Wednesday, April 1, 2009

She Called Me Honey

I've decided that there are three types of people who call other people "honey." First, there are the people who use "honey" as a term of endearment. They could be your parents, your significant other, or even your siblings. When they say "honey," they're actually saying that they like you and that they care. Then there are the Waffle House waitresses. "Honey" slips off their tongue just as easily as "scattered, smothered, and covered" or "kiss my grits." It's just part of who they are. Finally, there are the people who use "honey" as an insult. In their world, "honey" is a term of degradation, a way to push you further down the social totem pole, a shortened version of "I'm better than you."
My real estate agent called me "honey" on the phone Monday morning. Guess which category of honey-givers she falls into? Ding, ding, ding. Category 3. After the whole 10-day fiasco Thursday, she didn't say one iota to me this entire weekend. She didn't call to say whether she had spoken to the guy at Chase. She didn't let me know if he could push the deal through in 10 days. She didn't even let me know when those 10 days would begin. I wanted to know--no, I needed to know--the answers to those questions.
Do you want to know what she said? She said, "Oh, honey, I never said 10 days. Matt still has to present the offer to the investors, and then it will still be another three or four weeks at the least after that."
Are you kidding me? Not only does she send a venomous, honey-bomb my way, but she insults both my intelligence and my memory by saying that she never said what she did. Apparently, Little Miss Snippy Pants doesn't realize that she's dealing with someone who remembers stuff that happened when she was three. Like there was this Christmas I got a radio that looked like one of those old, glass Coca-Cola bottles. My family tried to trick me by making me think it was a real Coke bottle and wouldn't tell me where the music was coming from. I can tell you what nightgown I had on that Christmas morning, where the Christmas tree was, how the furniture was laid out, where my family members were siting, etc. I can go into equally graphic details about the time there was a rat on the window sill in my bedroom or the time I hid an Easter egg in my Barbie dream house. I can even tell you what the Barbie furniture looked like. If I can remember all that, I have no problem remembering what happened just a few days ago.
As you can imagine, I was not pleased by either the nickname or the accompanying insinuation. I should have just hung up then, but I didn't. Instead, I said, "Well, Matt did say that his hands are tied because it's a short sale on a FHA loan. He has certain steps he has to follow."
"I know. That's why I'm never doing a short sale again."
All I could think of after that was all that the bleach had finally fried was left of her brain. I don't care which of the major real estate chains you work for--ReMax, Coldwell Banker, Century 21, or GMAC Real Estate. Until the economy gets better and house values stop dropping, there is no way Little Miss Snippy Pants or any other realtor for that matter is going to be able to avoid doing short sales, not if she actually wants to make sales. Maybe my realtor is naive enough to think my situation is unique. Maybe she thinks my house is the only one in the nation that is now worth half of its original value. If so, then she is either a complete idiot, or she just hasn't watched the news in over a year.
Next time I talk to her, I'm so returning the "honey."
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