Jerk Ethic » real estate agents

A Picture’s Worth A Thousand Square Feet

Ainsley Drew — Thu, 24 Sep 2009 14:11:08 +0000

When selling a home, it’s your responsibility to be well-informed and calm. You have to accept that your life is going to be completely dismantled for the foreseeable future. Showing your house is the equivalent of doing a stand-up routine while having a gynecological exam. You know your abode, its details, what its worth. Hopefully you know what its strong points are, and even more hopefully, there aren’t any serious drawbacks.

The selling side of real estate might be like a sixth grade dance, but selecting a place to live is more like the sixth grade. You know nothing, but you think you know everything, and basically everyone seems to be lying to you. I’m in the market for an apartment in Manhattan, in case you couldn’t tell from my cynicism and exhaustion. One more Carrie Bradshaw reference on a real estate website and I’ll pluck my eyes out with a pair of stiletto heels.

All I really need to be happy is a couch to sleep on and a shower. Extra bonus points if I have a TV to watch the Yankees and the news. Lights help, but I learned in Portland that I can live fine without them. When looking for an apartment in New York, however, everything sounds awesome. You see photos of tastefully decorated residences and read the paragraphs that broadcast that the space is a "steal," a "gem," a "bonafide oasis in the middle of it all." You see the smiling faces of the realtors in their glossy head shots, you imagine yourself dancing around in boy shorts to Joy Division in the kitchen, you start calculating how much it would cost you to call that place home.

I suppose it’s much like Internet dating. You overlook how grainy your potential date’s photos are, you ignore the way they spell "innerests," or the fact that they list "makin’ $$$!" as a hobby, because you’re tired of spending your nights in a threesome with Anderson Cooper and Jack Daniels. Or maybe there are no red flags at all in your potential mate’s profile, but you show up at the agreed-upon meeting place and discover Gary Busey’s doppelganger with a penchant for UFC. Apartment hunting is like that. You quickly learn the importance of semantics. "Cozy" means more snug than Mariah Carey’s girdle, "retro" means that the appliances resemble those in the Overlook Hotel, and "charming" or "unique" means the layout is completely baffling and dysfunctional. It is an exercise in glossology. As a result I wound up learning that I am not the kind of person who maintains their poker face well in situations of disappointment. At nearly every open house I found myself battling my face.

One potential apartment had a "patio" on the website. In reality it had a ledge that would only be useful if I listened to too many Cure albums while reading The Bell Jar. Another was "convenient" and "close to everything," which meant that it was on top of a rundown thai restaurant and down the block from a very bridge-and-tunnel friendly nightspot. And although I love apartments with character — one of my favorite previous pads was a $450-a-month set of privacy-free, miniature rooms in a four-person share, whose lack of solitude and space was made up for with a slate walk-in shower — the idea of having two walk down two unnecessary sets of stairs to go to the bathroom in a studio that’s randomly been converted to a quasi-triplex doesn’t appeal to me.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not really complaining. It’s fun to look for apartments in New York, hell, it’s unbelievable to think that I’m in New York again. But it is a little bit excruciating to be searching for a place to crash when the house you’re living in has sold in record time. The couple that’s moving in is pregnant and excited. Which means I’m starting to get itchy and dusting off the suitcases. They bought a house that was, to me, completely awkward. Between the random additions both my mother and the previous owners constructed, the hodgepodge of 1960s built-in fixtures and modern refinishing, not to mention the absolutely unsightly furniture that fills every room, it would not be my first choice in places to locate my ventricles. But they put a bid on a "spacious," "lovely Colonial" that had "great flow." I understand the word game, ’cause I played it from both sides.

Just as with a singles website, nothing is perfect. No matter what seems to be your dream-come-true place or person, there are going to be drawbacks. He leaves the seat up or you discover pubes in your favorite lavender soap. She cries during phone commercials and pouts whenever you wear your favorite baseball cap out to dinner. An apartment can’t truly have it all. Even if your living space is actually big enough to actually live in, you’ll discover that the shower has the water pressure of Larry King’s stream of piss. Your bedroom might be large enough to hold a bed and a desk, but it’s a five flight walk-up with no laundry in the building and a pug next door who barks every time the wind shifts.

My standards weren’t that high to begin with, but as the showings went on I began to kind of hate those brokerage firms’ websites, with their wide-angle-lens photos and lipstick-on-pig paragraphs. I understand why they do it, and I understand why they get away with it even more. People need places to live. There’s usually a level of desperation when you’re looking for a home, especially if your renting. Realtors need to get bodies moving through those rooms because, even if the apartments don’t deliver beyond their Internet-born seduction, you’re gonna have to make your bed somewhere. I just wish there was a level of integrity, but I should know from my job that, in marketing, you need to apply words like a fresh coat of paint.

Drop me a line, maybe I’ll invite you to my housewarming party, if I ever find a place to live. AinsleyDrew at the gmail one.

Some other takes on the meaning of real estate:

Realtorspeak: A language that may need translation.

A witty "Real Estate Secret Decoder Ring" by a real estate savvy Phoenix resident.

A woman in Los Angeles writes about her experience putting meaning to words.

Vocation, Vocation, Vocation

Ainsley Drew — Thu, 03 Sep 2009 20:37:08 +0000

A wise man or Californian once said that the three most important things about real-estate are location, location, location. I’m not really aware of what else is factored into home ownership or sales, but my three would be running water, stable roof, and the absence of drug addicts. I’m an apartment dweller. I like the predictability of monthly rent checks, and I like having someone to call for help when the hot water craps out and I’m forced to take a shower using a tea kettle. I’m not tall enough to screw in a lightbulb, not strong enough to change a basement humidifier, and not smart enough to figure out how not to short out an entire panel of a fuse box when I use my Hitachi Magic Wand.

After my mom died, the albatross of her house was placed squarely around my neck. Sure, in the thriving market of yesteryear this kind of inheritance could be looked at as a windfall. Maybe it still would be to someone who understands the intricacies of zoning, surveying, and selling something other than their words. A year and a half ago I lived in a room of a tenement with a handfull of bartenders and no lights in the bathroom. Instead of a working refrigerator, we had a hot plate. In place of artwork, nails projected from the wall. I paid my $400-a-month on time and never commented about the exposed insulation or strippers in the kitchen. Owning a house, let alone selling one, is about as far out of my skill-set as sailing a yacht or competing in a UFC tournament. Actually, it would be easier for me to compete in a UFC tournament on board a yacht than it is sell this house.

The house’s selling point, to me, is the fact that you can hop on the local train and get away from it. Other than that, it has crickets in the basement, no cell phone reception, and countless square feet of crap that my mother accumulated. Once she died, I had to face the fact that my mother was a hoarder. If you factored in the two cats she kept in the basement, her social status was upgraded to Crazy Cat Lady. The physical remnants of her years of squirreling away receipts, ribbon, and rubbish have become my responsibility. Me. The girl who gets overwhelmed when she tries to match her socks. The girl who was content to live in a windowless closet in Park Slope for $750 a month, and wouldn’t have moved if she hadn’t fallen in love with a boy. A boy who was sharing a house with a pug, its owner, and her boyfriend. Did I mention that his room was also devoid of any natural light?

While the promise of selling a house excites me in that it will allow me to stitch the merit badge of Adulthood onto my sleeve, I’m afraid that I’m completely incapable of not fucking it up.

My father, ever savvy, gave me one piece of advice. He said, “Real estate agents are whores.”

Now, for a while I was excited at the prospect, imagining women in fishnets and hot pants running acrylic tips across every flat service and dipping into the laundry closet for a few minutes alone with any potential buyers. Instead, what my father should have said was, “Real estate agents are desperation personified.”

At my mother’s wake, a redheaded old lady kissed me aggressively and shook my shoulders as she emphatically stated, “I knew your mother. If there is anything I can do, let me know. I imagine you’re wanting to sell the house.” I nodded. “Wonderful!” She shook me again, slammed a kiss into my cheek, and stalked off, leaving me completely confused and struggling to remember her name. I noticed that she approached my family and had started to pass out her business card, which brandished her photo, flame-red hair and all, next to the title Licensed Associate Broker.

The next day, after the funeral, the reception was held at the house. As I hugged relatives and reminisced on my mother’s ability to turn any casual cookout into a four-course meal served on a china set, the redhead broker walked in without ringing the bell. She carried a platter of lasagna, which she thrust into my chest.

“This is for you! When you return the platter we can discuss the comparative numbers!” I didn’t stop to tell her that I don’t eat dairy, or that I had asked my mother’s good friend — another less animated, less ginger-gourded broker — to help me figure out how to sell the damn thing. I just wanted to get her, and her lasagna, out of my house.

I figured that this is the way adults do things. They bring food and hustle. Maybe there were accountants and podiatrists dressed in all black in the back of the burial hocking their wares. This was the first time death had included me in its choreography. I didn’t want to complain, lest my ignorance show as clearly as my tattoos. In truth, I was ashamed, and humbled. An alcoholic with a history of idiotic behavior, I hadn’t given my mother much to brag about. Swooping in and taking care of her had been the least I could do to make some sort of amends. I knew that the majority of people who had known us throughout the years would assume that, inevitably, I would run from the obligations that followed. The pressure I was putting on myself helped to restrain me from grabbing carrot-top by her dangly earrings and dragging her into the garage for a little education on the depreciating real estate of her face.

Instead, I employed the high-school method that I had used to break up with girls. I figured I’d ignore her, and eventually she’d go away.

Like those high-school exes, it began with the calls. One or two a day, with high-pitched whinnying on my voicemail. She wanted to discuss the recent sales in the neighborhood, and when she could put the house on the market. Deleted. Then came the messages on the land line, my mother’s very own answering machine.

“I’ll call her and tell her to fuck off,” Simon said when the tape finished playing her screeching entreaties.

“Unnecessary,” I said, and resumed going about my daily life, which had become a Sisyphean task of carrying contractor bags filled with my mother’s junk into the garage.

Finally, I called my broker, that soft-spoken woman who had helped my mother sell her old house. I asked if she could come by and talk with me for a bit, maybe tell me what the next steps would be. We agreed that 2PM would be best. I hung up the phone and went back to the backbreaking black bag brigade.

1:55, there was a knock on the door. I ran downstairs to open it, expecting the soccer mom brunette ‘do and mild manners of my broker to be on the front step.

Instead there was Red, a folder in hand, opening the screen door to my house, about to walk inside. I slammed my hand on the door-frame, blocking her entry. Simon, ever one for a Beat It style dance-off, lumbered up to my side.

“I’m sorry, I have someone else,” I said, before she could begin her sales pitch.

I’ll save you the details, but the folder remains as a coaster on my table, Simon’s coffee and my green tea on top of it. She blew me a kiss as she left, which I fear is some sort of real estate agent spell for doom, gloom, and eight months on the market. No matter. I used to think that what we lacked as copywriters was the ability to go out and whore ourselves loudly. My mother had raised me to have a little bit of tact, to fear being disliked, and to never be pushy. I’m glad she did. It turns out that the hustle isn’t always what makes good business, whores or no whores.

Drop me a line, AinsleyDrew at the gmail one. And thank you to everyone who donates. It means a lot, and keeps a roof over my head.

Hire us. We’re only pushy with our keystrokes.