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Lately I have noticed that my plans for the future tend to be more and more defined by my thoughts of ATDD*. Though distracting, I’d even say over whelming sometimes, let me assure you that ATDD* is not a life threatening condition. In fact, I’ll save you a trip to WebMD because ATDD* is not a disease at all, but simply an acronym, which I will define in a moment, for how I envision the future.

When it comes to daily life, many of us make the mistake of focusing so heavily on the future that we end up eclipsing the joys of the present. In the song “Beautiful Boy”, John Lennon writes that “Life is what happens while you’re busy making other plans”. Maybe you are a member of the When I Retire, I Am Going to Travel Club. Or, if you’re a links lover recently inspired by Bubba Watson’s awesome demonstration of Masters golf excellence, you might fancy yourself a When I Retire, I Am Going to Play Golf guy or gal. Though my dream retirement menu is best described as twin entrees of beach and writing accompanied by sides of mountain and travel, the financial crisis of 2008 has insured that my retirement dish needs to stay in the oven a tad longer. Which brings us back to ATDD*. Somewhere between my plans for the upcoming weekend and my plans for retirement are my plans for ATDD*, an acronym for After the Dogs Die!

Now before those fingers start madly dialing the phones of the SPCA, PETA (don’t be silly….dog furs are not even chic!) or any other acronym-defined animal rights groups, let me clarify that I am a huge animal lover and I truly love all three of my dogs. They get two squares per day, annual shots, plenty of love and a full acre of land on which to play. Heck, two of the three actually sleep in the bed with my wife Betsy and me. And, if those sleeping arrangements alone don’t convince you that I am a loving dog owner, let me assure you that it can be downright disturbing, I would even say mentally scarring, to wake up and find that a 65 pound Australian Shepherd, rather than your wife, is spooning with you. In other words, my dogs live the good life and never want for anything.

With that said, let me explain that despite loving my dogs very much, they do have some absolutely annoying traits or characteristics. For the most part, I am very tolerant and accepting of their flaws. Do I love that they have scratched holes through our fine leather living room chairs? No, but it does not drive me to thoughts of *ATDD. How about the scratching on the doors, the chewing of the pillows or the paw-driven excavations of the back yard? Aggravating, yes, but not *ATDD thought invoking. But when it comes to their maddening, non-stop barking, I confess that my thoughts of *ATDD are plentiful!

Don’t get me wrong; I’m not an unreasonable man. If a coyote is mauling someone in the front yard, I get it….this is a legitimate barking moment! But erupting into a chorus of yapping because Gus the chipmunk is scratching his back outside the window? The barking problem has gotten so bad that when I now see a dead squirrel in the road in front of my house, I no longer think it has anything to do with poor car-dodging judgment or timing. Frankly, I think the squirrels just can’t take the barking anymore and are hurling themselves in front of cars in a desperate last act of squirrel Hari-Kari.

I know that Betsy will dispute me on this, but Jake, who is the oldest of the three and was my only dog until Betsy and I married and blended households, did not always have a barking problem. I clearly feel he has been negatively influenced by his canine step sisters. That’s my story and I am sticking to it. With that said, all three dogs now bark loudly, frequently and at anything, regardless of whether they are inside or outside of the house. Betsy and I very much want to be good neighbors and we do our best to bring them inside the house at the earliest onslaught of barking. Unfortunately, we were once not quick enough on the draw and a neighbor anonymously placed an internet printout for dog training, complete with suggestions that our dogs might benefit from this corrective therapy, in our mailbox. Make no mistake, I understand the frustration. But folks, if you plan to print out something from the internet and “anonymously” leave it in your neighbor’s mailbox, let me make a suggestion: Hints from Heloise suggests that you white-out the identifying internet address printed at the top of the page.

Nevertheless, being the neighborly, State Farm-like people that we are, we took our neighbor’s suggestion and invested, heavily I might add, in a dog training program. The trainer came out to the house, sat down for a long chat with the dogs (presumably to get their side of the story…I’m not sure!) and then gave us the $700 chain bag. For those of you not familiar with the tools of the dog training trade, that’s a small, $0.99 cloth bag with a chain it. Now the bag did not really cost $700, but the training did, so as far as I’m concerned, the $700 chain bag moniker is appropriate. At any rate, the trainer told us that just as soon as the dogs start to bark, we were to forcefully throw the bag on the floor and yell “BAH” at the top of our lungs. Repeated consistently, she assured us, and the barking problem would be cured. Desperately seeking an end to the barking nightmare, we diligently followed this routine for a number of weeks. Did we annoy the dogs a lot? Absolutely! Did we annoy each other a lot? Ditto! I’d even venture to guess that the same neighbor might have slipped our dogs an anonymous note suggesting help for their annoying “BAH”ing owners! But the barking persisted.

Last year, we even tried dressing our dogs in Thundershirts as a means of solving their barking problem. For those of you not in the know, Thundershirts are tightly adhering sweater vests intended to sooth and calm, and thereby reduce the barking of, anxiety ridden canines. Often advertised via late night TV infomercials, Thundershirts are sort of like Spanx for dogs, though intended to calm anxiety rather than hide those unsightly bulges that accompany a dog’s later years. The company offers a strong money back guarantee and after reading all of the positive reviews, I am convinced that they probably do work for some dogs….they just didn’t work for ours. Did the dogs look good in their Thundershirts? Yes indeed…no bulges whatsoever and I truly believe that they were pleased with their slimmer youthful appearance! They just were not pleased enough to stop barking.

So, as of this writing, my dogs still have a barking problem and I still think about *ATDD whenever an oral outbreak occurs. But, all *ATDD kidding aside, I really will miss my dogs, particularly Jake, when they pass. Jake has been by my side since the turn of the century and he is my living proof that dogs are “Man’s Best Friend”. Though he has slowed a lot and lost his hearing in the last couple of years, he is just as sweet and kind as the day I got him. As for the barking, unless I spot some miracle cure on Shark Tank, that entertaining TV show that allows budding entrepreneurs to pitch their inventions to investors, I will just have to put up with the barking and do my best to be a considerate neighbor. As for the barking-induced squirrel suicide problem, I’ve decided I might just have to hang some anti-suicide protective netting next to the road. Who knows, maybe you will see me promoting it as a $19.99 “twofer” special on late night TV!

Considering I sport a full beard and can belt out a decent karaoke rendition of The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm”, you may be shocked to learn that I have an estrogen problem. However, lest your imaginations run rampant and conjure up scary images of me poolside donning a bikini top, let me clarify that my estrogen problem is an entirely external one. With respect to my blood work, these veins are testosterone rich, thank you very much!

Now, before I raise the hair on the back of every lady out there, and I am sure that the aforementioned “back hair” reference is not going to help at all here, let me clarify that I absolutely love the opposite sex. Women are beautiful, intelligent and interesting creatures. By and large, I thoroughly enjoy their company. Nevertheless, like anything taken to excess, a guy can drown in too much estrogen.

If you had asked me two years ago if I had an estrogen problem, I would have emphatically answered “NO!” At that time, I worked in an office equally represented by both sexes and lived in a house evenly split along chromosomal lines. But that was then and this is now. The whole Venus and Mars thing is alive and well in 2012. First stop….my office.

1116 Canton Street consists of 8 smart and talented women….and yours truly! Chatter about last night’s game around the water cooler? Nope! Exaggerated claims of 290 yard drives on Saturday’s golf outing? Snake-eyes again my friend! Good-natured debates about who should be crowned the hottest gal in the office? Crickets one more time! Since joining this all female society a year ago, I have gone from knowing virtually nothing about fashion to “Alex, I’ll take ‘Accessorizing’ for a $1,000 please”! Am I now in the know about prom dresses, prom dates and those pesky and meddlesome prom moms? Check, check and check! Just how much do I crave a little male bonding in the office? Let me just say that while I truly believe UPS is a great company, I never thought I would actually look forward to the UPS guy’s deliveries! And while his daily visits serve as a testosterone boost for me, I am sure that for him they are nightly insomnia-inducing events as he ponders the cause of the trapped-behind-prison-glass gaze of his bearded banker client.

Second stop….the home front! Within the last two years, both my son Spencer and my “bonus” son John have left home to attend college, thereby creating a huge male vacuum in the Harvey household. Further diluting the testosterone count (or increasing the estrogen level…you pick!), my 23 year old daughter just moved back home to cut costs as she pursues an advanced degree in nursing at a nearby university (I suggest a good pair of Raybans to soften the Proud Papa Beam currently searing your retinas). Boom, and just like that, the human female to male ratio has rocketed from an even keeled 1:1 to an estrogen explosive 3:1. The animal count is not much better. Theoretically, 4 females to 2 males equals 2:1, but when you take into account the “snip-snip” sacrifice of Jake and Gordo (sorry guys!), I think we’re at 6:0! If you have any doubt about that math, please consider that Jake is often treated like the “new inmate” by the more dominant female dogs!

In the event you are taking any of this too seriously, don’t think for a minute that I don’t view myself as a very lucky man to be drowning in this self-inflicted estrogen pool! A wonderful wife, two amazing daughters, and 8 lovely female co-workers would make any man happy to succumb to an estrogen overload. And, besides, I do have my coping mechanisms. Should things get really rough at home and there is not a UPS guy in sight, I simply fire up the DVD player and watch 30 minutes or so of “Pulp Fiction”. If the infamous Samuel L Jackson and John Travolta foot massage debate can’t cleanse the testosterone deprived soul, nothing can!

We walk through life with various labels. All of us are sons or daughters. Some of us are fathers or mothers. Many of us are husbands or wives. Professionally, I am a mortgage guy. At home, I am simply Dad or Honey. I also happen to be the floor guy!

I am not really sure how I became the floor guy, but I am pretty sure it was via spousal appointment. I must confess that my wife Betsy manages most of the domestic duties at the Harvey household. She shops for the food, cooks the meals and does the lion’s share of laundry. If there is a task to be done under heat and air, she typically takes the lead. Unless, that is, it pertains to the flooring.

Being the floor guy at my house is not an insignificant assignment. With two adults, four kids, 3 dogs and 3 cats, “carpet” is the proverbial four letter word and is banned in the Harvey household. Simply put, we are wall to wall “oak” people. Though I happily accept my floor cleaning chores, a great attitude has not precluded me from seeking a better mousetrap for the job.

Mousetrap candidate number one was Roomba, the robotic vacuum cleaner hysterically parodied as “Woomba” on “Saturday Night Live“. Roomba is 4 inches high and roams the room gobbling up dirt sans the assistance of human hands. With the purchase of Roomba, I thought I had found the holy grail of floor cleaning! By providing this floor guy with the ability to enjoy a ballgame and a beer as the floors were cleaned, Roomba quickly became my right hand gal, uh man, uh, robot! I might even call her entertaining - not so entertaining that I would opt out of a good movie or ballgame to watch her do her thing, but there is something mesmerizing about watching a robotic disc work a room. Unfortunately, though great in theory and probably optimal in a critter-free home, dog and cat fur tumbleweeds sent Roomba into early retirement. So, I reluctantly gave up the ballgame (though not the beer!) and returned to manual vacuuming.

Not easily deterred, I set my sights on finding an EZ solution to mopping! Laugh if you will, but mopping an entire house is not easy work. On the positive side, it qualifies for a good 500 calorie burn on the daily calorie counter. On the negative side, it qualifies for a good 500 calorie burn on the daily calorie counter. I don’t know about you, but I don’t want to work that hard in my free time.

Two years and two devices later, including a whirlwind failed outing with “Scooba” (“Streaka”?), Roomba’s robotic mopping cousin, I happened upon an advertisement for what I now call my new holy grail of wood floor maintenance: the Oreck Orbiter floor machine. Despite the $500 price tag, it appeared to be just the mousetrap for which I had been looking. So I marched down to the local Oreck store and was greeted by Bill, a middle-aged career vacuum cleaner man. Dapper in his bow tie and horn-rimmed glasses, Bill looked like he had time traveled directly from the set of “Leave It To Beaver”. I doubt that door to door vacuum cleaner salesmen still exist, but if they do, Bill would be the poster child for the job! His round countenance and rotund physique suggested that he had abstained for some time from the calorie burning world of manual mopping.

Bill may not have known it, but this deal was in the bag! With the flair of a seasoned pro, he fired up the Orbiter and sprayed cleaner on the floor with precision-like trajectory. Effortlessly directing the machine with single-handed fingertip control, he transformed the soiled demonstration floor into dazzling brilliance. The only missing element was a performance ending bow. Sold!

Before I expound further on Fast Eddie, let me first emphasize that the Jeep purchase was a not a spur-of-the-moment decision.  In fact, the idea had been brewing in my mind for years, in a seasonal pattern consisting of wintertime hibernation followed by springtime resurgence.  My love for Jeeps was forever sealed after countless mid ‘80’s trips to the Jersey Shore in my ’79 Jeep CJ-7, an 8 cylinder model with “3 on the floor”.  And for those of you who are now raising your eyebrows because you envision a Jeep as nothing more than a rough riding mechanic’s dream, let’s just say that I have recently realized that my retirement portfolio would be a heck of a lot healthier had I simply invested in buying and selling used Jeeps over the years!  As with old Corvettes and a few other select automobiles, it seems that Jeeps, despite many initial years of normal depreciation, tend to actual appreciate in later life. 

My Jeep purchasing journey began, and ultimately ended, at The Pre-owned Store, a very cool used Jeep dealership located in Cartersville, Georgia, a small and friendly town at the foothills of the North Georgia mountains.  Let me quickly point out that Fast Eddie does not hang his hat at this fine establishment.  Of course hindsight is always 20-20, and if I were to go out today to buy my Jeep, I would simply walk into the Pre-Owned Store, choose my vehicle, plunk down my money and drive away a happy customer.  But as fate would have it, that is not what I chose to do and Fast Eddie walked right into my life.

I had test driven several Jeeps at the Pre-Owned Store on a recent weekend and though there was a ’92 model that I was particularly interested in, I decided to walk away and “think about it” for a day or two.  At roughly $7,500 dollars, The Pre-Owned Store’s price for a 19-year old Jeep seemed to me at the time to be a tad high.  I say “seemed” because after further research, I learned I was actually getting a pretty solid deal.  Nevertheless, I opted to walk away from the deal that day and as soon as I got home from the dealership, I fired up my laptop and made a bee-line for AutoTrader.com.  It was time to do a little more price research.  After a quick search for Jeeps in the metro area, the results were delivered and there she was:  a 1993 White Jeep Wrangler for the low, low asking price of $4,995.  Unbelievable!    Too good to be true!  So good, in fact, that I ignored common sense whispering in my ear:   if it looks like a duck, quacks like a duck and walks like a duck, it is probably a duck! 

Nevertheless, first thing Monday morning I called the dealership and was greeted with, “This is Eddie….can I help ya!”.  I inquired about the white Jeep in the ad and Eddie advised me that not only was she was still available, she was a real beauty.  Other than a little grinding from 2^nd to 3^rd gear, he said she was in great shape and would most likely be quickly scarped up by some lucky buyer.  I told Eddie to expect me around 11:30 or so for a look-see.

I drove into the dealership’s parking lot and noted that the sales office’s appearance was only a notch or two superior to a single-wide trailer.  The potential automotive adoptees were erratically parked throughout the gravel and dirt lot and I concluded that many had been fostered by the dealership for quite some time.  As I walked up the steps and opened the door, the only thing missing to complete the stereotypical used car lot scene was a cloud of smoke-filled air and an ashtray full of Camel non-filters.  The walls were strewn with cheap art and promotional calendars.  There were two graying and sun-worn salesmen coyly poised to pounce on the next mark that walked through the door.  When I told the first gentleman that I was looking for Eddie, he nonchalantly pointed to his right and his well chewed toothpick rolled across his lips as if it was connected like a puppet to his right arm.  Though Fast Eddie appeared to be 65 or so, I can assure you that I would not have won a prize guessing his age for the carnival barker.  Based on appearances alone, I concluded that Fast Eddie’s life had probably not been an easy one.

After brief introductions and a few general inquiries about the Jeep, I moved closer toward my ultimate entanglement in Fast Eddie’s web.  “Mind if I take her for a test drive”, I asked while simultaneously reaching to pull my driver’s license out of my wallet.  Without hesitation, Eddie pitched the keys airborne with the precision of a ballplayer making a routine 2^nd to 1^st base flip. Eddie was clearly not a minor leaguer in the world of used car sales and he had made this toss hundreds of times before.  .

The test drive was uneventful and Fast Eddie had been dead-on accurate regarding the grind on shifts from 2^nd to 3^rd gear.  He had neglected to mention the grind from neutral to 1^st or the one from neutral to reverse, but oversights do happen and I am sure Fast Eddie simply forgot to mention these things.  I returned to the store and with Fast Eddie’s permission, I drove the Jeep to the local Jeep dealership for a thorough pre-purchase inspection.  For the price of $110 and a 2 hour wait, I had my answer:  the $4,995 Jeep that Fast Eddie had said was nearly perfect would require $4,500 in repairs to fully bring it up to speed.  There were seals, bearings, linkages, exhaust parts and a whole laundry list of other repairs that were needed.  I was disappointed.  I knew that there was no way that Fast Eddie could come off the price enough to still make this a viable deal. 

As I returned to the single-wide, I parked the Jeep in the first spot available and went into the sales office to deliver the news to Fast Eddie.  “Should we get the paperwork started?”, he chirped with a creepy grin.  I handed him the auto mechanic’s Death Certificate of repairs, and after cursory review of the document, Eddie’s creepy grin disappeared and a frown took it’s place.  “Hmmmmmm…mind if I make a copy of this?”, he asked.  I nodded affirmatively, having no idea that it would be a decision I would later regret as the Death Certificate contained personal information such as my name, address, phone number. 

Photocopy in hand, Eddie sat back in his well worn, ‘70’s era chair and kicked his feet up on the desk.  As I handed him the Jeep keys, he made his pitch, “If I were to sell you that Jeep for $500, would we have a deal?  After all, if you put in the $4,500 outlined on this here paper, you would have a great Jeep for only $5,000.”.  I studied Eddie for a moment more.  No grins….no smiling….just a seasoned and weathered salesmen sizing up the mark.  “You just might”, I replied.  “You just might!”.  Holding up one finger in the universal sign of “hang on a sec”, I stepped out into the parking lot and called my wife.  Though I had already been given the green light to buy a Jeep, and I knew that Betsy did not care one way or the other, I value her opinion and I wanted to get her thoughts on Fast Eddie’s pitch.  Her response was simple.  What the heck, it is only $500…”go for it”!  I then quickly dialed the mechanic who had inspected the Jeep and asked whether he believed that I would have a solid ride after the repairs he suggested.  “Absolutely!”, he replied, adding that if I didn’t buy it at that price, he would.  No more than 3 minutes after Fast Eddie’s pitch, I walked back into the trailer, extended my hand and proclaimed, “You’ve got a deal!”.

Fast Eddie didn’t smile or blink.  Without hesitation, he rejected my offer with a proclamation of, “You’re too late….it’s sold”.  I was speechless.  In direct response to my shocked gaze, Fast Eddie continued, “The Finance Manager heard me make the offer and as soon as you stepped outside, he said he wanted it and bought it on the spot.  Sorry!”.  “You have got to be kidding”, I replied.  I asked to see the Finance Manager, but was told that he had just left a second ago.  Done.  Deal over.

As I headed out of the lot in my old Beemer, I cursed myself for my brief hesitation and called my wife to deliver the bad news.  I told her that I smelled a rat and she concurred.  It just did not add up.  A few minutes later, coincidentally, my cell phone rang and it was the salesman from The PreOwned Store in Cartersville calling to inquire if I had given any further thought to the $7500 ’92 Jeep that I had test driven over the weekend.  Out of curiosity and bewilderment, I told him of Fast Eddie’s offer and the ensuing results when I hesitated to accept it.  I had smelled a rat, but he not only smelled it, he saw in the flesh.  He advised: “I think this is the perfect case of a salesman making an offer he had no authority to make and the owner squashing it before you could come back in and accept.  That Jeep did not get sold for $500.  I’ll tell you what”, he continued, “I’ll call the number in the ad and ask if the Jeep is still for sale.  I am willing to bet that it is!”.  I accepted his offer and listened through my cell phone as the reputable salesman dialed via his office speaker phone.  After a couple of rings, the greeting chimed out loud and clear, “This is Eddie….can I help ya!”.  The PreOwned Store salesman accurately identified himself and inquired about the availability of the Jeep.  “Yep, she’s still here and other than a small grind from 2^nd to 3^rd, she’s a real beauty!”.  My stomach turned.  I had been scammed by Fast Eddie the used car salesman!

For the next two hours, Fast Eddie’s deception festered in my gut like a volcano awakened from a long dormancy.  It takes a lot to rock me off my axis, but as I thought more and more about the $110 inspection fee and Fast Eddie’s blatant lie regarding the Finance Manager’s spur-of-the-moment Jeep acquisition, I decided it was time to confront the swindler with my evidence.  So I dialed his number.  “This is Eddie….can I help ya!”.  I wasted no time updating Fast Eddie with the details of my phone sting.  His first line of defense was that the PreOwned Store salesman must have spoken with someone else who was not aware that the Finance Manager had bought the Jeep.  I took no time putting holes in this alibi and Eddie finally conceded that the Jeep had not been sold.  “So what do you want from me?” he asked, obviously aware that had just been caught red-handed in a dishonest cover-up.  “It’s very simple, Eddie.  You offered a deal and then reneged on it and I either want the option of buying the Jeep at the offered $500 price or I want my $110 inspection fee refunded to me.  So, let your manager know that I am on the line and I need to speak with him”.  Eddie stammered and delayed, as if he had quickly just pushed a hastily written note in front of his boss’ nose and was stalling for some instruction.  “Well”, he replied, “My manager’s not here right now and if you want your money back, come down here and face us all of us like a man and we’ll see what happens next”.  Without giving him the satisfaction of acknowledging his threat, I simply said, “You best have your manager call me,  Eddie” and I hung up the phone.

About 2 hours later, I received a call from “TJ”, the manager.  After telling him what I expected and noting that his dealership’s unethical behavior was worthy of a call to the automotive licensing board, TJ launched into an unbelievable verbal tirade: “It was a joke, Jim.  We weren’t really going to sell you the Jeep for $500!  Besides that, it’s your word against ours.  Just how stupid are you, Jim?  Where did you go to school?  Did you ever even go to school?  I am not refunding you the money and I am not selling you the Jeep at Eddie’s price.”  I was simultaneously angered and amused as I listened to TJ’s tirade.  Had customer service and support in our society degraded to a point that it was now not only acceptable to operate sans customer service, but with overt threats as well? 

After assuring TJ that he had done more that day to support and confirm society’s negative perception of used car sales people, I hung up the phone and contemplated my next move.  Should I bother reporting him to the licensing arm that regulates auto dealers in Georgia?  And if I did so, did I have reason to fear retribution from a mentally imbalanced individual who was in possession of some of my personal information on the repair estimate?  A report to the automobile dealers licensing arm would not likely result in any fines or action, and it was clear that TJ and Fast Eddie were incorrigible souls that were well past any hope of customer service reform.  That evening, Betsy and I Googled the dealership and found five customer reviews, all of which rated the dealership with one star out of a possible five.  One reviewer went so far as to compare the dealership and its employees to possum excrement and to declare that one would be more blessed to be diagnosed with a terminal illness than to buy from this dealership.

The next day, I called up the PreOwned Store in Cartersville and asked if I could make an appointment to test drive their ’92 Jeep once again.  I stopped by the next day and took the Jeep for one more spin.  After some minor negotiating, we struck a deal and I was the proud new owner of a creampuff ’92 Jeep Wrangler that runs like a champ.  Though I noted a few issues during my first few days of ownership, the dealership bent over backwards and made things right at no cost to me.  It was the most awesome car buying experience that I have ever had, bar none.  I have since learned that they are the #1 used Jeep dealership in the U.S., and I am not surprised.  They stand behind their products and take extra measures to make sure that every client is a raving fan.  Without spending a dime on TV advertising, they invest the money in customer satisfaction, and it pays off.  If I sound over-the-top, it may be because they are the antithesis of Fast Eddie and TJ, the stereotypical bad boys of the used car industry.

As Spring rolls into Summer, I know that I will spend many an hour enjoying my Jeep with the doors and top off.  If the weather is beautiful, it is my vehicle of choice.  If the skies are questionable, I drive my old Beemer instead.  Roswell and it’s surroundings are beautiful and there are many a road on which to exercise an old Jeep’s bones.  In fact, up until his death in 2008, Paul Newman and his wife, Joanne Woodward, owned a home in Roswell about 3 miles from mine.  On a recent ride by the former Newman residence, I could not help but think about how “Fast Eddie” Feltson might have hustled Fast Eddie the used car salesman on the pool table.  With a sparkle in his eyes and a slight wink of the baby blues, Mr. Newman’s character would have called the shot clean:  8 ball, corner pocket. You lose, Fast Eddie. 

I had an encounter with a shark today. I hope that I never have another! Like most of you, I have seen plenty of TV documentaries in which scientists (crazies?) swim side by side with the oceans’ most feared predators. I have also observed from the dry side of aquarium glass as imprisoned sharks gracefully move amongst their fellow captives. I recently even watched from high above a Palm Beach, FL pier as an angler hooked a five-footer in the surf below. Though I found all of these experiences fascinating, not once did I feel threatened. Today’s experience was different. Changing the channel was not an option. There was no dry side of aquarium glass. No professional shark handlers to offer a reassuring, “Not to worry Mr. Harvey…we’ve got this situation under control!” It was simply me, the water and 25’ between me and that ominous fin I’d hoped I’d never see.

I think that it is only fair to point out that today’s fear was more induced by Steven Spielberg’s 1975 genius than by the shark itself. It was in that year, a mere day before a scheduled four day trip to the Jersey Shore, that the beach going experience for this then 17 year-old was forever changed by the movie Jaws. Sure, I had thought about sharks from time to time prior to 1975, but certainly not on each and every trek from beach towel to ocean. And, based on the reaction of my fellow beachgoers today, I think it is safe to conclude that there was not a Jaws virgin to be found.

My wife, Betsy, and I had planned this year’s Sunset Beach vacation five months ago and it was to be somewhat of a homecoming for her. As a little girl growing up in the mountains of NC, her parents had vacationed every summer in Sunset Beach and her memories of this small NC beach town were very fond, if not even idyllic. Though it had been some 30 years since she had last visited this seaside retreat, she was sure that the beach she had loved as a child had remained unchanged for her return. I chose not to deflate her vision even though I believed that the rules of progress were contrary to her ideals. Progress tends to ruin many of the finer things in life and I was sure that her idyllic family beach had “progressed” into a sea of concrete condos, fast food restaurants and cheap arcades. Just as I have no delusions that the blackberry bush-lined pony trail of my childhood has long since progressed out of existance, it seemed impossible that Sunset Beach had remained locked in 1980 time warp. I was wrong.

When we arrived in Sunset Beach, the town was exactly as Betsy had remembered it: no high-rises, no arcades, no fast food restaurants. I saw a quaint NC island beach community ignored by progress, save the beach houses, a single market and a couple of surfboard and bicycle rental shacks. I saw a town where bicyclists and pedestrians claim territorial rights to the middle of Main Street and motorized vehicles happily oblige. In fact, the only thing that had slipped Betsy’s 1980 memories was the limited means by which one can get onto and off of the island. It was a single lane pontoon bridge in 1980 and it remains unchanged today. Indeed, progress had opted to lay low with respect to Sunset Beach. Sort of like the Eagle’s Hotel California, you can check out any time you want, but you can’t ever leave. As we rounded the corner and drove down East Main Street to our rented beach house, I commented that the scene reminded me of Amity Island, the pleasant fictional town in Jaws. Little did I know that more ominous reminders awaited us.

I have no idea how the shark had started his day. Though I am sure that he had not planned to be the beach’s star of the day, he would nonetheless win the nomination and I would be one of his reluctant co-stars. For my part, the day had started innocently enough with the renting of a surf board for my son Spencer. Spencer had just learned to surf last summer and even though I had never seen him work his magic on the waves, I had no doubt that he was good. From skate boarding to wake boarding, Spencer has always mastered board sports. It is one of his many gifts in life. Though he is not a natural at all sports and I would not wager on him in a punt, pass and kick competition, he would definitely be my money guy on any sport utilizing a board.

Spencer had been surfing for a good 30 minutes or so when my bonus son, John, and I joined him in the surf. Let me clarify that I had no thoughts of trying my hand at surfing. At 52 years old, I have learned to listen to my lower back and it quickly squashed any foolish thoughts I may have had about getting on the board. John and I had entered the ocean with no plans other than to enjoy a closer of view of Spencer’s antics in the waves. As we ventured some 40-50 yards off of the beach and into the surf, my mind quickly flashed back to Captain Quint, Chief Brody and Mr. Hooper. Though I am sure that Steven Spielberg had not intended for Jaws to haunt his viewers for years to come, he had succeeded nonetheless. As silly as it may be, I confess that each and every trip into the surf since 1975 has sparked flashbacks of Jaws. I know that my shark fears are silly and unfounded. Many of you can probably recite stats on the infinitesimal chance of one getting attacked by a shark. And I know you are right. For 35 years, I have trekked from beach to sea and never seen a shark. It was a good string while it lasted.

Spencer held the farthest position offshore followed by me and then John. A sandbar allowed my feet to still touch bottom, though barely. The waves were decent, though not huge, and the undertow was strong. I had turned my back to the waves and was facing John and the beach when he uttered, “What was that?” while pointing over my left shoulder. I quickly turned to see a fin descending like a submarine enroute to battle stations. Surely it was a dolphin. It was always a dolphin. It was never a shark…except in the movies. Quint floated up next to me and whispered, “You ever see a shark’s eyes Mr. Harvey? He's got lifeless eyes. Black eyes. Like a doll's eyes. When he comes at ya, doesn't seem to be living... until he bites ya, and those black eyes roll over white and then... ah then you hear that terrible high-pitched screamin'. The ocean turns red, and despite all the poundin' and the hollerin', they all come in and they... rip you to pieces”. The fin broke the surface about 25 feet from me. My heart raced. Lord, please let this be a dolphin. Spencer had not seen the fin, but his surfing buddy was fixated on it. Even though John had asked me about the fin, I think he really knew what he saw and I was simply his hope of reassurance that his eyes were playing tricks on him. Sorry, Johno, all sold out of reassurance today. I then shopped for some reassurance myself from the other surfer. “What was that?” I yelled to him. His reply was somewhat stuttered, “It’s a dolphin….I think”. I think? My eyes shifted back and forth between the fin and the surfer and the expression on the surfer’s face confirmed what I already knew. This was not a dolphin and he knew it as well! Like me, he simply could not accept it. And at that very instant in which my mind reconciled that I was facing one of my worst fears, I turned back to the beach just in time to see a woman on the shore break the silence of the sea with a high pitched, “SHARKKKKKKKKKKKK”. Generally speaking, John does not move very fast for anything. He glides easily and slowly from task to task and is very even tempered. It is normally tough to get an emotional surge out of John, but the lady on the beach managed to motivate John in ways that neither his mother, father nor I can. For that one moment, Michael Phelps would have watched John in awe as he swam from surf to shore. In fact, I think that U.S. Olympic swimming coaches could bypass hours of training by simply releasing a shark in the pool a second or two after the swimmers launch from the blocks. Sort of like greyhounds chasing a mechanical rabbit, I do believe that world records would be shattered by seconds. Quint spoke to me again, “shark comes to the nearest man, that man he starts poundin' and hollerin' and screamin' and sometimes the shark go away... but sometimes he don’t go away”. My entire body tightened as my head spun like a lighthouse beacon in the waters surrounding me. Thirty-five years of fear bottled and capped into a single moment. I looked back to the sea. Both Spencer and the shark were 25 feet from me and I was the 90 degree angle between them. I had never thought of the hypotenuse as the distance from my son to a shark, but it was the fitting definition of the day. I turned to Spencer and he looked me in the eyes as I frantically signaled with my hands for him to get to the shore. Spencer was now well aware of the fin and began a calm retreat. I did not speak, yell or splash. Quint advised against it and he was my wing man for the day. I weighed my options. Should I stay still and hope that he does not see (smell?) me? Or should I launch into a freestyle kick and hope that he does not mistake me for a wounded fish? As the sandbar allowed my feet to still touch the sand, albeit barely, I vetoed both of those options and elected to escape by running in the water. Let’s just say I think I may have succeeded in running on it. By the time I reached the shore, the lady on the beach had been joined by a chorus of others screaming and frantically waving to the dozen or so swimmers that were still in the vicinity of the shark’s dinner table. To his credit, Spencer’s retreat was probably the least panicked of all. Though he watched carefully to insure that the distance between him and the shark was growing and not shrinking, Spencer calmly paddled his way to shore. In a matter of seconds, the beach chorus grew to over 100 strong. They paralleled the shark down the beach and warned other swimmers of his pending approach. Chief Brody would have been proud.

Spencer, John and I soon joined the crowd to get a better look at the shark. He was not a Great White. He was not 15 feet long. At best, he was maybe 5 feet on his tippy toes. Though all of us in the water had felt threatened, it was not as a result of any aggression on the shark’s part. Though he may have been hungry, I don’t think it was for us. He may have simply been a disoriented rogue who had lost his way. I will never know.

As my vacation draws to an end, Betsy and I have already decided that we have found our summer retreat for years and years to come. No bars. No putt-putt. No arcades. It is just a simple place to read, write and play board games with the kids and, hopefully someday, the grandkids. I think it is a quiet, wonderful place and I doubt my writing has given away the secret.

A new bridge onto the island is supposed to open in September and I almost wish it wouldn’t. Though we waited for what seemed like an eternity for our opportunity to cross the bridge, I fear that there will be a certain loss of island innocence when the old bridge closes and the new one opens. If you can keep a secret, break out some old board games, load up the kids and give the island a try. But if anyone ever asks you if you have heard of a place called Sunset Beach, look them in the eye, cross your fingers behind your back and reply, “Yes, isn’t it the place with shark infested waters?”

Last Sunday was Father’s Day and it was unlike any of my previous twenty. Typical Father’s Day activities involve brunch with the kids, lounging at the pool, catching the latest flick or hitting a ball of one kind or another. Not this year! Though my children are young adults and I was prepared to be without them on Father’s Day, I never thought that this special day would be reduced to a trip to canine skid row.

My wife and I are huge animal lovers. Well, actually, I am a huge animal lover and my wife loves me. I guess that kind of makes her a huge animal lover. At any rate, we maintain a mini petting zoo of three dogs and three cats and like any responsible pet owner, we make sure that their annual vaccinations are kept current. My story goes back to about a year ago when we took the canine and feline brood in for their annual shots. As if the act of ferrying six animals in a car is not challenging enough, it pales in comparison to penning the check at payment time. Let’s just say that we swallowed hard that day and it had nothing to do with fur balls. Between shots, exams, tests and flea preventatives, our tab was slightly over $800. Yes, I speak of an eight with two zeroes! At that price, I concluded that I had clearly made a serious vocational error somewhere along the way. We decided right then and there that we had to find a cheaper alternative for our animals’ annual shots. So, at the suggestion of a very good friend, we decided this year to get our dogs vaccinated at a mobile vet clinic. Now lest you fear that we would forego shots for our cats and leave them to their own devices to battle the plethora of feline diseases out there, fear not! Last year’s adventure also taught us that it might be best to have a separate feline and canine shot day, a lesson I should have learned long ago from Ben and Jerry cartoons.

The mobile vet clinic is a simple concept and it works as follows. Load up a van with docs and nurses, travel to pre-planned animal gathering points and administer shots. No fuss, no muss. Low overhead equals low cost and this formula seemed quite attractive to my wife and me. As an animal lover, I will also add that this is a wonderful service that makes shots possible for many who could not otherwise afford them. So, like the Clampet’s of Beverly Hillbillies fame, we loaded Snickers, Heidi and Jake into the van and began our journey to this day’s Humane Society gathering point.

The ride itself was uneventful as all three dogs are good travelers. Not so good that you would want to fly First Class with them, but good nonetheless. To fully understand the rude awakening that awaited us, you first have to understand our dogs’ position in canine society. Compared to many of their less pampered peers, Snickers, Heidi and Jake enjoy a privileged and carefree suburban life. Like all packs, there is a definite pecking order and even though Jake is often treated by the other two like a shoplifter incarcerated with hardened criminals, he oddly seems to enjoy it. They are guaranteed two “squares” per day, albeit identical ones, and never want for a comfortable bed or couch to sleep on. They have an acre a land on which to frolic and an abundance of squirrels to torment. Simply put, our dogs have got it made and had never experienced life on the other side of the tracks. That all changed as we rolled into the strip center parking lot that housed the Humane Society.

The parking lot was in disrepair and it was clear that the paving man had not paid a visit in quite some time. The strip center itself was relatively small and housed only two tenants: the Human Society Thrift Store and a convenience store/gas station. Though we did not know it at the time, our pampered pooches would be administered their shots on a folding table surrounded by used dishes, lamps and a variety of “art” depicting dogs in everyday activities such as billiards and poker. The sidewalk was strewn with used furniture and several empty cans of malt liquor were leaning against the curb. As we had arrived about 30 minutes in advance of the appointed time, the parking lot was not yet full, though it soon would be. Let me clarify that the appointed time was not our appointed time, but everyone’s appointed time. There would soon be a lottery system and we would be lucky number 13.

After a quick survey of my pet owner counterparts, I concluded that maybe the Humane Society was sponsoring some kind of human/animal medical marketing co-op: today and today only folks, get your diabetes and blood pressure medicine while Sparky gets his shots! Some of these pet owners were wearing assorted moo-moos and bathing suit wraps, scarily sans the bathing suits, and I soon realized that I had maybe committed a social faux pas by overdressing in a tee shirt, shorts and sandals. As we walked down the sidewalk and my dogs eyed their fellow patients, it conjured up images of Tim Robbins' character arriving to prison in the film “The Shawshank Redemption”. There were sneers and growls galore. The air reeked of cigarette smoke and it was clearly score one for the Marlboro man. Though there was an assortment of couches and chairs on the sidewalk, not a single dog was sitting on the furniture. This phenomenon had nothing to do with great owner training as many of these pouches had clearly played hooky for many of their formative years. No, I think most of these dogs had wisely opted to lie on the ground versus subjecting themselves to whatever lurked beneath the cushions of this furniture bouillabaisse. Unfortunately, my wife and I were not nearly as wise and parked ourselves on an overpriced $30 couch and watched in horror as a sneering dog defiantly lifted his leg and soiled the headlight of Ford pickup. Our dogs winced in disbelief. The dog’s owner puffed obliviously on her cigar and offered no intervention.

By the time the mobile vet actually arrived on the scene, we had already been told that we would be lucky number 13 in line. Though the lot was now packed, a VIP parking spot for the vet van had been reserved just in front of the thrift store-turned-veterinary clinic. A photo of attractive veterinarian with pearly whites adorned the side of the van. I am guessing this parking lot had never seen teeth as white as hers. About 15 minutes after loading their gear into the thrift store, the medical team began barking out lottery numbers. Ten at a time were admitted into the soothing comfort of the air conditioned store. The inside waiting line wrapped through the store in a snake-like fashion thereby giving pet owners a great view of the inventory for sale. Who could resist a bottomless bird cage for one’s favorite feathered friend or a commemorative Betsy Ross plate to brighten any fourth of July celebration? Think back to Rudolf’s the Reindeer’s Island of Unfit Toys and you’ll get the picture. Before my fellow animal lovers throw me into the lion’s den, let me emphatically clarify that I fully support the Humane Society and appreciate all of the wonderful work that they do for animals. Theirs is a truly admirable cause. But one can’t help but humorously wonder who is buying this stuff at the thrift store.

When it finally came time for Snickers, Heidi and Jake to come under the needle, the staff at the mobile clinic was 100% professional. Though we had waited for some time in the heat and I secretly fantasized that the vet’s bottle marked “alcohol” was for drinking versus disinfecting, I can say it was all worth it. We saved a ton of money on dog shots this year and the staff comforted and loved on my dogs like they were their own. Will I make this trek again? Absolutely! In fact, feline day is coming up real soon. But before this next visit, you can be assured that this old dog will learn some new tricks. Though I may still wear sandals, shorts and a tee shirt to feline shot day, I will make sure that my wife is style central in the latest moo-moo or bathing suit cover-up.

I participated in my first crack deal two weeks ago. To say that I did not start the day with a crack deal in mind is an understatement. As fate would have it, unplanned events in the morning resulted in an unplanned crack deal that afternoon. But I am not a drug dealer and this story has nothing to do with illegal trafficking. It has to do with compromise. It has to do with fairness. It has to do with doing the right thing.

I left my office to grab some lunch that fateful day and came upon a stop sign at the entrance to a busy four-lane road. I was number two in line for takeoff and the number one slot was occupied by a silver Infinity sedan. Dutifully applying Coach Shearman’s Driver’s Ed training from some 35 years prior, I kept about ten feet of cushion between me and the Infinity. Coach Shearman had been big on cushions. Never stop on railroad tracks. Always follow the “two second” rule. And leave yourself an “out” at stop signs and red lights. Coach Shearman had also told us to never drift beyond the stop line at intersection stops. From what I could tell that morning, the Infinity had clearly not been mentored by Coach Shearman.

Much like a matador taunts a raging bull, the Infinity had edged its way closer and closer into the path of cars charging from the west. I knew that as soon as the Infinity departed, I would be first in line for takeoff. But there would be no immediate takeoff that day. Unbeknownst to me, the matador had stepped right into the bull’s path. It’s one thing to wave your cape at an approaching bull, but it’s quite another to stand directly in its path. Though I did not know it at the time, the Infinity’s new flight plan would be one of retreat, not one of takeoff. And with almost perfect synchronization between white backup lights firing and red brake lights fading, the Infinity’s surged towards me on a Titanic-like collision course.

Coach Shearman had always insisted that cars horns were intended for the issuance of “gentle” warnings. One or two taps is usually sufficient. Anything more, he had warned, was simply rude. Rude or not, when two tons of steel is barreling down on me, the word “gentle” is not in my vocabulary. Getting this retreating matador’s attention required nothing short of a New York cabbie blast. But the horn fell on deaf ears. As some of you may have experienced, the moment before impact usually only lasts a split second or two, but it always seems to last an eternity. I say always as that day’s front end collision was the third rung of a 18-month collision trifecta. Unlike this accident, the other two were rear-enders and one of those was with a driver who thought that driving a car after 10-12 beers was authorized in Chapter 8 of Driver’s Ed.

The matador and I got out of our respective cars to inspect the damage. Though the Infinity had escaped without a blemish, my front bumper did not fair quite as well. By and large, though, the damage seemed very minor and was limited to a crack that perfectly split the bumper’s casing. The matador apologized profusely and assured me that he would take care of all of the damages. He did request, however, that I give him the opportunity to personally pay for the damages instead of reporting it to his insurance company. As one who insures two teenage boys and knows the pain of mortgage-like car insurance premiums, I related completely to the matador’s request. Not even 12 months before, I had avoided the wrath of the insurance man by personally stroking a check for $850 to cover my son’s collision with a parked car.. A parked car, I might add, that had “appeared out of nowhere”. I don’t know about you, but I try to stay far away from those wandering parked cars. They’re kind of creepy.

After a quick visit to my mechanic to insure that there was no other damage to my car, I swung by the body shop to get an estimate on the repair. Now keep in mind, this was a crack in the bumper. It was not hanging on the ground, dented or pushed into the grill. It was cracked. I can assure you that neither the matador nor I was prepared for the enormity of the repair estimate. “So what’s the damage?” he had asked when we met at his car stereo installation business later that day. “$1150” I replied as I sheepishly handed him the estimate. I was embarrassed. It was a simple crack in a 10 year old BMW, but the body shop said that it could only be repaired by replacing the whole bumper assembly. Yes, my car was in worse shape at the hands of the matador, but with a market value of only $8,000 or so, I just could not in good conscience stick the matador with an $1150 tab. To me, the $1150 was a paper loss. Put bluntly, I loathe car payments and this old Beemer will be driven until it disintegrates into the pavement.

As the matador swallowed hard at the $1150 figure, I gazed up at the neon signage of his car stereo installation business and delivered my alternative to repairing the crack. “You know, I love my satellite radio, but it was installed aftermarket with a wireless transmitter and I have never been very pleased with the quality of the sound. Is there a simple fix that you know of to improve the quality of the sound?” As a smile came over his face, the matador proudly announced that he could give me CD quality sound with a relatively simple hardwiring modification. And with a smile and a handshake, my first crack deal was negotiated. Our deal was simple: I would forget about the $1150 crack repair in exchange for a tune-up of my satellite radio. The matador would not have to stroke me a check for $1150 and his cost would be a fraction of what it would have been. Though my car had indeed suffered $1150 in damage, it had by no means lost $1150 in value. As far as I was concerned, there are times that warrant innovative approaches to fairness and this was one of those times.

So, if you are driving down the road anytime soon and you hear a wind-through-the-crack whistle of an approaching Beemer, go ahead and give your horn a gentle Coach Shearman-like tap or two. If I don’t honk back, please don’t take it personally. I am probably just absorbed in the CD quality sound of my newly-hardwired satellite radio.

It seemed like a simple four-word question requiring a simple one-word answer. Step-up young man! Blurt out your answer! Next please!

It was 7:30 AM last Friday morning and my son Spencer and I had waited patiently in “H-N”, one third of a three-tributary line system rounded out by “A-G” and “O-Z”. Though we were functioning on less than 6 hours of sleep, I don’t think that an 8 PM “lights out” call would have prepared us any better for this morning’s life changing question.

The young lady heading up “H-N” was smartly dressed in khaki shorts and a black and red polo, the same black and red polo adorned by dozens of other enthusiastic young men and women that morning. One might say Ms. H-N was perky. One might even say she was chipper. In fact, as my morning stimulus package had been limited to one cup of joe, I had concluded that she was a tad too perky and chipper for 7:30 AM.

Ms. H-N’s four-word question had probably not caused her even a moment of pause. She had asked it to dozens before us and would ask it to dozens after us. Most would dutifully and robotically provide the requisite one-word answer she sought. Let me be clear on this. Her question was not out of left field. It was legitimate and timely. Spencer knew it was coming. I knew it was coming. In fact, he and I had just talked about it on the drive into town the night before. But practice time was over. No more warm-up. No more swinging two bats in the on-deck circle. It was time to step up to the plate and connect with Mr. Spalding. We knew her pitch even before she readied in her stance. But just because you know a slider is coming does not mean you can hit it. And just like that, she wound up and released the pitch. “What is your major?”. That is all that she said. But I heard, “Tell me right now what you want to do day in and day out for the next 40-50 years of your life?” Ms. H-N was innocent and enthusiastic, but at that very moment, she could have been Zoltar the Fortune Teller in the Tom Hanks film “Big”. Be careful of what you ask for young man. Your answer could alter your life forever. I know. I had faced Zoltar myself some 34 years before. But when the “What is your major?” question was posed to me in 1976, I had only heard, “What is your major?”.

At face value, Ms. H-N’s question was much like the current oil slick in the Gulf: light sheens on the surface disguising monstrous plumes below. If you take it lightly and only address the sheen, the plume will bite you where it counts later on. The workforce is full of workers who did not seriously address the plume and are now coated with oil. Who at 18 is truly prepared to decide the rest of their life? Spencer’s answer to Ms. H-N’s question would chart a course out to sea. Like many others, he knows he wants to sail, but has no idea where he wants to go. Our workforce is full of folks that ventured out to sea without a compass. You know who I am talking about. These are not typically the jobless. They are often not the poor. They are the clock watchers who long for a new course. They may be successful in their ventures, but unhappy with them nonetheless. These are the folks that loathe Sunday nights. I don’t know what percent of workers are actually working in their fields of study, but I assume it is pretty low. At 18, you are legally an adult. But in the big picture of life, you are just a baby.

As we drove back home last Friday evening from my son’s college orientation, I reflected on how proud I was of my son’s answer to Zoltar’s question: a direct and confident “undecided”. Time is on his side and an imitation sheepskin high school diploma does not warrant a reckless answer to such a serious question.

And how did this writer respond to Zoltar some 34 years ago? Well, let me put it to you this way. Though I enjoy what I do and am quite content on Sunday evenings, I did not grow up dreaming of being a mortgage banker. In fact, I was very unsure of what I wanted to do. But, prior to spending the last 20 years honing my real estate skills, I actually spent the first 10 years of my career as a chemist consulting on boiler and cooling water issues in industrial America. That’s right! Your mortgage banking consultant’s answer to Zoltar’s four-word question was “Chemistry”. Though it turned out to not be the best choice for me, I did enjoy the analytical nature of the work and have learned how to apply those same problem solving skills to my mortgage work today.

And what about the oil leak in the Gulf? Though very rusty in the practice and by no means qualified to venture an expert opinion, this former water chemist thinks the BP oilman ought to lighten up on those dispersants…it looks like there is a heck of a plume floating under that sheen.

Imagine being taken for $20,000 and having absolutely no recourse whatsoever! Call 911? Sorry, no can do. The police will say is not a police matter. Hire a lawyer? Nope, no laws have been broken so it's “snake-eyes” again my friend. Yet, just as clearly as the sun will set this afternoon, I am $20,000 poorer at the hands of my neighbor and there is absolutely nothing I can do.

My tale begins a couple of months ago as I was making my daily pilgrimage from work to home.  I had turned down my street and was well on my way home when something unusual caught my eye. There was a change in the landscape that had not been there just 10 hours earlier. Though I was only going 20 mph or so, I slowed the car to a crawl to get a better look.  There, in my neighbor’s yard, was a well-dressed, two dimensional couple smiling pleasantly at me. Their countenances screamed “trust me” and the sign they adorned announced “For Sale” in big bold letters. The sign’s website listing called for nothing short of a bee line dash to my home computer.

As I surfed the website, I realized that this particular real estate listing was going to be the barometer that my wife and I had sought for some time. Allow me to digress for a moment. Some two years prior, we had decided to completely remodel and update our home and no major items were overlooked: a new family room addition, complete remodels of the kitchen and master bath, new hardwood floors, new windows, remodeled screen porch. The list goes on and on. Let me assure you that I had no misguided delusions on our return on investment. Fiscally speaking, this was clearly going to be a case of cost exceeding value. The true value would be the intrinsic one of transforming a home that we loved into a home we would cherish. This was about life, not financial return. Nevertheless, when our architect slid the written estimate across our kitchen table, I envisioned myself in a cult-like trance dumping wheelbarrows of cash into the local landfill.

And just what does this have to do with my neighbor’s listed property? Plenty! As it turns out, they had embarked upon many of the very same remodeling efforts that we had and what better way to measure value than the sale of a comparable house. Now, I must confess that upon opening the website, I was paralyzed by the six figure list price that was prominently featured on the home page. At that instant, I liken my queasiness to the below-the-belt soccer ball shot I took from Michael Vaughn in the third grade. Though I was not physically doubled over on the (NEW!) hardwood floors as I had been on the playground that day in 1966, the aftermath was the same. At that price, the house would no doubt be a steal for some lucky buyer, but it clearly felt like a heist to me. It is one thing to voluntarily wheelbarrow your cash to the landfill, but it is quite a different one to see it evaporate at the hands of someone else. I know that opinions are like….well, you know what they are like….but the list price was at least $20,000 less than the market's potential. Let me clarify…that is $20,000 less than the CURRENT market potential which itself is about $30,000 less than some 24 months ago.

Since that day a couple of months ago, I had pondered my $20,000 question and the daily travels to and from work had delivered no answers…until a couple of weeks ago.

My journey home from work that day began much like the trek I had taken some six weeks earlier. Once again, I noticed that the landscape had changed and though I know that it was unlikely that the agents’ listing sign photo had changed, I could swear that their smile had broadened as a result of the SOLD rider adorning the top of the sign. A couple of well-placed phone calls here and there and my suspicions were confirmed: the property had “sold” for full list price after only 3 days on the market!  Yes, 3 days! 72 hours and not a penny of haggle! I envision the buyers excitedly urging their agent to make the full price offer before the sellers realized they had priced it well below market.  Folks, you may disagree with my position and color me reactionary if you choose, but a well-placed DONATED sign, in lieu of the SOLD one, would have been more appropriate. I know that this is a free country and if a property owner chooses to gift equity to strangers via a below market sale, there is no law against it. It does, however, mean that those of us who remain long after the moving van has pulled away might have to make involuntary dollar for dollar matches when it comes our time to sell. And why did my neighbor elect to go for the no-haggle, below market quick sale?  I may never know for sure, but I suspect that it may have been tied to the anxiety of committing to a new property before the old one is sold.  And for those of you who look back on my "Death By Appraisal" post and question whether this sale is truly reflective of fair market value, please remember that an arms-length transaction requires that neither the buyer or seller act under duress.

As I ponder the meaning of my newly devalued net worth, I can’t help but think back to that Autumn day some 44 years ago. Given a choice between reliving the events of 1966 or 2010, I think I would choose Michael Vaughn’s errant soccer kick any day. Though certainly more painful physically, the recovery time is a heck of a lot shorter.

Paying homage to the cheesy opening line from the 1960’s TV series Dragnet, let me advise you that the tale I am about to tell is a true one. Unlike that famed show, however, there will be no need to change the names to protect the innocent. In fact, no need to provide any names at all.

My story takes place a mere five days ago on Sunday afternoon. I began that afternoon the way I begin most Sunday afternoon these days. Not playing golf. Not taking a nap. Not toiling in my yard to battle the latest crop of defiant weeds. For me, a typical Sunday afternoon involves firing up my GPS and journeying to 8 to 10 Open Houses. Let me clarify that my Sunday outings have nothing to do with a new home purchase on the horizon. These visits, in fact, are nothing more than Networking 101, an opportunity for me to meet and network with real estate agents.

At this point, some of you may have already concluded that “Terror at a Sunday Open House” refers to the agony of open house real estate agents who must endure the sales pitch of a cold-calling mortgage banker. For some, it may even conjure up images from Woody Allen’s film “Take The Money And Run” in which Allen’s petty criminal character pays his debt to society via confinement in a locked room with a life insurance sales person. Unfortunately, this is not the terror of which I speak.

On this most recent Sunday afternoon, I had already visited three open houses and was rolling up to my fourth. As fate would have it, it would have been my fifth stop had the open house operations at planned-stop number four not ceased to exist. I say fate because had my visit to stop number four been delayed by even 10 minutes or so, the outcome to this story might have been tragically different. Though I did not know it at the time, stop number four would be my last stop of the day. Stop number four would go on for what seemed like an eternity. Stop number four would be indelibly stamped in my memory.

The house was situated on top of a hill, a considerable distance from the street below and most definitely no stroll in the park for these vintage 1958 legs. As I opened the door and stepped out of my car, I heard a lady’s voice shouting to me from the top of the hill. Due either to the distance to the house, the background noise in the area or a combination of both, her words were unintelligible to me. But the waiving motion of her arms was clearly a beckoning for me to come up to the house. As I climbed the steep driveway , I felt a tinge of guilt for not being the potential buyer that I was sure she wanted me to be. I can assure you that I clearly had no misguided notions that the waving agent was excited at the prospect of chatting with a networking mortgage banker. She would soon learn that I was neither a buying prospect nor a scouting agent. I would soon learn that her excitement had nothing to do with selling a house.

When I reached the top of the driveway, I noticed an old blue car parked just beyond the sidewalk that led to the front porch. It occurred to me that its year and condition seemed an unlikely match for the price point of the house. Oddly, its passenger door was open and a 25-30 year old man was sitting side-saddle on the passenger seat. As I glanced over at him, his bare feet were visible below the car door. He seemed an unlikely candidate to be either the owner of the home or a potential buyer of it. As I rounded the corner of the sidewalk on my way to the front door, I greeted him without stopping. I don’t really recall my exact words to him or his reply back to me. What I do recall was his reaction. Most people smile when greeted. He did not.

I climbed the front porch stairs and the agent beckoned me quickly into the house. As I crossed the front door threshold, she immediately launched into a somewhat nervous dissertation on the dining room’s finer attributes. Though I admit that I did not immediately make the connection at the time, the words exiting her mouth did not match the fear in her eyes. I sensed that at that very moment, selling this house was the last thing on her mind. As her eyes shifted from mine to an unknown point behind me, she let out a whispered and impassioned plea for help. I quickly turned. The stranger from the driveway had followed me into the house and she was clearly terrified of him. As she would later tell the police, he had piercing blue eyes. I would say they were almost soulless eyes. And though she was unable at that moment to verbalize the exact nature of his threat, I clearly knew that he was neither a potential buyer for her nor a potential borrower for me.

So began the nervous dance between me, the agent and the stranger. Like the Earth during a lunar eclipse, I consistently aligned myself between the agent and the stranger. While she feigned to show me the house, he followed us into the kitchen, not quite on top of my heels, but uncomfortably close to them. As he did so, I executed a perfect sidestep shuffle as there was absolutely no chance that I was going to turn my back on him. At one point, he abruptly interrupted the agent and suggested that she take him down to see the basement. Sorry, Mr. Creepy, the lady chooses to hang with me at the moment. I soon learned through another hushed whisper that the agent’s husband would be here any minute. Two guys on one would be a marked improvement to my current situation, I thought. I still did not know the exact nature of the stranger’s threat. I would only later learn that he had inappropriately touched himself while alone with the agent.

After “dancing” for what seemed like an eternity, but was in actuality only a few minutes, the agent’s husband arrived. He did not know exactly why he was here. He only knew that his wife’s one-word hushed phone call for help meant he had to get there quickly. As he eyed both me and the stranger, he quickly concluded that I was not the threat. He joined our dance and smartly positioned the stranger between him and me. The stranger’s gaze shifted back and force between me and the husband. I know that I will never again experience a more awkward moment of silence than this one. I suggested to him that I was certain that the husband would be willing to move his car so that he could promptly leave. Mr. Creepy looked back and forth between us and indicated that he was just fine. Thank you sir, but I’m just not interested in leaving at the moment. The husband and I again suggested that leaving now was really a very good idea. At this precise moment, my adrenaline was surging as there were just too many unknowns. Did he have a weapon? Was he on drugs? Why had I left my cell phone in my car? Was he mentally unstable? I only knew that he had no intention of leaving. Though there would be no mistaking the husband or I for Ultimate Fighting contestants, I would soon witness that there is a certain power in numbers. After what seemed like an eternal stare down, he finally decided that he would take us up on our offer and leave. The husband moved his car, the stranger left in a hurry and I retrieved my phone for the 911 call to police. As he drove down the driveway, it occurred to me that he had turned the car around prior to my arrival, as if to position it for a quick getaway.

When the police arrived, the agent’s main focus of attention was for the safety of agents working other area open houses. We provided good descriptions of the stranger and his car and the police assured us that they would find him. As of this writing, I do not know if they have.

If you or anyone you know hosts open houses, please forward this post to them. I also suggest that you Google “Open House Safety Tips”. There are a lot of wonderful articles and tips on safety precautions that should be taken. If this story has heightened the awareness of even one more agent, than it has served its purpose.

As for me, I will continue to fire up my GPS and visit real estate agents on Sunday afternoons. And for those real estate agents who cringe at the thought of enduring a mortgage guy’s Sunday afternoon sales pitch, I suggest you check out Woody Allen’s film “Take The Money and Run”. You might just be thankful I don’t sell life insurance. 

Imagine that you are in the market for a new car and your research has led you to the car of your dreams. The only thing standing between you and the keys is an agreed upon price and a car loan from the local bank. Now it’s time to haggle, that tried and true art of automobile price negotiation. After completing a half dozen trips to confer with the sales manager (you know, the one in the elevated office reminiscent of the banker's digs on the TV's "Deal or No Deal"), your sales person returns with an extended hand and proclaims, "We have a deal at $30,500!". A quick pull of your credit shows that you are an excellent risk and the bank is ready to loan you the money.

It sounds like a done deal, right? After all, the bank thinks you are a good credit risk and both you and the dealership agree that $30,500 is a fair price for the car. What could go wrong?

Suppose now that an appraiser steps in and values the car at $28,000, even though you and the dealership agree that $30,500 is a fair price. Suddenly, things change. Due to the lower appraised value, the bank says it can only lend you $28,000. They advise you that the deal can only be completed if the dealership lowers the price to $28,000 or you bring an additional $2,500 to the table, the difference between the purchase price and the appraised value. At that moment, an all but done deal hangs in the balance.

Sound far fetched? Certainly, with respect to the automotive industry, the above scenario is an extreme exaggeration. But in real estate markets throughout the U.S., residential real estate purchase transactions are dying as a result of appraised values that are lower than the contract purchase price. As banks loan on the LOWER of purchase price or appraised value, an appraised value of less than the purchase price means that either the seller must reduce the sales price to the appraised value or the buyer must bring additional funds of their own to cover the gap. So why is this happening?

By definition, in an arm’s length purchase transaction, the purchase price IS equal to the fair market value. For clarification, an arm’s length sale refers to a real estate transaction in a open market freely arrived at by normal negotiations without undue pressure on either the buyer or seller. Though there are many definitions available for Fair Market Value (FMV), I think Wikipedia's hits the key points particularly well. It states that, "Fair Market Value is an estimate of the market value of a property, based on what a knowledgeable, willing, and unpressured buyer would probably pay to a knowledgeable, willing, and unpressured seller in the real estate market". In reality, despite meeting the litmus test for being arms length transactions, scores of purchase transactions across the U.S. are dying as a result of appraised values that are lower than the purchase price.

Before I become the target of the appraisers’ ire, let me emphatically state that I am not, in general, attacking appraisers for the quality of their work. By and large, they are simply following the instructions of their clients who are ultimately, though not directly, the investors who buy mortgages on the secondary market. I think we are simply witnessing an overcorrection of appraisal standards due to a well founded fear of more poisoned mortgages.

Though I am a mortgage banker, I might add that I began my real estate career over 20 years ago as a licensed real estate appraiser. At that time, only sales, not listings, could be considered as comparables. Using a foreclosed sale or short sale as a comparable? Unheard of! These were NOT considered fair arms length transactions and were not permitted in the appraisal process. As long as all indications accurately pointed to an arm’s length transaction, the appraised value was equal to, or in some cases slightly above, the contract purchase price. Rarely did the appraised value fall below the purchase price unless it was not an arm’s length transaction or the buyer truly was unknowledgeable about the market, such as the case of a Californian offering $300,000 on a $200,000 Georgian property because the same house was worth $700,000 in California.

As an active participant in today's real estate market, I am optimistic about the future and believe that our real estate market is recovering. But this recovery is being impeded by appraisal guidelines that prohibit the appraiser from recognizing Fair Market Value when it is presented to him or her on a silver platter purchase contract. Certainly nobody wants to see another influx of bad mortgages like the ones that contaminated our market in the first place. But if changes are not made soon that allow appraisers to assign values representative of the negotiated contract purchase price, we might as well consider eliminating buyer/seller negotiated contracts altogether. Ridiculous, I know, but think about that the next time you go to buy a car.

Two years ago, in February of 2008, mortgage rates had been on a wild roller coaster ride for a 2-3 week period and much of this ride was influenced by actions taken by the Federal Reserve. At that time, the Fed cut its rate 1.25% over a 3 week period (a 0.75% cut followed by an additional 0.5% cut two weeks later).  Since originally writing and posting the below article, Im often asked to explain the relationship why mortgage rates do not typically fall with a drop in the Fed Rate.  So, I thought it would be a good idea to revisit my article and explore this topic again. 

People often think that a Fed cut means that mortgage rates will fall which is usually not the case in the short-term. The reason is as follows: The Fed cuts rates to boost the economy and based on exuberance in the marketplace, investors often react by pouring more money into the stock market. So how does this affect mortgage rates?

Mortgages are bundled and sold on the secondary market as bonds. For simplicity sake, think about the bond market and the stock market as two competing entities. Both markets want your money. So, if the Feds cut the rate and you the investor, out of exuberance, begin to pour more money into the stock market, the folks in the bond market know they have to do something to get you to invest your money with them. What’s the best way for the bond market to earn your business? Simply put, they must increase the amount of money you can earn by buying bonds and the way they do that is to increase the YIELD that bonds pay. By increasing the amount of money you can make off bonds, they hope to entice you to take money out of the stock market and buy bonds instead. Accordingly, as the bond market increases their yield to you, this in turn results in higher mortgage rates because mortgages are bundled as bonds on the secondary financial market.

While the above explanation is an oversimplification, please let me emphasize that there are many, many factors that affect mortgage rates and that a rally on Wall Street will not always indicate rising mortgage rates. However, hopefully this will clarify why a Fed Cut can often lead to higher mortgage rates.