Warning: The story you are about to read has nothing to do with Real Estate, and could very well make you dumber by proxy.

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Carl Maldalfi spent Thanksgiving in a ball pit in the toy section of Stalwart Superstore. Gnawing on the strips of smoked turkey he had concealed on his person, namely in the myriad pockets of his black fatigues, he bided his time while the last-minute holiday shoppers stuck primarily to the bakery and food aisles. 

 

Hustle and get that pumpkin pie, he thought with a disgusted smirk. Not like you had three hundred and sixty five days to secure that can of cranberries.

 

The lazy habits of the typical American consumer made the Gulf War veteran sick. The entitled masses had no discipline. No impetus for proper planning. No respect for the sacrifices made by men like him who fought to protect their petty, apathetic way of life.

 

“Hi.”

 

Carl froze, realizing he’d been spotted by the owner of the tiny voice.

 

“Hi,” the child tried again, staring Carl in the eye and holding a package that housed a small, green and chrome top. 

 

Carl recognized the toy as a Beyblade, not unlike the one his son Sherman had included on the list he mailed to Santa via Carl’s post office box address. The list that now resided in his right front pocket.

 

The snot-nosed little brat in front of him probably didn’t even know he could buy it for 70% less in about eight hours.

 

Desperate to retrieve Sherman’s rightful stocking stuffer from the pint-sized bogey, but equally determined to maintain cover, Carl narrowed his feral, brown eyes. His face obscured by a liberal application of eye-black, they were the only visible features of his fearsome scowl.

 

“You silly,” the boy laughed as he tore open the packaging. He threaded a red, plastic ripcord through the toy, preparing it for battle.

 

“Fwee, two, one … let it wip!”

 

The boy pulled the cord, launching the whirling top. Carl watched as it bumped against the base of his enclosure. Looking around, seeing no one else, he shot a black-sleeved arm out of the sea of plastic balls and snagged it.

 

“Hey,” the boy objected, tears welling in his big, blue eyes.

 

“Jimmy,” a woman’s voice called from an aisle over, closing. “Jimmy?”

 

“There you are,” the young mother exclaimed as she swept the stammering child into her arms. “You can’t just run off like that, sweetheart.”

 

“M-m-m-my b-bey b-blade!”

 

Carl put a finger to his thin lips, imploring the imp’s silence.

 

“I told you we’d get you one tomorrow, sweetie,” she promised, kissing his wispy blond hair as she strode off in the direction of the bakery.

 

“B-but the man in there took it,” the child objected, looking over her shoulder and pointing at Carl’s hiding place. 

 

Carl pointed back at the boy and drew a thumb across his own throat.

 

“Of course he did, sweetie,” she acknowledged, not faltering in her purposeful march. “But we have to hurry. Now, do you know any little boys who like apple pie?”

 

“Me,” the boy squealed before disappearing out of earshot.

 

Carl let out the breath he’d been holding as a tinny beeping erupted somewhere around him. He experienced a brief moment of panic before realizing it was the timer on his wristwatch that he had synchronized to the store’s posted closing time. He stayed the alarm with the touch of a button and removed another piece of jerky from a pocket.

 

And he waited.

 

The overhead lights dimmed ten minutes later, and still he didn’t budge. 

 

Only after the last employee had finished restocking the neighboring shelves, and the janitorial crew came and went an hour after that, did he dare emerge from cover. 

 

The box store now fully cast in darkness.

 

It took a full five minutes to unwind his frozen appendages. Stretching the pain out of his shoulders, he removed the night vision goggles from the black backpack that had made an unforgiving pillow for the past six hours.

 

“There you are, my pretty,” he mumbled into the otherworldly green hue as he donned the goggles and spread out the hand-drawn schematic map that had taken him multiple reconnaisance trips to perfect.  Confirming the route that was seared into his nefarious mind, he set off for the electronics department.

 

Removing several more items from his pack, he first rigged trip wires to both points of entry to the 55” LCD flat-screen televisions. 

 

“I’ll take the Samsung,” he smiled. “You mooks can have the Claymores.”

 

Carl’s next stop was the home appliance section by way of the automotive department. He smiled as he electrified the handle of a Maytag Neptune with a set of alligator clamps and a portable car battery charging station.

 

In the sporting goods department, he used fishing line and a two by four to rig a bowling ball to fall from the shelf above an official Thomas the Tank Engine tricycle.

 

A bullsnake with a baby rattle duct taped to its tail would dissuade even the most eager hand from reaching too deeply into the dollar DVD bin.

 

In the women’s clothing section, he paused in front of an item not on his list. 

 

“For Deborah,” he assured the empty confines as he switched the tags on two pairs of satin undergarments.

 

On a whim, he greased the floor in front of the pain killers in the pharmaceutical aisle with jar after jar of Vaseline. 

 

The stopwatch started beeping again.

 

Removing his goggles, he was shocked to find that sunlight was already beginning to creep through the East-facing glass doors of the cavernous facility. He saw a long line of shifting shapes that he knew to be inhabited sleeping bags stretched along the length of the storefront.

 

The vultures were waking.

 

After one last check of his list, he crept back to his lair; slipping under the undulating surface of multi-colored plastic balls as the echo of a deadbolt being thrown reverberated throughout the quiet store. He removed a final item before ditching the backpack, his legs tense as he prepared to fall in with the initial wave of slack-jawed bargain hunters.

 

Lemmings, he scoffed. 

 

They might not score any of the best deals, but at least they’d bring home a good story. His grip tightened around the canister of military-grade mace.

 

This was going to be fun.

Willy was a liar.

Not a teller of tall tales, not a stretcher of the truth, but a pathological liar. Whether swearing that his Uncle Doug played cowbell on Blue Oyster Cult’s ‘Don’t Fear the Reaper,’ or assuring an unsuspecting child that one plus one equals purple, weaving extravagant falsehoods came as naturally to the forty six year old Nobel laureate/nuclear physicist/bratwurst-eating champion as breathing.

So it was that Willy found himself speaking with a Real Estate agent one late autumn morning, outlining his very specific criteria for the home he intended to purchase.

“The community must be horse-friendly,” Willy informed the agent. “Did I tell you Starchaser showed at Belmont last year? Would have won if he didn’t come up lame half a length from the tape.”

Harris Burfect struggled to keep up, scribbling in the margins of a notepad already overwhelmed with his chicken-scratch. A cynic by nature, Harris had taken the appointment on the off chance that the Danny DeVito look-alike was legit. He’d learned his lesson about prematurely blowing off prospects as flakes the hard way.

“And no wells,” Willy continued. “Arsenic poisoning claimed his sire at the ranch I used to own in Montana.”

“We’ll certainly have the property inspected for hazar-”

“Wasn’t the well itself that did him in,” Willy insisted, waving off the agent’s placation. “It was old man Monticore. He was always jealous of my stallions, as he was right to be. He couldn’t raise a barn in Amish country, let alone a thoroughbred.”

“Autopsy was ruled inconclusive,” he continued, making air quotes with his sausage fingers. “But he had everyone from the coroner to the constable in his hip pocket. Those thieves had been trying to run me out of that two-bit town ever since I struck oil in the summer of two thousand and two. Greedy pigs would stop at nothing to get me off that claim.”

Harris shook out the cramp in his hand and turned to a new page. Words such as ‘ranch’ and ‘oil’ had dollar bills dancing in his mind’s eye despite his swirling doubts.

“Okay, no wells,” he yielded, eager to steer the conversation back on course. “You okay with septic systems? Most horse properties pre-date the sewer, and not too many ranchers around here have bothered to take on the expense of linking up to it.”

“Well that simply won’t do,” Willy replied. “Septic systems are a biological nightmare. Did you know that the leech field of a typical alternative waste disposal system contains more radioactive residue than a centrifuge that has processed atomic material within the past twenty four hours?”

“I’m not familiar with-”

“It’s true,” Willy assured him. “Over the years, I’ve seen far more extra fingers and missing teeth in remote villages where such waste systems are used than I did during my humanitarian mission to Chernobyl back in ninety eight.”

“Fascinating,” Harris admitted, gawking at the vaguely unhealthy-looking man across the table from him. “How long were you there?”

“Only about six months,” Willy responded. “I wanted to stay, but the intel I’d gathered was deemed too urgent by the powers that be. In hindsight, it was for the best that they pulled me out when they did. Started noticing these … growths.”

Willy rubbed a stooped shoulder as he stared off into the infinity through glassy, brown eyes.

“Powers that be,” Harris wondered. “You mean like CIA?”

Willy pulled back from wherever he’d gone and looked straight at the agent, winking.

“I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

“Got it, moving on,” Harris allowed. “Have you spoken with a lender about your financing options yet?”

He turned his head to follow the scent of rosemary that passed by on a tray, instantly regretting his own order. He found a dismissive smile on his client’s ruddy face when he turned back.

“I’ll be paying cash,” Willy informed Harris, signalling the agent closer.

Harris leaned across the table to steal a glance at the wad of cash Willy produced from the front pocket of his one-size-too-small, navy blue coat. It was bound by an ivory 'W' clip.

“Not that I keep all of my money in greenbacks,” Willy assured him, fiddling with the gold chain around his neck. “If you don’t think ten million will get it done, I’ll prep my assistant to move some bullion. Or maybe a couple of the Rembradts.”

“Very good,” Harris gulped, picturing a humorless courier walking into the title company with an attache case handcuffed to his wrist. His internal crazy alarm had moved to DEFCON-3, but he was willing to play out the string.  He’d already invested this much time.

“So when do you want to start looking?”

“Straight away,” Willy answered, checking his watch as he stood. “As soon as I get back from the Maldives.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he said. “I have a B-2 Spirit to catch.”

Harris made a move for his wallet.

“Please,” Willy said, staying the agent’s arm with his hand. “You insult me.”

He peeled a few bills from his roll and dropped them on the table.

“Have a productive trip, Mr. Stiffu,” Harris said as he extended his hand.

“Can’t shake,” Willy lamented, tossing him a flippant two-finger salute instead. “My attorneys advise it could potentially void the insurance policy.”

“We’ll be in touch. Be ready.”

With that, the squat, little enigma of a man turned on his heel and strolled out of the cafe, stopping once to tell an older couple studying a menu that the eggs benedict were excellent today.

A bemused grin spread across the agent’s face. He was still smiling when the waitress came by to clear the two plates of half-eaten pancakes and settle the check. Who knew? If even a fraction of what he’d been told was true, there might be a sale somewhere in the middle of it yet. Stranger things had happened.

“Sir?”

Harris didn’t hear her as he polished off the last lukewarm swallow of coffee.  He was preoccupied with the ornate insignia stamped across the saucer upon which the dainty cup had been resting.

“Sir?”

Monticore Fine China.

“Son of a bitch,” Harris muttered.

“Sir,” the waitress said again, louder.

Harris looked up at the fresh-faced server.

“What am I supposed to do with this,” she asked, waving a stack of Monopoly money hidden beneath a one dollar bill. “Buy Park Place?”

“Sucker’s play,” Harris sighed, reaching for his wallet for the second time in five minutes. “Nobody ever lands on Boardwalk.”

(Washington DC) – In a statement released this morning, the National Association of Realtors® announced a new initiative aimed at curbing abuse in photographic representation amongst its membership in the virtual sphere.

“This initiative has been ten years in the making,” according to NAR spokesman,Trevor Null. “Ever since Realtors entered the online space en masse, we have been fielding complaints from the public about misleading avatars.”

Jane DeVannon of Surprise, AZ filed one such complaint back in 2009.

“We were nervous first time buyers,” Mrs. DeVannon explained. “Having never been through the process, we had no idea what to expect and knew that we needed to hire a Real Estate agent we could trust to guide us through the process. So we did what we always do when we have a critical decision to make. We Googled it.”

With over 87% of today’s home buyers starting their searches online, per NAR statistics, the DeVannons’ story is a common one.

“We settled on a nice looking gentleman, about forty or forty two, with two darling children in his profile picture. Imagine our surprise when an obese seventy five year old with a goiter the size of an Olsen twin showed up to our first appointment. We tried to make the best of it, but we could just never get past the initial lie,” Mrs. DeVannon related.

“We have long had a reputation problem with the general public,” Null admitted. “Grossly misrepresenting our appearances in online marketing has only served to exacerbate the institutional mistrust. I mean, when you think you’re hiring Gary Cooper, and you get Gary Coleman, it’s a problem.”

According to Initiative UB-FUGLY, all Realtors® will be required to update their avatars monthly, without benefit of Photoshop or similar photo editing software that can alter true appearance.

“And none of this downward pointing camera angle bullshit,” Null expanded. “If you have three chins, the consumer needs to see three chins.”

Penalties for failing to comply with the new requirements will be severe, including mandatory use of DMV photos for first time offenders.  Proof of ownership for any/all pets and children in a Realtor’s avatar must be furnished prior to Internet use. Nieces and nephews are off limits.

The news comes too late for the DeVannons, but they are hopeful that future buyers will be spared their painful lesson in what the NAR refers to as “photo synthesis.”

“We think he rented the kids,” Mrs. DeVannon added.

 

- Filed by Paul Slaybaugh, BSRE News © 2011

“What do you mean I can’t back out on the inspection,” James “Jamo” Monahan demanded. “Say the frigging icemaker doesn’t work or something.”

“Like I told you earlier, James, er, I mean Jamo,” Agnes DeMerrit explained to her disingenuous client on the other end of the line. “There is no second bite at the apple once repairs are agreed to by both parties. Besides, your ten days were up two weeks ago.”

“Financing?”

“Your loan is approved,” Agnes responded, her short, grey hair losing pigment by the syllable.

“What if I go buy a car to screw up my ratios,” Jamo offered.

“That would be bad faith, James, er, I mean Jamo,” Agnes chastised. “It will cost you your earnest money.”

“Okay, the appraisal,” Jamo suggested. “We can still back out on the appraisal, right?”

“Appraisal came back at purchase price,” Agnes informed him.

“But you said it was ‘highly unlikely’ to appraise at the sales price,” Jamo exploded in her ear. “Now you’re telling me that I’m stuck in a deal at a price I never intended to pay? You listen to me, and you listen to me good. You better find me a way out of this contract or so help me God-“

Agnes pulled the phone away from her ear and took a deep breath. She despised working with investors. Absolutely despised it. Had she not run headlong into the driest spell of a forty year Real Estate career, she would have sent this creep packing so fast his Grecian Formula Plus infused head would have spun inside the raised collar of his pink Polo shirt.

As a rule, she preferred buyers who were actually interested in buying.

“Agnes? Agnes?”

Her client’s strident voice sounded small and tinny from a distance. She took a moment to withdraw something from the desk drawer before putting the phone back to her ear. She absently unwound a snarl in the cord as she spoke.

“All done?”

Jamo’s silence answered for him.

“Good. Now I’m going to tell you exactly how we are going to get you out of this contract with your earnest funds intact so you can pursue that new short sale that just hit the market this morning. If you’re ready to put on your big boy pants and listen, that is.”

“I’m listening.”

“Really listening?

“Yes, I’m really listening,” he assured her.

“No, James, er, Jamo,” Agnes rebuked. “I mean really listening.”

“Look, I’m listening, okay,” Jamo replied with exasperation. “I’m really, really listening. The world has stopped outside of this conversation. I’m on pins and freaking needles. Now pretty please with a cherry on top, just tell me what to do!”

Agnes whispered something into the phone, barely audible.

“What,” Jamo asked.

She whispered again, slightly louder.

“What,” Jamo asked again, straining to understand.

Agnes waited a beat before giving the air horn poised over the mouthpiece of the phone one long, shrill blast and terminating the call.

“I said you’re fired, Jay-mo.”

 

The home you didn't think existed in McCormick Ranch not only exists, but is now for sale. Decadently remodeled and expanded, this is the rarest of creatures for these parts. A Scottsdale Real Estate unicorn, if you will. Now remain quiet and try not to make any sudden movements. You don't want to scare it away. 

Got your lasso at the ready?

$569,000 - Majestic McCormick Ranch Home for Sale! Location: Scottsdale, AZ Love McCormick Ranch, but the typical 1970s style homes of the community ... not so much? Wish you could marry the ideal central location and abundant amenities with architecture and cosmetics a little more in keeping with today's standards? Then this home is for you. Boasting well over 3000 square feet of remodeled excellence, the original floor plan of this Camelot home in the Palo Viento 2 subdivision of McCormick Ranch is barely recognizable. Expanded to include a bonus game room, relocated front door, expanded living room, expanded master, kitchen opened up to family room, newer roof and A/C(s), remodeled pebble-tec pool, stone and tile flooring, granite counter tops, recessed lighting throughout, stereo surround sound, plantation shutters, dual pane windows, front courtyard with water feature, rear yard with built-in BBQ and fountain, stacked stone fireplaces added to master bedroom and living room (in addition to existing fireplace in family room), additional closet added to master, popcorn ceilings scraped and retextured, pavers added in front and back yards, smooth stucco exterior ... this elegant home simply represents potential realized. Nestled in a golf course subdivision and flanked by the community lakes and multi-use path (Camelback Walk), you are near everything you love about McCormick Ranch living. Contact us today for a private viewing of this magnificent home. Contact Information   Ray & Paul Slaybaugh (480) 220-2337   Pricing Price: $569,000 Flexibility: Negotiable Property Location 8070 E Via Bonita Scottsdale, AZ 85258 View Map Features Bedrooms: 4 Bathrooms: 2.5 Year Built: 1977 Subdivision: Palo Viento 2 (McCormick Ranch) Lot Size: 11,995 Sq Ft Garage Size: 2 Car School District: Scottsdale Unified Square Footage: 3171 Agent Name: Ray & Paul Slaybaugh Broker: Realty Executives MLS #: 4569616   Attributes Appliances Range/Oven Full Refrigerator Dishwasher Sink Disposal Microwave Interior Amenities Fireplace Vaulted Ceilings Surround Sound Bonus / Game Room Granite Counter Tops Stone Flooring Recessed Lighting Dual Pane Windows Walk-In Closet(s) Jacuzzi Tub Pantry Exterior Amenities Patio Fenced Yard Swimming Pool Grass Lawn Courtyard Water Feature Built-In BBQ Powered by vFlyer.com Equal Housing Opportunity VFLYER ID: 19673001 Photo Gallery 8070 E Via Bonita Street View Front Courtyard Living Room Family Room Kitchen / Family Room Master Game Room Back Yard / Pool Powered by vFlyer.com Equal Housing Opportunity VFLYER ID: 19673001 All information in this site is deemed reliable but is not guaranteed and is subject to change

Sergeant Druge cringed against the ungodly screeching that accompanied the last goblin to slink into the squad room. Its spiked, purple tail carved a shallow groove in the ceramic tile as it dragged limply behind.

“Long night, DARTH666,” Druge asked, tapping the lectern in front of him with a serrated claw. A quick glance at the clock on the far wall confirmed the time as 5:02 AM TST.

“Sorry, Sarge,” Darth replied as he found a seat. “Stumbled onto a new site last night.”

“And,” Druge prompted under a raised red unibrow.

“And I hit paydirt,” Darth confirmed. “Social media site for Realtors.”

Deep, wet chortles and high-pitched cackles erupted in the squad room.

“OMG,” a towering, grey-haired beast intoned from the back of the room. “Social media and Realtors? In the same place?”

“Throw in Justin Bieber and you’ve got the unholy triumvirate,” an overly caffeinated troll sneared through rotten, yellow teeth.

“Tell me more,” the sergeant commanded.

“It’s called ActiveRain,” Darth answered. “Supposedly the world’s largest Real Estate network.”

The room grew silent as the assembled throng waited with what could only be described as reverence.

“Real Estate agents, home stagers, loan officers, home inspectors, title clerks, web designers … it’s troll nirvana, sir. No offense,” Darth added, nodding his apology to the actual troll in attendance.

“None taken.”

“Were you able to make initial contact, plant a few seeds for conflict,” Druge pressed.

“I did a hell of a lot better than that, Sarge,” Darth assured him.

“Go on.”

“Well, for starters, posing as a home stager, I wrote a scathing blog post about Realtors who were too daft to enlist my services,” Darth said. “I also managed to get in a few digs about how sellers don’t need an agent if they know where to place the sofa.”

“Any bites?”

“Bites,” Darth scoffed. “Look at my dorsal fin! I haven’t gotten this chewed up since the Craigslist Affair!”

A murmur spread through the room as the ethereal underworld denizens recalled one of the proudest moments in unit history: offering a six month old human baby in trade for an X-Box and a case of Red Bull. Straight up.

“I’m still fielding death threats from that one,” GRUMBLR_00 boasted from the back of the room, his iridescent dragon scales splayed out like a peacock.

“Hell, forget threats. I’m still fielding inquires from that one,” an ashen zombie known by the handle @brainz added. “There are some really sick puppies out there.”

“Alright, let’s stay on target, mutants,” Druge decreed. “Continue, please, DARTH666.”

“After the home stager showdown, I was too jazzed to sleep,” Darth admitted. “So I decided to go back in as an SEO expert who didn’t know anything about SEO.”

“SEO?”

“Search engine optimization,” Darth informed the befuddled sergeant. “All of these Real Estate morons are gaga for it. Apparently think it’s the panacea that stands between their past due electric bill and riches beyond their wildest dreams.”

“And?”

“And lightning struck twice,” Darth informed him. “This time, though, it came down from the skies as if from the hammer of Thor himself. Vile email exchanges, slanderous accusations of slander, threats of lawsuits … it … it …,” he trailed off as his Adam’s appleless gullet choked up.

“… it was the greatest night of my life,” he finally managed to croak.

Completely spent, Darth slumped back in his chair. The small horns protruding from his forehead appeared to wilt with fatigue.

“Great work, six six six,” Druge beamed. “I want you to take the day off. You’ve earned it.”

“But, sir, I can go,” Darth objected.

“Absolutely not,” Druge responded. “Take your purple ass home and get some sleep. That’s an order. We’re going to need you tomorrow bright and early.”

Darth gingerly rose and shuffled out of the room, paws clapping him on the back as he went.

“Assignments,” Druge bellowed as Darth pushed through the door and out of the squad room. “IAMDOOM11, YELLOWSNOWMAN!”

“Sir,” two voices replied immediately.

“I want you two on the Twitter beat. See if you can’t pick another fight with Anderson Cooper.”

“Yes, sir!”

“BEETLEGEUSE84, STREISAND4DATASS!”

“Sir!”

“I want you on Facebook patrol. Follow up on friend requests and spam anyone who recently accepted with erectile disfunction prescription drug links.”

“Yes, sir!”

“SEMISAUCY, CAREBEARSFOREVER!”

“Sir!”

“You’re on MySpace. See if you can find it in you to call a twelve year old a jerk today.”

“MySpace again, sir? But no one even goes there anymore!”

“Exactly,” Druge retorted, closing his eye in exasperation. “When you two are ready to start acting like trolls, I’ll start start treating you like trolls. Until then, it's daycare duty. Got it? Now go pull someone’s hair.”

“Yes, sir,” the pair sighed.

“I want everyone else on this ActiveRain site from dawn until dusk,” Druge ordered.

“But, sir,” a gorgon named BCSTONER objected, its hair hissing. “It’s my day to pick up the little monsters from school.”

“Better call the sitter,” Druge advised. “We’re all pulling doubles.”

A collective groan rose in the room.

“None of that now,” Druge reprimanded his charges. “This site could make the career of every troll in this room. We don't want those posers at CORI getting there first, do we?"

A few murmured "nos" greeted his invocation of their rivals at the Center for Online Riot Instigation. 

"Do we?"

"No," the group boomed in unison.

"I didn't think so," Druge approved. "Now let’s show the virtual world how we do it here in the Mariana Trench!”

The room burst into action as monsters and ghouls arose to tackle the day, all hesitance forgotten as they shuffled/lurched/slid towards their consoles. Complaints about the long day ahead replaced with excited chatter.

“And hey,” Druge bellowed over the din. “Let’s be careless out there.”

 

Peanut butter and jelly. Cookies and cream. Cheech and Chong.

Such combinations prove the adage that the whole may indeed be greater than the sum of its parts on occasion.

In the Scottsdale Real Estate world, that truth is readily apparent in some of the older master planned communities. Take McCormick Ranch, for instance. When considered in conjunction with the lakes, greenbelts, parks, shopping, award-winning schools and central location, some of the older properties that fall within its boundaries are far more desirable than they would be elsewhere in the Valley.

Because, let's face it, 1970s architecture is sometimes better left in the 1970s.

So if the dated homes that fall within desirable communities are given a boost for their address, what do you get when you add the variable of rennovation to the equation? And an exceptional lot? And a unique floor plan that you would be hard-pressed to find anywhere else in the community?

You get our one-of-a-kind new McCormick Ranch listing, that's what.

You've been told that you'll have to make compromises to get the home you want in the neighborhood you want for the price you want. Well, you know what? 

Compromise is overrated.

Boasting over 2800 square feet of remodeled decadence, this four bedroom gem greets you at the front door with soaring valuted ceilings and a two-way fireplace. The wide open kitchen looks out to the living, dining and family rooms. No dated laminate counter tops or 1970s avocado appliances here, but slab granite and stainless steel.

The master suite is a monster by McCormick Ranch standards, and features a fully remodeled bath with travertine stone, granite top vanities and vessel sinks for a sumptuous retreat.

 

Hardly a one trick pony that hides its newer interior inside a dated shell, the home's exterior features smooth stucco and a newer roof (2006) in addition to newer A/C.

This home in this location would be special enough, but it has the good sense to reside on a 1/3 acre (nearly 15,000 square feet) North / South cul-de-sac lot. Like a big back yard for entertaining or just to get away from the world? You'll have all the room you need between the large covered patio, pool & spa area and two separate lawn areas that are each as large as the typical back yard by themselves.

Oh, and one last thing. This anomaly has a 3 car garage.

Yes, you heard me correctly: a 3 car garage in McCormick Ranch. 

While many properties in this sought after community will have an achilles heel, as is to be expected of 30 year old homes, you'll be hard pressed to find one here.

But don't take my word for it. I'm a salesman. Give me a call or drop me an email to learn more about this special McCormick Ranch home, or to schedule a viewng today. Coffee's on me if you think I've puffed the goods.

    

8401 N 86th Way, Scottsdale, AZ 85258

MLS# 4552458

Property Features

 

• 4 Bedrooms
• 2867 Sq Ft (Approximate)
• 3 Car Garage
• Living Room / Family Room / Dining Room
• Pool & Spa
• Cul-De-Sac Lot
• 1/3 Acre
• Vaulted Ceilings
• Newer Roof & A/C
• Granite and Travertine and Porcelain ... Oh my!
• Chaparral High School District 
• Lake Communitiy
• Golf Community
• Multi-Use Paths
• Greenbelt

  

Sully strolled into the dingy office bullpen ten minutes late with his cell phone glued to his ear. He held up a well-tanned finger to still the chatter around him.

“I don’t care if you have to charter a rowboat and pick them up yourself, just get’em here by tomorrow or so help me God I’ll bury the lob wedge so far up your backside you’ll need a proctologist for a caddy,” he threatened, terminating the call.

“What did I miss,” he asked of no one in particular, surveying the room through designer Ray Bans before lowering his head to practice his golf swing.

“Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Sullivan,” Walter Deklan, the office manager, said by way of a welcome. “We were just reviewing goal achievement for the accountability program that corporate introduced last month.”

“Accountability program, pfft,” Sully scoffed. “I don’t need any accountant to tell me my last five hundred bucks just went to re-gripping my Pings. Right?” He nudged the constipated-looking man in the too tight corduroy pants standing next to him.

“How many deals you close this year, Sullivan,” Deklan asked.

“Including the Palmer transaction? None, but it’s only May,” he shrugged and moved on to practicing his short game.

“Perkins, your turn,” Deklan announced, adjusting the knot of the faded royal blue and gold striped tie his son had given him for his forty fifth birthday.

Bodies parted, revealing a small man in the back of the room. His hawkish nose was buried in an iPhone.

“Perkins?”

The little man didn’t flinch.

“Perkins!”

Perkins’ head snapped up, bifocals sliding down the sharp bridge of his beak.

“Oh sorry, just checking in on Foursquare,” he said, nervously pushing the glasses back into place.

“Did you meet the goals we set last week,” Deklan asked.

“Well actually,” Perkins began, swelling beyond his full five feet four inches. “I exceeded them.”

“That’s great, Sidney,” Deklan lauded. “So you made all your calls? Mailed all your letters?”

“Well, not exactly,” Perkins answered. “Phone calls, handwritten notes, pop-ins … that old school stuff might have worked back in your day, but it’s all about the internet now.”

Deklan buried his face in his hands, silently counting to ten as he was apt to do when the kids would shave their names into the dog, or write “FART” on the living room wall in purple crayon.

“So what did you do this week, Sidney,” he asked upon reaching seven.

“Thought you’d never ask,” Perkins squeaked. “This week alone, I composed six hundred and forty two tweets, wrote twelve blog posts and added fifty nine new connections on Linked-In.”

Deklan stared at the second year agent.

“You didn’t make a single sales call?”

“No offense, Dek, but listen to yourself,” Perkins challenged, feeling his oats. “Who makes sales calls anymore? In case you haven’t noticed, everybody is online these days. A place where I happen to be a pretty big deal.”

“Is that right,” Deklan asked.

“Yeah, that’s right,” Perkins assured him. “I just crossed twenty five hundred Facebook friends. I’ve got seven hundred and fifty blog subscribers, and over eleven thousand Twitter followers.”

“And one piece of shit rental listing,” Deklan added.

Perkins blanched, his bulging hazel eyes magnified behind the thick glasses. Rescued from the humiliation by the buzzing of his handheld, he swallowed hard and retreated into his virtual kingdom.

“Make sure to tell all your followers about being the mayor of No New Business,” Deklan suggested, unable to resist the dig.

“How about you, Sheila,” he asked the aggressively dour woman standing directly in front of him with arms crossed. “Did you set aside two hours per day to preview property like we discussed?”

“Cut the crap, Walter,” she snarled. “Nobody wants to talk about your stupid goals. If we needed a guidance counselor, we’d go back to high school.”

A few scattered chuckles confirmed the assertion.

“I know it may seem foolish, Sheila, but the simple stuff works. If you want to be a top producer, you have to do the things that top produ-”

“We’re still out of hazelnut,” she interrupted, seething.

“What?”

“We’ve been out for a month,” she informed him. “Funny it’s the one flavor that always gets forgotten when I’m the only one who drinks it.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Sheila.” Deklan began, incredulous. “I place new orders on the first and the fifteenth, and I always include extra packets of-”

“Never a mix up with the Columbian or the French Roast,” she noted. “Just the hazelnut.”

“And these chairs,” she went on, her shrill voice climbing. “Are you waiting for my L4 vertebra to fall completely out before you get around to doing anything about them?”

“Like I said last week, we’re in the middle of a recession here, Sheila,” Deklan began patiently. “We don’t have the mone-”

“Liar,” she screeched, pointing an arthritic finger at the beleaguered office manager. “You managed to find enough of our money for the new sofa in the lobby, didn’t you?”

“What would you have the clients do,” Deklan demanded, his blood beginning to boil. “Sit criss-cross applesauce on the floor? I bought that couch for ten bucks at an estate sale in Old Town. Dragged it in here on my day off.”

She dismissed him with the flick of a bony wrist.

“And why does Clarissa get to bring that mangy fleabag of hers into the office if I can’t bring my Mister Whiskers?”

“It’s a guide dog for chrissakes,” Deklan railed, glancing at the golden retriever sitting at the foot of a heavy-set woman wearing a floral patterned sundress and staring at the wall.

“Hear me well, people,” he announced. “Out of the twelve local branches, we were eleventh in production last quarter. Eleventh! Only the charity cases at Town and Country sold less than us, and they’ve been closed since November on account of the fire!”

“Freaking Obama,” Sully opined. “Things will turn around once we vote that bum out of office. Just gotta ride the storm out until twenty twelve.”

A deafening clanging reverberated throughout the office. All turned to see a chubby part-time agent named Herbert Dobbler ringing the sales bell for all he was worth. He wore a black t-shirt with red lettering that said I’m With @ Stupid.

“Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” Dobbler shouted.

“Okay, okay,” Deklan pleaded, palms out as he tried to restore order. “Can we please get back to-”

“Oh Captain, my Captain,” Dobbler cried before launching another salvo with the bell. “The Dead Realtor Society is hereby called to order!”

The chords on Deklan’s neck reared up like angry cobras as peels of laughter erupted from all corners of the bullpen.

“Two thousand eleven … going once,” Dobbler howled. “Going twice!”

Deklan blinked hard, once. A change coming over his normally genial face.

“Sold,” Dobbler hollered, ringing the bell to punctuate the joke. “To the gentleman in the black robe with a scythe!”

More laughter.

“You know what, that’s it,” Deklan declared, his icy voice barely audible above the raucous din. “If you want to sit in your cubicles complaining about the market and the coffee all day, go right ahead, but I’m not going down with the ship!”

He tore off his tie and threw it to the floor.

“You want to tweet about the movie you saw last night and call it networking, be my guest,” he boomed. “You want to optimize your websites, but not answer the phone when it actually rings? Knock yourselves out!”

He removed a highly polished black wingtip and hurled it across the room, causing three terrified sales associates to duck.

“I bring in top shelf instructors, cater lunch for you mooches, give you all I’ve got from thirty years of sales experience in every kind of market you can dream of, and for what? For you to think about selling a house every other leap year when you’re not too busy working on your slice or stumping for Bring Your Cat to Work Day?”

Deklan turned on a folding table that supported a veggie platter and tray of lukewarm cold cuts. He crammed three rolls of smoked turkey into his mouth before upending the entire spread.

“Well, guess what, kids,” he resumed, Butterbean-flecked spittle bursting from his mouth. “Class is dismissed! As of five minutes ago, I no longer work at this daycare for the criminally idiotic. Good luck. Best wishes. Try not to eat the plants. Deklan out!”

He tore the company nametag off the breast of his dress shirt, leaving a ragged hole in the white fabric, and stormed down the hall. One heel clicking each time it touched down on the porcelain tile, the other silent.

“Make sure to wave when you greet me at Walmart next week,” Deklan shouted over his shoulder as he darted into the break room. The sound of smashing glass carried back to the bullpen.

“Coffee pot,” Sheila whispered in horror.

“Vending machine still owe you that Diet Coke, Arturo,” Deklan bellowed before a flying soda can exploded against the far wall of the hallway.

Thirty more seconds of indiscriminate thrashing and their former manager appeared as a silhouette against the floor to ceiling window in the front lobby. He was hunched over, holding something heavy. It was his bare ass.

“Look, ma! I’m the mayor of SAYONARA SUCKERS,” Deklan yelled before straightening up, ripping the fax machine off the secretary's desk and heaving it through the window, an ungodly crash punctuating the lethal shower of tinted glass. He kicked out half a dozen stubborn shards with his stockinged foot, ducked through the jagged opening and disappeared into the midday sun, leaving a faint trail of blood in his wake.

A pronounced silence filled the decimated office, shell-shocked agents searching each other’s faces for confirmation of what they just saw.

At last, a low, reverent whistle escaped Dobbler’s lips, breaking the spell.

“Winning,” he breathed.

“So,” Sully prompted his bewildered colleagues, twisting his heels into non-existent sand to practice his bunker shots. “Eight months … who had the under?”

“That would be me,” Sheila answered, cracking her first smile of the year.

Clarissa stood and lumbered to the water cooler without assistance, her pupils engaged and focused as she retrieved a paper cup from the dispenser.

“Think downtown will wise up and hire in-house this time,” she asked between sips.

“Beats me,” Perkins snickered. “But I am so tweeting this.”

 

Let's face it, anyone associated with the Real Estate industry over the past few years has a story worth telling. Unwitting witnesses to the fifty car pileup that has brought gridlock upon the highway to the American Dream, we owe it to consumers and historians alike to relate our first-hand accounts of the carnage.

Or at least squeeze the sweeping financial tragedy for a few yuks.

Follow me back to the Scottsdale Property Shop to read up on the 50 Things I've Learned Since 2007. 

 

Because life is too short not to take comfort in the misfortune of others.

Ever think your Scottsdale Real Estate agent is speaking Klingon when parsing out those cryptic acronyms and assorted colloquialisms of nonsensical industry jargon?

You are not alone.

Typical of the human condition, we Realtor types tend to assume everyone knows what we are talking about even though most consumers only think about Real Estate when it's time to buy, sell or refinance a house. In other words, maybe once every five to seven years on average.

As such, it is not surprising that there is often a disconnect between the shop-talking industry insider and the consumer who doesn't know a RESPA from a Vespa, an ARM from a leg. Thus, a project that was long overdue for our clients and soon-to-be-clients (it's easier if you don't fight), we at the Scottsdale Property Shop give to you the more or less complete glossary of local AZ Real Estate terminology. 

As you wouldn't expect any less (or more) of me, I've managed to slip in a few bogus definitions amongst the legitimate ones. I owe the first person who picks out all the ringers (leave your guesses in the comment section of the post, not here) a beer.

Scottsdale Real Estate Terms and Definitions