. Sometimes, too much solitude. It’s off the beaten path and nobody can just “swing by.” Three and half years ago, I moved in here with the intention of a house-warming/never-gonna-get-married party. That has yet to happen. Instead, 16 months after moving in, I had a Pizza, Painting, Potion Party. It was my birthday and I wanted these gawd awful beige walls with the 1980’s something, white stripes covered. So I bought a bunch of pizzas and paint, brewed this Ayurvedic concoction that is known to give a good buzz and invited all my friends to help. In two days, my living room was two-toned, perky green and my kitchen a very sunny, almost obnoxious yellow. It’s so freakin happy and took some getting used to. Now, over two years later, I still have yet to finish the base boards. At this point, though, I never know how much longer I will be here, so I hesitate to put effort or money into the condo.

The first project ever done was removal of the popcorn. What an icky job. But now my cement ceilings are smooth as a baby’s butt. And I love waking up to the turquoise blue ceiling in my bedroom. Below the dreamy ceiling are chocolate brown walls; the darkest brown I could get and still have low VOC’s (volatile organic compounds) in the paint. All the paint I have used is low VOC. There is so much I want to do here and just as much that needs to be done. The garbage disposal took a dump and has started to separate from the sink. I have a bucket in place to catch the constant leak. A copper (yessss, copper) pipe leading to the dishwasher snapped and I had to close the line. Why? Because getting started on that project I realized someone who knows just enough plumbing to be dangerous made a big confusing mess of ALL the plumbing under my sinks. The air conditioning is gurgling and showing signs of leakage, all the windows and doors need to be replaced, there’s no window treatments on the sliding glass doors that takes all your body weight to open, the tile in the bathroom is falling off, the tub faucet runs hot on the cold and cold on the hot and is nearly impossible to manage with slippery, soapy hands…. I could continue and even throw in a bit of a whine, but that’s not gonna get things done. Instead, I’ll just camp out here on my newly freshened and protection sealed, hand-me-down, king size mattress and sleep in the bed I made until circumstances change. And it has to change. It can’t go on like this for much longer.