The following post is a public service announcement to the Real Estate Agents of America, paid for by the Organization of Helping Connect Realtors And People (OHCRAP).
I called one of my sellers this week to set up a showing on their property. I left a message for the wife, Brunhilda (names have been changed to protect those totally guilty of being nosy snoopers) and then called the husband, Borris and spoke with him briefly about the showing window. A few minutes later Brunhilda called me back.
Brunhilda: So did Borris tell you about the showing on Sunday?
Me: No, I just talked to him for a second. What happened? (Fearing the worst. The buyer’s agent neglected to lock the house when they left and a mob of 7 year olds were wandering down the street looking for trouble, noticed the unlocked door and proceeded to enter and vandalize the home with candy finger prints and dirty socks.)
Brunhilda: Well it went fine and everything and we left to take a walk around the block as soon as they got to the house. When they were gone and we came home Borris went back on to his computer and was listening to something. I went in to see what he was doing and um… well, apparently he used his laptop (I don’t think she actually said laptop. It was something else more technical, but whenever anyone says anything over my head technically all I hear is ‘wha whaaa’, so I don’t remember what super spy device they just happened to have on hand to make this happen.) to RECORD THE SHOWING.
Me: Wait… he what?
Here is where I went through the six stages of Holy Bejeezus in 7 seconds:
Stage one – Amusement. HEE! He seriously recorded them, Brunhilda? That’s so weird!
Stage two – Fear. OMG, what did they SAY????
Stage three – Curiosity. I wonder if anyone else ever does this…
Stage four – Realization. Oh crap, what if the last 3,592 houses I showed were all being recorded!
Stage five – Horror. This stage struck me dumb as I mentally relived all of the potentially rude, obnoxious and inappropriate things I may have said while showing any number of gajillions of houses. I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but I tend to use humor to break the ice. While I’d like to pretend my professional demeanor is radically different from my blogging persona, anyone who’s ever met me can tell you it’s oh-so-very-much-not-at-all. So it’s very possible I point out every tacky, poorly put together or just generally odd thing I encounter. The idea of the seller of the house hearing any of my off-color remarks filled me with the fear of a million deals killed before they were even born. Can you imagine a seller accepting a buyer’s contract whose agent called the meticulously hand painted floral border in the bathroom ‘reminiscent of my 6 year-old’s painting project that time he was sick and sneezed all over the paper before the paint was dry’?
Stage six – Resolve. Brunhilda, you’ve officially ruined me. I will never show a house as long as I live without wondering if I’m being secretly recorded. I really need to start being more polite.
Luckily it turns out this particular buyer/agent combo was very pleased and complimentary about the house. They did, however, remark on the gigantic novelty bottle of expensive vodka Borris and Brunhilda had in the pantry. Upon hearing this Brunhilda demanded Borris drink the remainder of the bottle immediately so that no one else would think they’re alcoholics. Yes, Brunhilda, that’s the way to keep your Sober Sally reputation intact: Chug oversized bottles of hard alcohol.