House Keeper

by Geno Petro

Chicago Broker Owner Realtor | RE 2.0 Blogger

Author website

Can a man save his face, his ass, and his house at the same time? The moral and Big Board gods claim naught.  But still, rooting through the year end financial rubble atop my desk—the economic equivalent of the Gaza Strip, I consider the question (pondering Realtor that I am).

I tally my Christmas card total while I search the mail pile for fellow holiday survivors. I uncover just three scant acknowledgements this dim Season; one from my parents with a modest check enclosed (made out to my wife, of course); one from my daughter with a nice handwritten note; and one from our missing housekeeper. The latter is a nativity scene, written in Polish, and sent to our house via Air Mail.  I’m assuming it either says ‘Merry Christmas!’ or ‘I Quit!’ We haven’t seen her in weeks. Perhaps she moved back to her motherland where she can actually make ends meet scrubbing floors. I suppose she just resigned before we had to let her go anyway. (I mean really, who can’t keep their own house clean?)

I turn back to the task at hand and continue sifting through the pulp, avoiding paper cuts, and careful to sidestep 2nd Notices from lesser, non FICO reporting insurgents; my dentist, the Chicago Tribune Classified Section, the lawn service guy who never picked up my leaves this year. I hear a mutter beneath the wrack before electronically mine-sweeping my Schwab account to stave off the more formidable creditors for yet another 40 days and nights (with Grace Period); Bank of America Mortgage, BMW Financial Services, my genius accountant.

I look again at the three lone Seasons Greetings and reflect. I haven’t physically written, licked, stamped or sent out an actual Christmas card in years—not to family, not to friends, not to clients. I’m surprised I receive anything in the mail at all, to be honest. Between Twitter, Facebook, and Harry and David, all I seem to do anymore is Text and order online. Like an iPhone crackwhore, I find myself scrolling the cyber alleys for expired listings and below market abandominiums.  It has to be a cash deal and the john needs to close quickly, if you know what I’m saying.  It has to be instant. I take another digital hit…

I immediately get pinged back. Stocks are up 1.53%  on heavy morning trading.  I just made $1232. I text my broker to do his magic and make the paper gold liquid, once again.  I decide to pay my dentist and my lawn guy but stiff the Tribune. (The Cubs will need to suck a lot less than they did this past post-season for me to pony up in that corporate direction.) Besides, I have three loads of laundry to do, there’s dog and cat hair everywhere and Oprah is on in 10 minutes.  So have a Happy 2009, all. I’d send you a card but as you know, I don’t do that. Windows either, in case you were wondering.