There’s always something to howl about.

Meano Geno

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“Okay,” I finally tell the other realtor after two solid minutes of back and forth phone chatter. “You’re right. I’m wrong. You win the argument. But guess what…? We’re still not buying the house.”

I try to be nice. I really do.  But sometimes my fellow property slingers just touch on that last raw nerve (I think we all know which one I’m referring to) and I say something mean.  One agent even called me “Meano Geno.”

“Thanks for the feedback, Meano Geno,” she snapped into the phone.

“You’re not very welcome,” I muttered back into the dial tone.

I’ve written about this before; listing agents who, within hours and sometimes even minutes of a showing, ring me up for feedback. And occasionally, they don’t even wait for everyone to leave the premises. One recently minted licensee strategically positioned himself in the foyer as my clients and I were scurrying to safety through the living room.  Blocking the front door with his presumptuousness, he posed to us, with the toothy despondence of a Ford sales trainee, the universal cliche of the day…

“What do we have to do to earn your business today, sir?” he asked, looking right past me and my client’s wife, going straight to the perceived decision maker. The husband looked at me. I looked at the wife. We paused for a moment of silence. I reached into my shirt pocket and took out the business card of an agent we met an hour earlier at a different showing; another panter.  (Pant”er\, n. One who pants. –Congreve.)

“Here…call me later for feedback,” I said as we all inched past him, close enough to catch a whiff of that new car smell cologne he was wearing, and slipped out the front door in single file, toward higher, more residentially improved ground.  Our new toothy friend stared down at the gold embossed Century 21 card for a few seconds then looked up at us before finally calling out toward the sidewalk…

Thank you Barbara!

Me too, me too

Yes, I know. I can be glib at times.  And the truth is, I am hardly ever without a half dozen or so of my own problematic listings that need to be sold yesterday. The difference between me (along with those like me–us, we…) and them (the Panters) is, we understand that there is little or nothing we as listing agents can do or say that proper pricing and perfect timing can’t trump.

Lockboxes are the exception rather than the rule here in Chicago. (I keep one in the glove box of my car only because we have strict gun laws and I need something metallic to defend myself with in case of a car jacking.) It is understood that unless the property is a short sale or foreclosure, a listing agent or ‘team member’ will accompany most showings.

I personally don’t have a team member nor do I belong to an actual team (or even own a uniform) so I always show my own inventory. I like to arrive early at the appointment to open shades, turn on lights, etc; greet my visitors at the front door (cordially, of course); hand them a professionally designed and printed marketing piece; step aside… and let St. Joseph do his thing (Ha,ha…I mean, LOL). The way I see things, divine intervention doesn’t need me jumping in the mix with my smart, meano mouth. I suppose, in a way, I am a lockbox–a human gatekeeper who simply opens and closes doors with little or no judgement and no ‘jones’ for immediate feedback. When the contract doesn’t show up in my e-fax mailbox, that’s all the feedback I need.

Only if you’re buying

“Yes, it is a buyer’s market…” I answer the other realtor as she exits one of my more aggressively priced  listings with her client. I suppose little catch phrases like ‘It’s a buyer’s market, you know’   are often times just nervous blurts from less experienced associates who don’t know me by my nickname, Meano Geno.  I try to be nice but, admittedly, have little patience for unoriginal thoughts from dull minds.  These real estate times call for creativity, not cliche.

“…but only if you’re buying.” I add.

“What?”

“It’s a buyer’s market… only if you’re actually buying,”  I say, having gone through this same exchange on more than a few occasions in recent months.

“You’re priced too high,” she says.

“Write an offer.” Me.

She remains silent. I’ll never hear from her again unless of course, I call for feedback, which is a moot point, as the place will have already been sold as Hell would have already been frozen over…on the same day that, along with a whole lot of other improbabilities I’ve declared throughout my life, ever happens.

M.G.