Pat Kennedy - Your Washington, DC Real Estate Connection

At this very moment, I would normally be watching Desperate Housewives, and then Brothers & Sisters.    But there is nothing on.  

Well, there’s football or “The Sound of Music” (which I’ve seen a bunch of times).  But even Masterpiece Theater is a rerun. 

So what to do?  Blog, of course!

But I can’t help but wonder what will happen when television comes back.  Right now, even HGTV is in reruns. 

I’ve had time to read and blog.  To sell houses and blog.  To put together my goals and business plan and blog.  To carry out last year’s business plan and blog!

I may just owe all of this to the television writers union or guild or whatever it is. 

So please stay out on strike!

There is a house that I previewed about twenty years ago, and every time I drive past it, I still get this image of the carnivorous wallpaper that previous owners hung on the dining room walls.

The background was jet black.  And there were colorful tropical plants depicted against the dark background – the kind that eat flies, and maybe mice or kittens.  It was intense, and it didn’t work for me.  Eating a meal in that room would make feel as though I could easily become the entrée.

Wallpaper is a highly personal thing.  With almost any pattern, you can love it or hate it.  You could go for paisley or tropical flowers, or maybe something more neutral, with beiges and pale blues in some sort of geometric pattern.  But other people, even in your immediate family, might not share your taste, whatever it might be.

It seems that whatever one chooses, it can become dated as quickly as the last decade’s favorite appliance color.  At that point, your choice is to remove it altogether or paint or paper over it.  

Anyone who is considering selling a house at any time in the near future, removing old wallpaper is probably the best choice - usually you have to steam it off.  If you do that and paint your walls your favorite shade of fuchsia, repainting when it’s time to sell is easy, and even if you leave it fuchsia, your buyers can change it inexpensively with a few cans of Benjamin Moore.

But the chances are that most of the people looking at your home will not be enamored of your wallpaper.  Their mental calculation of the costs of removing it, restoring the walls and then painting will probably far exceed the actual amount it will take to get rid of the stuff properly.

If you’re sloppy and just paint over old wallpaper, it will be evident to any discerning eye.  There will be telltale seam lines.  And slapping on a coat of paint will make the inevitable removal even more expensive.

So, if you’ve just purchased a home and are considering wallpaper, think long and hard before you actually hang it.  And if you are preparing your house for sale, don’t take it personally if your agent or stager recommends that you steam it off the paper you so lovingly chose and put up, and paint.  

Just do it.

I’ve gotten several emails a day for the past few days from Jennifer.  Like is she my new best friend or something?

It looks like she wants to be!

She wants to send me referrals.  She wants to make me the Numero Uno agent in Columbia Heights County in the District of Columbia. 

She wants to help me to climb that ladder of success!

But wait!  DC has no counties!   And there is no Columbia Heights County in Maryland or Virginia either! 

But if I do not act PRONTO, I will lose out to one of a bunch of other agents – they actually listed names and I’ve never heard of any of these folks.  Of course, I’ve never heard of Columbia Heights County either.

So, Jen!   I have no idea what your deal is.  What do you charge for the leads?  How does it work?  And you know what, even if I did have to buy leads, and I don’t, why would I respond to someone who knows so little about my market that they actually think there are counties in our nation’s Capitol! 

And are the buyers and sellers who sign up for your services, all allegedly pre-qualified, dumb enough to not pick up on these silly little details?

Get you act together, girl!

We all get those listings from time-to-time.  You know,

• The house overlooking a twelve lane highway
• The place that smells like an all night poker game at the National Zoo's lion house
• A demon seed teenager is living in the attic with his bug zoo
• The basement has an unintended swimming hole with eighteen inches of standing water
• Your sellers are in the middle of a messy divorce and are using the house sale as a final opportunity to make each other nuts - and the remaining spouse doesn't want the place to sell.

While each of these situations is blog fodder all by itself, they all create an old elephant in the tent situation, and a lot of times, owners or agents try to hide the big guy!

I once previewed a house with a front door about 20 feet from I-95, and the sellers had a different CD player in each room, producing a cacophony of easy listening music that was intended to distract the viewer from the constant whoosh of semi traffic heading down south.  It didn't work, and my feeling was that a few buyers wouldn't be bothered by the traffic, but the crazy combination of music - different in each room - would make anyone crazy.

One on my listings reeked of cigarettes and kitty litter.  Once the seller moved out, we were able to start the airing out process, but the buyer was a family who smoked like chimneys and now have kitty litter issues of their own.  If we had tried to mask things with pot pourri or scented candles, it would have been worse than honest tobacco and cats.

Sometimes, we can coax the elephant out of the house. 

Sometimes we can't. 

But we can never hide him.

We just have to find that special buyer who adores elephants - or at least doesn't mind adopting one if the price of the house is right. 

It seems that every real estate agent I know is out of town.  Well, it is Christmas week after all.  And when we go out of town now, many of us stay connected, at least tentatively, with some pretty fancy technological tools of the trade.

In the old days, before cell phones, blackberries and laptops (geez! I'm dating myself here!), I always had an arrangement with a colleague to cover my business while I was away.  I, in turn, covered for him when he was out of town.  We had the details worked out, and many of our transactions included referral fees to to each other.  But either of us could leave town knowing that our businesses were covered by someone we totally trusted - Tom treated my business like it was his own, and vice versa.

But back then, calls went into the office.  My clients knew I was out of town, and that they could call Tom if they needed anything. The receptionist knew to forward my calls to him.  It was all very low tech - he also got any hand-written messages people left when he was out of the office. 

Today, Blackberries and I-Phones are changing the way many of us go on vacation.

First, there is an expectation with clients and colleagues that we will be available to return phone calls or emails within a few hours, if not minutes.  Second, because we do have the ability to stay connected, most agents no longer arrange for the kind of coverage my colleague Tom and I provided for each other when we went away.

Today, I was out showing condos in Foggy Bottom, the neighborhood near the State Department and George Washington University.  There was one that I really had wanted to show my buyers - it's in a building I know they would love, and it just came on the market.  I began to call and email the listing agent on Monday.  No word.  OK, it's Christmas Eve, but check your email already!  And I cut him slack for Christmas.  But by this morning, I was getting pretty annoyed.  

So late this afternoon, as I dropped off my buyers, who were on their way home to Memphis, he finally called me.  He was in a funky cell phone place, he said.  

This listing is difficult to show even on a good day, and if he had someone properly covering his business, we could have arranged it with two days' notice.   

So, maybe arranging some sort of real coverage is one more of the "basics" that we are forgetting as we become more sophisticated with our techno toys.  And, it has a couple of advantages that far outweigh the cost of giving a colleague a referral fee for helping out.  First, you have someone there who can put out fires for you, increasing the quality of the service you provide for your clients.  Second, you can take real honest-to-God time off!  

For most of my life, keeping track of my keys has been a challenge.  If it weren’t for the intervention of my favorite saint, St. Anthony, I’d waste even more time looking frantically through my house or office for the darned keys.

One of last year’s New Years resolutions was to get the key thing under control.  And as we’re about to roll out 2007, I thought I had it licked.  There is this one spot just inside the front door that is the key place.  And they are there, much more often than not.

Well, that was a true statement until Monday, when I opened my Christmas present from those nice folks at MRIS – they run the multiple listing services for many east coast boards of Realtors.

The new gadget is called “SAFEMLS” and it is the brain child of the Secure Computing Corporation.  I, however, think it is a fiendish plot to drive me crazy.

They said to put it on your key ring.  I did. 

Then, when you log on to the system, you push a little button, and it comes up with a series of random letters and numbers that you type into a box on the sign-in screen.  But oops!  What is that?  Is it “0” as in zero, or is it “O” as in outrageous?  Is that a letter B or a number 8?  I got it wrong several times before it finally let me log onto the system.

While that was pretty annoying, things got worse. 

After I printed out some listings that I planned to show, I prepared to walk out the door with about 5 extra minutes to spare.  And I went to my special key place.  No keys!  Yikes!

So, I spent my extra 5 minutes tearing through the house looking for the keys.  I looked in the pockets of the jacket I’d worn the day before.  I checked out sofa cushions, moved furniture, and yelled at poor Willie the hyper-active-Labradoodle puppy.  (Perhaps the dog ate my keys?)

Finally, I went upstairs to check the bathrooms, the bedrooms and then my office!  And there they were, right where I left them when I logged onto MRIS.

So, as we go into 2008, I am going to have to figure out a new key routine.  Or maybe I can talk someone at MRIS into letting me have a second little gizmo – one that stays by my desktop at home, and one that stays on my key ring that I use at the office.

Am I the only one who totally HATES this new system?  How are other MRIS users making it work?

He-elp!

And Willy, sweetie!  I owe you a big apology! 

Tis the night before Christmas
And Pat is ablog!
Not a present is wrapped
And there is no yule log.

Her family is coming
From near and from far
And in just eighteen hours
They’d be at her door!

All through the house
There is such a clutter.
And yet, there she writes
With just barely a mutter.

So on Christmas morning
She’ll rush through the house,
Decking the halls
Then she’ll find a clean blouse.

And at noon when she hears
The doorbell alert,
They’ll all think she channeled
Good old Martha Stewart.

Merry Christmas to all of my friends on Active Rain!  

And turn your computers off!   

When the 60’s turned into the 70’s and we re-elected President Nixon, most of the hippies in the Washington, DC area moved to Takoma Park, circled the wagons, and declared the place a nuclear-free zone.  Then they elected Sammy Abbot, a leftie who was blackballed during the McCarthy era as their mayor.  He reigned for a couple of decades and now has a municipal building named in his memory.

This town sits on the DC/Maryland line, and it has a mix of wonderful old Victorian homes, Sears bungalows, and a few mid-century architectural statements.  And there are a lot of aging hippies who still live there.

Many of the early 1900’s homes have been updated, as the flower children of the 60s picked up law degrees, real estate licenses and six figure incomes.  But the flavor of the place is still hippie funk.  And the lawyers there all work for environmental groups and the real estate agents drive Priuses.

If you want to find Christmas presents that were not made in China, you’re in luck.  I did some shopping in the historic downtown today, and found it not too crowded with a huge selection.

The House of Musical Traditions, for example, carries not only banjos, drums, violins and fifes, but also attire for that belly dancer on your shopping list.

Amano (no, not Armani) has a shoe selection perfect for real estate professionals who spend so much of their time walking around and need something a bit more comfortable than Manolo Blohniks.  While I was there, I bought a beautiful velvet scarf and pair of gloves for my niece and found a scarf for myself with golden threads that will go very nicely with my flute.

Then there was a lunch at the Savory, where I frequently stop for a break with clients when I’m showing houses.  They have organic treats for vegetarians and carnivores alike.

The townspeople are committed to recycling.  There are a lot of vintage clothing stores, including Polly Sue’s and Rerun.  The Rerun was burning enough incense to cover up a 60s style pot party you’d expect to find in the back room (but didn’t).  It was a little overwhelming. 

You can take your recycled hippy dress to S&A Beads, and you’ll find all of the supplies you need to customize it. 

Before I headed home, I decided to stop at the Takoma Park Coop for some produce.

 I also stopped by the smell good counter to check out the essential oils, and left smelling quite interesting.

It's probably better that I didn't have a client in the car on the way home!

If you haven't finished your Christmas shopping, a trip to Takoma Park to pick up those last minute gifts is a lot easier than trekking or schlepping out to Tyson's Corners or Montgomery Mall.  And it's not just a shopping trip.  It's sort of a trip down memory lane, at least if you used to be a hippy. 

When my siblings and I were young children, my parents worked hard to give us an appreciation for literature and poetry beyond what the nuns taught us at Assumption of the Blessed Mary Elementary School.  To that end, my father introduced us to his favorite poet, Ogden Nash. 

The Golden Trashery of Ogden Nashery became dog eared from constant use.  And one of our favorite poems was “The Boy Who Laughed At Santa Claus’ – my younger brother and I committed it to memory!

When it came time for the class play, my brother decided that he wanted to recite this poem, which he knew by heart.  Then, on the day of the dress rehearsal, my mother got a phone call from a horrified nun, Jack’s third grade teacher.  She was told to come pick up her son, and that he was no longer going to participate in the production.

So, what was all the hoopla over?  Why, a naughty young boy named Jabez Dawes, and the poem goes like this:

The Boy Who Laughed at Santa Claus
by Ogden Nash
 
In Baltimore there lived a boy.
He wasn't anybody's joy.
Although his name was Jabez Dawes,
His character was full of flaws.

In school he never led his classes,

He hid old ladies' reading glasses,

His mouth was open when he chewed,

And elbows to the table glued.

He stole the milk of hungry kittens,

And walked through doors marked NO ADMITTANCE
.
He said he acted thus because

There wasn't any Santa Claus.

Another trick that tickled Jabez

Was crying 'Boo' at little babies.

He brushed his teeth, they said in town,

Sideways instead of up and down.


Yet people pardoned every sin,

And viewed his antics with a grin,

Till they were told by Jabez Dawes,

’There isn't any Santa Claus!'                                        

Deploring how he did behave,

His parents swiftly sought their grave.

They hurried through the portals pearly,

And Jabez left the funeral early.

Like whooping cough, from child to child,

He sped to spread the rumor wild:
'Sure as my name is Jabez Dawes

There isn't any Santa Claus!'

Slunk like a weasel of a marten

Through nursery and kindergarten,

Whispering low to every tot,
'There isn't any, no there's not!'

The children wept all Christmas eve               
And Jabez chortled up his sleeve.
No infant dared hang up his stocking
For fear of Jabez' ribald mocking.

He sprawled on his untidy bed,

Fresh malice dancing in his head,

When presently with scalp-a-tingling,
Jabez heard a distant jingling;

He heard the crunch of sleigh and hoof

Crisply alighting on the roof.

What good to rise and bar the door?

A shower of soot was on the floor.

What was beheld by Jabez Dawes?

The fireplace full of Santa Claus!

Then Jabez fell upon his knees

With cries of 'Don't,' and 'Pretty Please.'


He howled, 'I don't know where you read it,

But anyhow, I never said it!'
'Jabez' replied the angry saint,

'It isn't I, it's you that ain't.

Although there is a Santa Claus,
There isn't any Jabez Dawes!'

Said Jabez then with impudent vim,

'Oh, yes there is, and I am him!

Your magic don't scare me, it doesn't'

And suddenly he found he wasn't!


From grimy feet to grimy locks,
                      
Jabez became a Jack-in-the-box,

An ugly toy with springs unsprung,
Forever sticking out his tongue.

The neighbors heard his mournful squeal;

They searched for him, but not with zeal.

No trace was found of Jabez Dawes,

Which led to thunderous applause,

And people drank a loving cup

And went and hung their stockings up.

All you who sneer at Santa Claus,
Beware the fate of Jabez Dawes,
The saucy boy who mocked the saint.
Donner and Blitzen licked off his paint.

OK, maybe Sister Mary Whats Her Name had a point.  It’s not exactly uplifting, and you might now want to share it with your small children, as my father did.  And on Christmas Eve, for many years, this poem made the Kennedy children laugh themselves silly.

This will be our first Christmas without my father.  He died earlier this year at the age of 89.  In his honor, my siblings and I are going to recite Jabez Dawes when we gather at my house on Christmas day for a family celebration.  And we will certainly celebrate my father, who gave us all a truly unique education.  I think we can still all recite at least huge chunks of this one by heart!


 

It was one of those days.  When I got home, I realized I'd been walking around all day with my sweater inside out and nobody said anything to me. 

But there was more!  

I was trying to preview a whole bunch of houses, like 20 in two hours.  In, out, and on to the next.  Before leaving home, I carefully organized my route, checked the showing instructions and called to let people know I was coming.

When I list a property, I try to be very explicit with my sellers and the showing instructions, especially if we are talking about an occupied house.  

• Agents are supposed to call first, and most of them will.
• You need an answering machine, and you need to check it whenever you come in.
• Some of them will call from the curb on their cell phones (the moral equivalent of just knocking on the door), and unless it would be grossly inconvenient, please let them in.
• Keep the key to your deadbolt in the lockbox.  When you're gone, unlock the second lock.  When you're home LOCK BOTH LOCKS!  If one key fits all, get a chain lock and put it on.

I explain that it's  OK if they come home after a hard day's work and find an agent with buyers in the living room or anywhere else in the house, for that matter.  It's not OK if they step out of the tub and find an agent and buyers in the hallway or master bedroom.

Well, some poor wet naked guy was not expecting me.  I had called two hours earlier to say I would be stopping by to preview.  No answer, so I left a message on the answering machine.  He forgot to check his messages before jumping into the tub for a long, hot bath.

This time, I was lucky.  I heard the water running.  And a few minutes later, I was running.  Out the door! 

We all have our walking in on naked people stories with which we regale our colleagues.  If you'd rather not be one of these adventuresome tales, figure out the lock thing!