Those were the words my real estate agent left on my voice mail last night. She said that she had another real estate agent who wanted to show my house between 6 and 6:30 p.m. today. Once again she had no idea if the guy would actually show up so she suggested that I not even leave until the agent and his client showed up.Well, for once an agent showed up. Shocking, right? That's the first time in eight months. What isn't so shocking but what nonetheless makes me want to rip the "For Sale" out of my front yard and throw it at someone is that he showed up late. Originally, I had intended to follow my realtor's advice and wait until the guy showed up. However, the dogs figured out something was up the minute I opened all the curtains in the house earlier in the afternoon. By the time I got their collars and leashes on them, they were bouncing off the walls or at least the door anyway. Quite literally, they would run to the front door, do this combination scratch-pounce maneuver, whine, and then run back to me.
I was scared that eventually the bouncing was lead to Piss Fest 2009. I had already spent a good part of the afternoon cleaning up the pre-show to Piss Fest--the five or so spots that Bailey had left around the house while it was raining this morning. I didn't want to clean any more. Consequently, against my better judgment I loaded the dogs into the car earlier than I intended and drove to the Walmart parking lot, where I continued to sit for the next 40 minutes.
When I came home around 6:40 p.m., it was Monday Redux. The dogs didn't sniff. There was no card by the door. No extra lights had been left on. I was mad that the guy hadn't shown up, but I was hungry, too. All I could think about was making supper. However, I never got the chance to make anything, as the agent finally pulled in front of my house sometime around 6:50 p.m.
I started cussing at the point. I couldn't help it. I was tired. I was hungry. I smelled like three or four different household cleaners. All I wanted to do was eat something, take a bath, and put on my pajamas, but I couldn't. I had to leave...again. I had to go sit in a cold car...again. I had to waste another hour of my life...again. My brain just shut down at that point, and White Trash Tracy came out to play. Every dirty, four and five letter word that I have ever heard just flew out of my mouth as I searched for my keys and the dogs' leashes. Luckily, I had enough sense not to shout the profanities so unless the agent was wearing tights and a big S on his chest under his business casual garb, I doubt he heard me.
After I got the dogs into the car, the agent brought me his card and apologized for being late. The polite thing to do would have been to say, "It's okay," but at this point it wasn't okay,so I wasn't polite. I just took the card and asked, "Do you know how much longer it's going to be?" He claimed it wouldn't be long, as his clients were just coming down the street. I told him that we'd probably just sit in the car because I had already sat in a cold parking lot for over 30 minutes waiting on him; we weren't doing it again. He didn't say anything in return; he just looked at me funny. After that, it was all I could do to keep from flipping him the bird.
There must have been some kind of funny-look virus going around Keller Williams today because the realtor's clients gave the dogs and me a funny look as well. The dogs, of course, responded by going all Cujo on them. Thank God we were in the car, and all they could do was bark and jump up on the windows. Needless to say, I decided to forgo my earlier plan of sitting in the driveway and drive around the block.
I did the loop-de-loop a couple of times before deciding to park by the pool and scope out the subdivision entrance. The agent and his clients couldn't leave without driving by me. I sat there for 30 minutes staring at the stupid pool and sign before they finally did. By that time, Bailey was sitting in my lap, crying at something he saw out the window; Bella was sleeping off the panic attack that she had when I attempted to turn on the heat (the noise and air coming from the vents scared her); and I was so hungry that I was actually contemplating whether dogs tasted like chicken.
I know that I should be happy that someone finally made it past the driveway, and I am. I'm just also mad as hell that not one real estate agent in this town has any respect for a person's time. If a lawyer is late for court, he's supposed to call the judge's law clerk or secretary and tell him why he is and how long he's going to be. Doctors theoretically have their nurses tell their patients the same thing. So why is it that real estate agents can't show even the smallest shred of courtesy and call a seller's agent when they're running late, thus allowing that agent to call the seller and advise her of the same? Is my time any less valuable because I'm waiting on them and not on a doctor or lawyer?
Believe me when I say that the next time I speak to my own agent, I will be complaining. I'm sure it won't do any good. The last agent that stood me up wouldn't call my agent back. Nevertheless, I'll at least get the chance to go on record and say that the majority of real estate agents in this town have no respect.
Here's to hoping that disrespectful ones don't make any sales (except mine) and that a few months from now they'll be asking, "Do you want fries with that?" Then we'll revisit that issue of courtesy.
