It seems like I have to fix a lot of things that don’t work right. It’s not necessarily that they are broken as much as it is they simply don’t work correctly. Stuff goes haywire. In fact, I am so used to things that don’t work right that I have become somewhat complacent. I don’t get upset over it. I just fix it.
Almost nary a day goes by when I don’t run into some short sale negotiator telling me the bank won’t authorize seller credits on the HUD. Since when did a bank negotiator become a HUD expert anyway? I realize they don’t know how to read a HUD. If they had to prepare a HUD from scratch, they’d be up a creek without a paddle. Yet, here they are telling me to remove fees that are not credits under the assumption they are correct. They’re not correct. This problem has become so commonplace that I keep a stock answer prepared and ready to email. They don’t work right.
Elizabeth, how do you do it? That’s what a seller asked me yesterday. She was very ecstatic that her short sale closed but it wasn’t an easy road. She thanked me for making the process less painful than it could have been. For many Sacramento short sale sellers, I am their rock. I’m not just a Sacramento short sale agent. I am the individual these people rely on to help them through the emotional upheaval. Don’t let anybody kid you, surviving a short sale can be like crawling naked through shattered glass.
Some people are very uncomfortable being fawned over. My husband is one of those. He especially dislikes being fawned over by insincere people in roles of servitude. I first noticed his distaste for this many years ago when we checked in to stay a night at Adare Manor, a castle in Ireland, County Limerick. Guests are treated like royalty at Adare.
First, they seat you in an oversized antique chair. You’re too good to stand in line at reception. Then, a row of butlers gently wave fans in your direction and pluck grapes from the overhead vines to place into your mouth, one at a time. A hand-maiden removes your shoes to wash and massage your feet. A concierge rushes over to hand you a glass of chilled champagne. My husband squirmed. I, on the other hand, pointed out the fact my left shoulder still had a tinge of tightness and could use a bit of manipulation. OK, that’s not really what happened, but it’s the impression I was left with — that’s how lovely it was.
Despite the fact that I am opposed to war, I hold the utmost respect for our military. All military — active or retired or no longer among us. Many of my clients serve in the military, so while I have no children and none of my relatives speak to me, I feel a special connection to my clients who serve, especially those deployed overseas.
OK, I have to admit a weakness when they call me ma’am. Especially the men. Everybody is so efficient, which I greatly admire, being the sort of efficient person that I am. If you know me, you know that I did not grow up around the military, and I don’t know much about it, either, so I try not to mess up the military terms and make it sound like I do because the last thing I would want is to insult a member of our military.
I once committed what some people consider to be a sacrilegious act. This unforgivable thing happened in 1976. I was living in a cramped apartment across the street from the ocean on Balboa Boulevard in Newport Beach, California. Many Friday nights were party nights. You younger kids might not believe this, but people used to gather at each other’s abodes, play records on a turntable and talk face-to-face, to each other, pre-cell and pre-computer era.
One Friday night were all sitting around, chatting, doing whatever we used to do with incense and whatnot, and listening to Stairway to Heaven, by Led Zeppelin. I asked my roommate to change the record. She refused. And that’s when it happened. You know how sometimes you just can’t stand to hear that song one more time? Maybe it’s a song that reminds you of a bad relationship, or an awful time when you were in high school or maybe it just doesn’t stand up to the arduous task of still being enjoyable after playing it over and over and over like, oh, I dunno, like the grating Honey by Bobby Goldsboro, for example.