Miles Driven: 73
Age of Youngest Person in the Car: 13 days
Hysterical Crying Fits Thrown: 0.5 (and that was only to show the builder’s agent that I meant business and he should really throw in the free washing machine)
I’m on vacation! (I considered ending the post there, because hello, BEACH, but it seemed a touch anticlimactic.) My entire family is gathered at a house just off the beach in Encinitas for a week. We’re three days in and out of beer and patience with my youngest (who has been taking turns escaping to the front yard and shutting himself into a tiny cupboard to hide from us; we’ve been seriously discussing sealing him in there).
Anyway, about a week ago, the Realtor Vacation Clause kicked in. The RVC is the universe’s hilarious joke on real estate agents everywhere (like if the universe could say, ‘Pull my finger’).
Basically, when any real estate agent decides to go on vacation, no matter how dead and stagnant their business is before the trip is planned, about two days before the agent is set to leave town, when he or she is knee deep in packing, planning of exciting leisure time activities and calculating how many ounces of alcohol per person, per day will be necessary to ensure the general merriment of all (or is that one just my family?), 11 clients will call with urgent needs and brand new money making opportunities. This will never happen two weeks before vacation when I am sitting around, twiddling my thumbs, obsessing about how little business I have at the moment and how I’m probably going to go broke waiting for clients to appear and how I’d even just really like to be showing property in the 115 degree heat right now, just to have a potential paycheck coming in the relatively near future. No, it always happens when I have 489 other things to do. Because the universe has the sense of humor of a teenage boy who thinks it’s most hilarious when people fall down or get hit in the balls.
So last Wednesday night I got an email from one of my clients that she was ‘Ready to pull the trigger.’ I believe it went kind of like this, “OK, so I had the baby 13 days ago, by C-section, so I can drive officially on Saturday. We’d really like to be in a house in 45 days. So is it cool if we start Monday?” Curse you, Universe!!! I will be sunning myself on the beach drinking Johnny Hangovers on Monday!!! Is what I screamed at the sky when reading this email.
I called my client (also a good friend from Junior High School) and got the details of what she wanted to do. I also explained the vacation situation. I told her I had Thursday and Friday available, but I knew that she was still recovering from the C-section she’d gone through less than two weeks before. Clearly, though, this woman is a trooper. She immediately switched gears and explained that if I could pick her and the baby up and drive, we could do it Friday.
Let me just stop here and reiterate that I’ve given birth three times and that none of my births have been anywhere close to as invasive as a C-section. All three were super traditional, easy, baby just sort of makes his way out sort of events. But even with how comparatively easy the actual giving birth part was, the idea of leaving the house for an extended amount of time with a less than two week old baby would have knocked me over with fear and exhaustion. Just the idea. I clearly remember when my first was born, my father wanted me to bring him to Barro’s (our regular Friday night pizza hangout) to show him off when he was less than two weeks old. I hung up the phone with him and promptly burst into tears at the thought. I hadn’t showered in days and the amount of gear involved in this enterprise just seemed staggering.
My client, however, is apparently of sturdier stock. When I said, “Really? Are you sure this is a good idea?” She replied with a resolute and chipper, “Yes, we will be fine. We need a new place to live.”
And they were fine. I picked them up and put them both into my GOV (Giant Orange Van). We stopped and got mommy-nourishment and ohmygoodness actually stopped at five builder communities. We saw six houses and three of them were good potentials. The sweet baby barely made a peep and the mommy who had just gone through major surgery and was shuffling around in 112 degree heat remained cheerful and conscious even. Apparently it just goes to show you that with enough will almost anything is possible.
See there, Universe? We made it work. You have been thwarted.