We’re here to sell houses and chew bubblegum. We’re all out of bubblegum.
Feedback
Damon’s cell phone buzzed in his pocket as he stepped out of the stately house and into the warmth of late April in Scottsdale, Arizona. Checking the display, he recognized the number from the four previous calls he’d let roll to voicemail. Whoever it was, his mystery caller was pretty keen on speaking with him right now. He sighed as the door closed behind him, deciding to break his personal rule about taking calls while showing property.
“Excuse me for a moment,” Damon said to the young couple waiting on the porch, pointing to the phone.
“No problem,” the wife answered, running a hand over the lone straggler in her otherwise perfectly coiffed, auburn hair. “We’ll go ahead and get Maddux in his seat.”
Nodding, Damon pressed the “receive” button and put the phone to his ear.
“This is Damon,” he informed the caller in a slightly quizzical tone. Not for the first time, he wondered if he sounded helpful or confused.
“Yes, um, hi, this is Peggy Dragic. You showed my listing on Oak? Just curious what the buyers thought.”
The vein over Damon’s right eye throbbed with aggravation as his cobalt blue eyes narrowed to angry slits.
“You’re kidding, right,” he demanded, the sing-songy eagerness in his voice replaced with an icy baritone. “You’ve called five times in the past ten minutes for feedback?”
“I have a very eager seller,” she responded, by way of an apology.
“Look, Peggy, I’m right in the middle of an appointment. If you want to call back with the property address, you can leave it on my voicemail. I’ll review my notes when I’m done here and call you back,” he directed, willing his rigid jaw to relax. The last thing he needed was a trip to the dentist to fix another filling.
“Surely you remember it,” the agent pressed. “8423 North Oak – the beautifully remodeled Tudor with a split guest suite and stained glass clerestory windows in the foyer.”
He glanced at his black Yukon, where his clients were struggling to load their squirming nine month old. He couldn’t help but smile at their plight. Dylan had started reacting to his seat like a cat to an ice bath at about the same age. Damon suspected it was because he didn’t want to face backwards anymore. No longer content within his own little world, he was ready to join the big, forward-facing one.
“Hmm, doesn’t ring a bell,” he lied, deciding to play along. “What day did you say I showed it?”
“Today, between ten and eleven,” the incredulous agent informed him.
Damon pulled the phone away from his ear to check the time.
10:31 AM.
“Today? We must not have gotten to it yet. Nothing but overpriced dogs to this point,” he said. His mouth curved into a toothless grin.
“But I just got off the phone with the seller! She said you were just there!”
“Wait … did you say Oak,” he asked.
“Yes, Oak! There’s a koi pond in the front courtyard,” the agent clarified.
“No koi ponds today, just a stagnant bog that someone is using to brew West Nile virus. Couldn’t have been your listing,” he assured her, looking down at the half dozen carp of varied brilliant colors loitering near his feet.
“She was home when you came through,” the agent insisted. “You were there for half an hour!”
Movement in the living room window caught Damon’s attention. A wrinkled face disappeared behind the elegant taupe curtain when he turned to look.
“Tudor, you say? We did see one Tudor, but it needed a lot of work,” he replied.
“My listing has newer appliances and a tankless hot water system,” the agent corrected.
“Well the one I’m thinking of smelled like an old lady’s apothecary chest and had the most garish flooring I have ever seen. The husband called it the “La Vida Loca House.”
“I’ll have you know that is the finest terracotta tile money can buy, imported directly from an artisan in Pienza. Each piece is handmade, baked in the sun for seventy two hours and fired in a 16th century kiln,” she huffed.
“No kidding? It looked like something my kid made in art class,” Damon responded. “And not for nothing, but Michelangelo he is not.”
“Well, what did they think about the kitchen? Is that not a gourmet’s delight,” she asked.
“If you are into cherry wood and granite, I suppose,” Damon admitted. “My people are alderwood and corian people. The kitchen would be the first thing they’d have to gut.”
“You won’t find another piece of property like this,” she pressed. “Where else can you get an acre and a half backing to state trust land in Scottsdale?”
“Maintenance would be a killer,” Damon countered. “My people are relocating from a studio apartment in San Francisco. He doesn’t even own a lawnmower.”
“How about the price,” she asked, hesitating slightly.
Damon allowed an audible sigh to preface his reply.
“You already know you’re overpriced by two hundred thousand, Peggy. No sense belaboring the point. It’s out of their range, but we wanted to take a look just in case it was move-in ready and the seller was willing to deal a little bit.”
“She is open to all offers,” the agent replied.
Damon realized he was pacing and began walking towards the SUV, where his clients had finally wrestled their sobbing child into his seat. He made a mental note to stop for a snack, toy, bottle of methadone or any other anti-tantrum talisman one could purchase at a Circle K.
“I appreciate that, but I just don’t see this house working for my people, Peggy. They want a split master, need an extra half bath, hate stairs …”
“Any suggestions? She really needs out of that house,” the desperate agent interrupted. “Since her husband passed away last year, it’s become too much for her to handle. Her family is all waiting for her back in Toledo.”
“Just between me and you, as a professional courtesy, it’s not going to sell while she’s living there. Her stuff is all over the place, family pictures staring down at you from every wall. Didn’t help that she followed us through the entire house, pointing out where one of her kids bumped his head forty years ago and the laundry room baseboard that Daisy, the Golden Retriever, chewed up in the mid eighties. My people felt like intruders.”
“I know, I know,” the crestfallen agent confessed. “I keep telling her to take the dog for a walk during showings. It died ten years ago, but she doesn’t know that.”
“Put her on a plane to Toledo and crash the price. It’s too far gone for a mom and pop. Your buyer is an investor.”
Damon climbed behind the wheel and buckled his seat belt while pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder in a well-practiced maneuver. After checking his passengers to ensure that everyone was secure, he started the car.
“Well, not what I wanted to hear, but I appreciate your candor,” the agent said, partially obscured by the throaty engine roaring to life.
“No sweat, hope it helps,” Damon offered.
“It does, thanks for taking the time.”
“Sure thing, Peggy. Best of luck,” Damon concluded, terminating the call and dropping the phone into the grey cup holder in the console. He looked in the rearview at the young woman in the back seat, beaming despite the now shrieking child next to her.
“So what do you think, guys? Still feeling it,” he asked.
“Absolutely, it’s everything we’ve ever wanted,” the computer programmer with the prematurely salt and pepper flecked buzz cut sitting next to him gushed, breaking from his usual recalcitrance to answer for them both.
“Terrific, let’s go back to the office and write it up. One thing, though,” Damon teased.
“What,” both spouses asked in unison.
“We’re gonna offer a hundred grand less than we discussed.”
All three smiled as they pulled away from the curb, leaving 8423 N. Oak Drive in their wake.
GPS
“I’ll dust it, but I’m telling you, it’s a waste of time.”
The lanky crime scene investigator known as Phelps kneeled beside the passenger door of the beige sedan and opened his kit. He shook his head as he studied the eruption of prints on and around the chrome handle, his floppy, straw-blond hair betraying his reluctance.
“Whaddya mean, waste of time,” Detective Dekker demanded. “There must be fifty prints on that door.”
“Fifty six visible latents,” Phelps corrected. “Look, Detective, these are ancient. See how the paint has oxidized around the perimeter of this one?”
Decker nodded.
“The epithelial oil has preserved the surface underneath, essentially forming a hermetical seal against the elements, while the surrounding paint shows advanced stages of weathering. If the print was fresh, the underlying paint would reflect the same level of deterioration,” Phelps concluded.
“How long are we talking here,” Dekker asked.
“Difficult to say. Lots of variables. Paint degradation to this extent would take decades if parked indoors and properly cared for. The prints would have been obliterated by routine washing and waxing, however, so-”
“Skip ahead,” Dekker growled. Patience had never been his forte.
“Couple years, give or take,” Phelps summarized.
“Run them through CODIS anyway,” Dekker ordered. “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
Phelps returned to his work without argument.
“Got something over here, Peter,” a female voice called from inside the car. His partner was the only one who called him by his given name. Even his mother called him “Deck.”
Dekker walked around to the driver side and poked his ruddy face inside the open door frame. The familiar, dizzying combination of vanilla and lilac rose from the occupant’s flowing, jet-black hair, overpowering the close quarters.
“Whatcha got, Perez?”
“GPS. God, I love technology. Almost as much as I love the predictability of a Realtor,” she answered.
“Let me guess, a synopsis of the last five hours of his life? He programmed a route of the homes he was showing yesterday.”
“Close,” Perez responded, extending an olive hand to the windshield-mounted unit. Dekker’s eyes lingered on the recent addition to her slender ring finger for a moment before moving to the data that was called up on the display.
“Wait, I know that address,” he interjected.
“Of course you do,” Perez replied, turning to face him with a wicked grin. Her dark Persian eyes flared with mischief. “You’re there most every Tuesday and Thursday. Are the lunch specials as superb as everyone says?”
He felt his face warm as he flushed a deep crimson.
“Yes, I mean no. I mean I, uh … how’d you know that,” Dekker stammered.
“I’m a cop, Peter,” she said with an ironic wink. “Besides, let’s just say that I don’t have to call Quantico for any help with the profile.”
“What about the rest of his stops,” Dekker asked, eager to plow ahead.
“Airport, few more gentlemen’s clubs, a liquor store and the bank,” Perez informed him.
“I don’t get it,” Dekker mused, regaining his composure. “The wife told us he was out showing property all afternoon. Big shot investor of some sort.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time a man lied to his wife about his whereabouts, Peter,” she noted, eyes darting to the floor.
“No, I suppose not,” he admitted. “Something is off here, though. How did his car end up all the way out here in the sticks if he was barhopping in the city? And how do you explain the credit card records? That stop at the Quickie Mart off I-10 for bottled water, soda, ice and snacks is consistent with the contents of the cooler in the back seat.”
“He was thirsty,” Perez suggested.
“No, he was definitely planning to meet somebody,” Dekker corrected. “Those are tour guide supplies.”
“Hmm, that’s interesting,” Perez said.
“What?”
“He made one more stop. Missed it the first time,” she confessed. “But this can’t be right.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s right here,” she answered.
“Here? On purpose? How is that even possible? There can’t be any address associated with this place,” Dekker argued, gesturing to the surrounding area. “We’re in the middle of frigging nowhere.”
Surveying the fallow cornfield, his sinuses, reminded to object, began throbbing. If desolation had a taste, it was the dusty hint of maize that now sat upon his tongue.
“True, he wasn’t necessarily looking for these coordinates, just something off grid,” Perez elaborated. “Take a look at this.”
Dekker leaned in closer, doing a poor job of ignoring the electricity that coursed through his body when a few errant strands of her hair brushed his cheek. The GPS display was illuminated with the green letters, BFE.
“Is that time-stamped,” he asked.
“5:42 PM, exactly two hours after the previous search.”
“We’ve been looking at this all wrong. Something happened alright, but he wasn’t forced to drive here,” Dekker declared. “Things went bad with the mystery guest for some reason or another, and our boy had a change of plans.”
They were interrupted by a loud crash behind them.
“What the hell,” Decker exclaimed as he caught sight of the trunk bursting open in the rear view mirror. He jumped back from the doorway and sprinted the three steps to the back of the car, Perez not far behind. The shrieking CSI tech scurried around to the front bumper and ducked out of sight.
“Damn it, I thought this scene was secured!”
Perez jostled Dekker as he stopped short. She opened her mouth to chastise him, but had her train of thought derailed by the spectacle playing out in front of her slack-jawed partner.
“Whaa?”
Hopping away from the flabbergasted pair was a pale, middle-aged, white male. Save for the red garment with which he had been hog-tied, he was naked as the day he was born, his bare skin twinkling in the midday sun with each lurching movement. The gargling sound emanating from his strained vocal chords failed to resolve into coherent words.
“Well, there’s something you don’t see everyday,” Dekker managed.
The man had hop-crawled ten yards into the barren field before the detectives recovered their wits sufficiently to walk him down. They approached as one would a strange dog, palms up and cooing assurances of, “it’s okay,” and “no one’s gonna hurt you.” Closing in, they noted a light dusting of glitter on his skin to compliment the heavy stench of Scotch. He regarded the detectives through bulging, bloodshot eyes that had taken on the panicked sheen of a cornered animal before grudgingly yielding to their assistance.
“Herph mah,” he pleaded. “Herph mah.”
Phelps loped over with a blanket from the CSI van as Dekker freed the captive from the silk necktie that bound him and dislodged a crumpled up piece of paper from his throat.
“Help me,” the man croaked, wincing against the words.
The trio helped him to the backseat of Dekker’s Saturn, where Perez took his statement as they awaited the arrival of the paramedics.
Leaving the victim to his thoughts after fifteen minutes of gentle questioning, Dekker let a low whistle escape his lips when they were clear.
“Dirtbag,” Perez spit as she looked back at the cowering figure in the window.
“Hey, not his fault if he doesn’t want to buy,” Dekker retorted. “Like my daddy always said, never pity a salesman.”
“Yeah, but four years? FOUR YEARS? You string somebody along like that and you’re lucky they don’t show up at your front door with a bazooka,” Perez answered, eyes narrowing.
“Touche,” Dekker said.
“This had to have been the last straw,” she decided. “Guy hasn’t had a client in his car in ages, according to the wife, right?”
“Right,” Dekker acknowledged.
“His white whale calls out of the clear blue sky and says he wants to see some multi-million dollar properties. He’s serious this time. Our guy puts on his best suit and closing tie, makes appointments, picks the whale up at the airport, gets derailed by requests to hit up every strip club and nightspot within a five mile radius. Ever the good host, he hits the ATM to pull out his last sixty bucks somewhere in the middle of it all.”
“Then Moby Dick here tells our boy that he’s too partied out to look at houses and needs a lift back to the airport,” Dekker finished.
Dekker handed Perez the wet piece of paper he had fished from the victim’s mouth. Unwadded, it was a surprisingly legible document. She handed it back after a cursory glance.
Perez nodded.
“Our boy goes all Falling Down vintage Michael Douglas. Plots a course for the middle of nowhere, strips the vic in symbolic retaliation for same, binds him, gags him with the buyer agency agreement, abandons him with the vehicle and … ,” she trailed off, scouring the horizon for signs of life.
“K-9 unit should get here before it gets dark,” Dekker told her. “They’ll find him. Nothing easier to track than imitation Aqua Velva and desperation.”
She looked unconvinced.
“A night in the desert isn’t gonna do him in if the nuclear holocaust in the housing industry hasn’t managed it,” he added. “They’re cockroaches. Can’t kill’em.”
“But if he’s suffering some kind of psychotic break …,” she began.
“Then better he’s wandering around out there somewhere than holding an open house,” Dekker interrupted with a chuckle.
“And if the dogs don’t get here before nightfall? Cockroach or not, no one is surviving two days in this heat without water.”
“He’s a Realtor, Alana,” Dekker reminded her. “We should be so lucky.”
She studied his rigid jaw for a long moment, recalling her embittered partner’s botched short sale. The stress of the resulting foreclosure had led to his eventual separation and six months spent on her couch. Not necessarily in that order.
“You gave them the wrong directions, didn’t you,” she demanded.
His light green eyes flashed grey, a tell that had chased him out of the weekly Robbery/Homicide division’s card game years ago.
“Maybe.”
Things I’m Not Doing During a Scottsdale Winter …
January 11th, 2011 … do you know where your tank tops are?
It’s time to talk Scottsdale vacation homes, people.
You see, while you are buried under two feet of snow, I’m mowing my lawn. In flip flops. As today is a bit nippy by Scottsdale standards, I went a little crazy and skipped the zinc oxide on my nose.
Now, I wouldn’t dream of poking fun at you poor buggers who are currently caught within exhale radius of Mr. Snow Miser’s arctic morning breath. Nope, I have no intentions of gloating or doing the verbal Ickey Shuffle all over that frozen tundra you call home. I’m certainly not going to ask you to hand deliver a message to one of the polar bears in the Coke commercials or wonder aloud about your local animal ordinances, and whether or not they allow for emperor penguin adoption.
Summer will roll around soon enough, and the mercury-bending shoe will be on the other foot.
In the meantime, however, I thought I might offer a few examples of that which a Scottsdale winter does not consist. You know, to help spread some vicarious warmth to those unfortunate souls trapped in the ice tray of nature’s Frigidaire. I’m all about paying it forward this year.
Things I Am Not Doing Right Now:
- Shoveling My Driveway
- Scraping Ice From My Frozen Windshield
- Winterizing My Cactus
- Spreading Salt Anywhere Other Than the Rim of My Margarita Glass
- Ordering Heating Oil – Might Restock On Banana Boat Deep Tanning Oil, However
- Dressing Like the Michelin Man On His Way to a Potato Sack Race
- Turning the Ignition Over In My Car In Case I Might Use It in April
- Getting My Tongue Stuck To a Pole
- Dodging Porch Stalactites
- Commanding Any of My Pets to “Mush”
- Battling Seasonal Affective Disorder
- Wearing a Thermal Speedo
- Driving a Zamboni to Work
- Opening Another Window On My Summer Solstice Advent Calendar
- Eating Comfort Food By the Cubic Ton
- Chewing Seal Blubber
- Climbing Inside the Belly of a Dead Tauntaun to Ward Off Hypothermia
- Cursing the Inebriated Snow Plow Driver
- Empathizing With the Donner Party
- Pretending to Puff Smoke With Each Visible Breath
- Hibernating
- Seeing Russia From My House
- Ice Skating On My Swimming Pool
- Remodeling My Mid-Century Modern Igloo
- Being Rescued From My Mailbox By a Whiskey-Laden Saint Bernard
- Employing a Sherpa For My Trek to the Grocery Store
- Joining a Polar Bear Club
- Getting Ready For My Neighborhood Yeti Watch Shift
Fun as all that sounds, I’ve got a full afternoon of driving around in my convertible after squeezing in a quick round of golf. Depending on my motivation, I might go lay out on top of Camelback Mountain for a spell. This epidermis ain’t gonna tan itself, you know.
Want to secure your own life of leisure? We can always accommodate one more Scottsdale vacation home owner. Contact us today, or jump to our Scottsdale home search page to find your own little slice of Southwestern paradise.
*Mukluks not required.
How Not To Draft Your Short Sale Hardship Letter
To whom it may concern,
I am drafting this explanation of hardship in attempt to effect a short sale of my property located at 88 W. Tantalus Lane, Scottsdale, AZ 85258.
When I purchased the property on 1/16/2005, I was under the impression that Real Estate values never declined. That’s what the guy doing the seminar behind the Benihana on 12th said, at least. Granted, I wasn’t thinking clearly because I skipped dinner and the aroma of szechuan beef was driving me half mad with hunger, but I decided right then and there that I was going to put all sixty two of my dollars into Real Estate investing. If he could buy 764 properties for no money down, why the hell couldn’t I? Figured I could finally hang up my plunger for good.
Do you have any idea what it’s like to swab out a stall after the sponsored little league team comes through and crushes fifty happy meals in four minutes flat?
So I bought a place. And another. And another. Before long, I had both shift managers leasing houses from me. It was awesome. One time, Steve, the ball-buster who managed nights, told me I overcooked the fries. My shift ended two hours before his. I threw all his shit out in the front yard and changed the locks. Nobody complained about my fries after that.
Anywho, after my brother in law flew down from Sacramento and got his Real Estate license in like six minutes, he hooked me up with this appraiser guy. Got all the houses refi’ed for 200% of purchase price and bought this here spread for cash. I only put the mortgage on it with you guys so I could cash myself out to fund the hotel in Fiji.
Somewhere in the middle of all this, I lost my job. Got laid off right after telling the regional manager that his fat $%&^ of a wife better start watering my hibiscus or they’d be on the street faster than she could cram a number eight combo down that feed trough she called a throat.
Downsized, I couldn’t believe it. With values beginning to sag, the double whammy of losing the $5.75/hour and a solid tenant was the start of a downward spiral that I couldn’t escape.
The Internal Revenue Service started coming around about this time and asking stupid questions like, “Exactly how many primary residences do you have,” and “Did you really think you could complete a 1031 exchange into a Peruvian brothel?” They seized my liquid assets. Communists.
After I got out of prison, I spent 16 months in Tijuana clearing my head. I took some part time custodial work in the entertainment industry, but as fate would have it, the goddamn donkey got the drop on me one night. Kicked me right in the lower bicuspids as I was bending down to hose off the astroturf. As medical coverage wasn’t provided by this particular employer, I was pushed further into debt by the street vendor who fashioned my new teeth out of cardboard and chicklets. Now every time I smile, I provide free advertising for “Beto’s Baja Fish Tacos.”
Despondent, I returned home to find my brother in law (who had since given up on Real Estate and was now selling Tang on Craigslist full time) had let my properties go completely to pot. Broken windows, four foot high weeds in the yard, missing air conditioning units … all of my tenants were long gone. Except for the dead guy we found in a barcalounger at the Clarendon duplex (I think you have the loan on that one, too?). That episode put me in counseling for a year. That’s when the whole drug thing really got out of hand.
So anyway, do you really want this piece of &*%^ back or what? We smoked the drapes.
Best,
Hugh Joversite
Repair Demand Negotiation: Behind the Scenes of a Real Estate Transaction
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- Repair wood rot at NE fascia board above garage.
- Repair leak at main water valve and install pressure regulator to bring pressure below 90 PSI.
- Remove dated 30” oak cabinetry in kitchen and replace with 42” dove-tailed, raised-panel cherry.
- Laminate counter tops throughout home to be replaced with level 5 granite of buyer’s choice. Beveled edge or beaver cut.
- Seller to credit buyer $20,000 towards stainless steel appliance package.
- Water staining at SW corner of third bedroom closet ceiling. Roof to be replaced.
- Garage to be enclosed as livable square footage with 18 Seer A/C unit and R-19 factor insulation batts installed.
- Neighbors on east side of home to paint their trim.
- Water heater is six months old. Nearing the end of its useful life. Seller to upgrade to solar and assign tax credit to buyer.
- 50’ x 500’ moat to be constructed between front yard planter and porch by licensed contractor under the guidance of medieval historian. Seller to credit buyer $5000 towards stocking with reptilian of buyer’s choice.
- Helipad with Starbucks kiosk installed above third story addition (see permit plans already submitted to the city).
- Stucco damage at front facade to be patched.
- “My Little Pony” theme in bedroom 4 to be changed to “Toy Story” motif, complete with life-sized Buzz Lightyear figurine and fully operational rocket ship.
- Ceiling fan in master bedroom to be removed to make room for trapeze.
- Strike plate on hall bathroom door to be realigned to close properly.
- In addition to these minor fixes, buyer requests that seller agree to personally return to premises to make needed repairs to property for up to five (5) years after closing.
Market Value Versus Assessed Value: Where Not to Look for Your Home’s True Worth
Maricopa County property tax valuation notices go out in another month or so, and the reverberation of a couple million jaws dropping will once again shake the Valley of the Sun. Whether a new homeowner’s first tax valuation experience or a case of seasonal amnesia in longer-tenured residents, many succumb to reverse sticker shock upon first glance at the meager value the county has assigned to his/her Scottsdale home.
“My house is worth WHAT?!!!“
Rest assured, values have declined in the greater Scottsdale and Phoenix area, but the paltry figure on the wadded up piece of paper in the clenched fist of an aghast homeowner seldom represents an accurate indication of current market value. I repeat, the county’s assessed value does not represent the home’s current value.
Our property valuation schedules are a convoluted mess here in Scottsdale. Rather than a simple statement of what your property is worth and the taxes associated with it, your notice will reflect myriad seemingly incongruous figures. Limited values, full values, cash values, secondary values … and a partridge in a pear tree. To simplify (somewhat), let’s just break the tax notice down to what really matters to you.
The Assessed Value of a home is derived by the following formula:
Full Cash Value x Assessed Value Ratio = Assessed Value
The Full Cash Value figure is the closest thing to a current market value determination by the county, and it represents the value of the land plus (supposedly) any and all improvements (structures) to the property. Bear in mind, however, that this figure is arrived at exclusively through public record search. No appraiser comes to your house to value recent improvements, verify square footage, etc. Unless permitted, that computerized formula for value assignment is unlikely to take into consideration your recent kitchen remodel, new hardwood flooring, plantation shutters, A/C, etc. I have encountered far too many discrepancies between the information found in the tax records and reality to take even the assessor’s rudimentary information with anything less than a periodic table-shattering grain of salt. Non-accounted for additions, wildly inaccurate square footages and omission of swimming pools are public record bugaboos that immediately come to mind as repeat offenders.
Once Full Cash Value is assigned, dubious as it may be, that figure is multiplied by the Assessed Value Ratio to arrive at the Assessed Value (the number that causes fainting spells across the Valley). For residential properties (with completed homes), the Assessed Value Ratio is 10%. For vacant parcels, it is 16%.
Once Assessed Value is determined through that formula, it is in turn multiplied by the current tax rate to determine the total taxes owed for the upcoming cycle. To further complicate matters, there is a primary and a secondary tax rate to consider, but we’ll save that stimulating bit of minutia for another day.
Maricopa County Property Tax FAQ
Confused yet? So is nearly every homeowner and buyer in Scottsdale. Let’s apply it to a real world scenario.
Take a residential property assigned a Full Cash Value of $300,000. For the sake of clarity, we’ll combine the primary and secondary tax rates at a not completely arbitrary 6.5% (roughly the combined rate for my tax district in 2010). Using the formula outlined above:
300000 x .10 = 30,000 x .065 = 1950
With total tax liability established at $1950, it is divided into semi-annual bills of $975. First half taxes are due on October 1st (delinquent on November 1), and second half taxes are due March 1st (delinquent on May 1) of the following year.
Mathematical gyrations aside, as that was not the original intent of this piece, my advice to homeowners and prospective homeowners alike is not to look to the tax rolls in pursuit of an authoritative decree of a property’s current worth. Even if you know which figures to look at, the full cash value determination is not the ultimate purpose of the assessment, and therefore renders its application to any one specific property an unreliable measure.
A system designed for county-wide revenue collection is not a great gauge of what Mr. and Mrs. Smith would be willing to pay for Mr. Jones’s house on 1/3/10.
If a specific property’s value is one needle in the market’s haystack, the assessor is using a forklift to find it.
Or, to satisfy my personal quota for no fewer than 2 gratuitous metaphors per post, the county assessor is stalking the nimble prey of current market value in a bazooka-wielding dump truck.
The tax rolls are full of good stuff that can be exploited in negotiation. Total lien encumbrances, dates and price of purchases, taxable square footage, zoning, parcel size, etc can all be utilized by a savvy consumer to secure the tactical advantage that accompanies such intelligence gathering. Just don’t look to this cumbersome evaluation method to derive your unshakable opinion of the property’s worth.
Recent comps, current competition, pending sales … this is how you triangulate current market value. Property tax assessments, online evaluation algorithms, Carnac impersonations … amusing broad stroke guesstimations, but nothing more than jumping off points.
Want to determine what a home is worth? Get an appraisal or contact a local Scottsdale Real Estate agent for an opinion of value via comparable market analysis.
Want to give yourself a stroke? Base your price expectations around the assessed value notice that hits your mailbox in February.
It’s a Bird, It’s a Plane, It’s a … What the Hell Is It?
Somewhere in 2008 …
“Yeah, and if Abe Lincoln wore a skirt, he’d a been the bearded lady,” Ramiro scoffed. “Look, I don’t care how it got there, all I’m telling you is it wasn’t there on Tuesday.”
The three flannel clad men stood shoulder to shoulder around a five by eight foot depression in the Spanish colonial’s front courtyard. Remnants of the displaced cobblestone pavers lay at their feet, mixed in with the ring of loose dirt that lined the hole’s perimeter.
“Maybe it’s part of an old Russian satellite,” Gerry offered. “Decommissioned after the Cold War, no funding to maintain it? The news is always talking about those pieces of junk falling out of the sky.”
“That’s no satellite,” Blum replied, rubbing two day’s worth of stubble on his Popeye chin. “Where’s the hammer and the whatsamacallit?”
“Sickle, Bloomer. Hammer and sickle. If you’re feeling so smart, what is it then,” Gerry challenged.
In unison, all three leaned in for a closer look at the amber light pulsing within the small, metallic orb at the bottom of the crater.
“Meteorite, maybe? Whatever it is, that wasn’t made by any man,” Blum answered.
“I don’t care if it’s a plutonium care package from Ted Kaczynski so long as someone fixes this,” Ramiro announced, toeing the dirt as he removed his faded ball cap to run a hand through the unkempt brown hair beneath it.
“I figured out the smell. Cabbage. Smells just like microwaved cabbage,” Gerry mused. “You get a hold of your agent yet?”
“Yeah. She said there’s nothing she can do since it happened after the final walk-through.” He put the cap back on his head, snugging the visor down low over his bloodshot eyes.
“Probably doesn’t want to interrupt her afternoon bridge game,” Gerry snorted. “What about the seller?”
“Suggested I call the home warranty company,” Ramiro replied.
“Did you?”
“They claim it’s a pre-existing condition. Besides, they consider the courtyard part of the landscaping, not the house. Won‘t cover it,” Ramiro lamented.
“It could be some kind of stargate,” Blum hypothesized.
“What,” he demanded in response to their withering stares.
“Stargate for who, Darby O’Gill and the six inch Klingons? Did your parents huff Reddiwhip or something,” Gerry asked.
“Screw you, Gerald,” Blum replied, resorting to disparaging his childhood friend through the use of his formal name.
“What about your home inspector,” Gerry asked, turning back to Ramiro.
“Called him five times, left three messages. Haven’t heard back yet,” said Ramiro.
“Termite guy?”
“Yeah, because the mother of all termite colonies ate my courtyard on the day of closing,” Ramiro quipped.
“Just trying to help here, man. Of course, if you don’t need me …,” Gerry trailed off as he took the last swig of cold coffee from his Styrofoam cup and made as if to leave.
“Don’t get your underoos in a bunch, Geraldo. I’m just pissed is all,” Ramiro offered by way of an apology.
“I’ve got it,” Blum announced. “It’s the fallen sun of a tiny solar system.”
“What color is the sky in your world, Bloomer,” Gerry wondered.
“Depends,” Blum responded with a Cheshire cat’s grin. “Remind me what color the walls are in your mom’s room again?”
Gerry shook his head in exasperation and turned back to Ramiro, who had retreated even further beneath his hat.
“Looks like you’ve got yourself a real hot potato here, Ram. I’m fresh out of ideas,” Gerry confessed.
“Time capsule from the future,“ Blum proposed before shrugging his massive shoulders in similar defeat.
Ramiro looked from one to the other and nodded, coming to a decision.
“One for the money …”
“Don’t do it, Ram,” Gerry warned.
“Two for the show …”
“Don’t,” Gerry warned again.
“Three to get ready,” Ramiro continued, then jumped.
“Ramiro,“ Gerry shouted.
“And four to go,” Ramiro finished from the bottom of the crater. Determination shone in the green eyes that looked up at his aghast companions.
“Crazy SOB,” Gerry muttered, shaking his head.
“If I don’t make it out of here, tell your kids their real daddy loves them,” Ramiro instructed.
Gerry smiled, unable to deny the humor in the well-played jab.
“Oh man, oh man, oh man …” Blum mumbled as he swayed from one foot to the other.
Ramiro stretched one hesitant hand towards the glowing anomaly. Everything stopped as his index finger hovered a scant two inches from its smooth surface.
“I wouldn’t touch that if I were you,” a stern voice from topside advised.
Ramiro looked up to see an unfamiliar figure sandwiched between his friends. Eight pounds of yipping terrier strained at the other end of the pink leash he held. Electrical crackling and popping drew his gaze back to the now vibrating orb. The yellow glow had morphed into a deep, angry red.
“What the hell is it,” he called to the creased face that loomed over him.
“Nasty business, that’s what. You’ve got yourself a recent sales comp there, son.”
“Sales comp,” Ramiro mouthed, reflexively withdrawing his hand. “But I just closed yesterday?”
The old man pointed at something Ramiro couldn’t see from his vantage point as his friends dropped their cups and ran for their lives.
“Cowards,” Ramiro called after them.
“The Peters place … or the Peters place before the bank took it back, I should say. Just closed this morning.”
“How much,” Ramiro asked.
“Two fifty,” the old man answered.
“Two fifty?! That’s ten thousand less than I paid!”
“Oh, cry me a river, son,” the old man stiffened, “I’ve been getting pelted with these things for the past eighteen months. Last one took out my master addition. One before that got my kitchen remodel. Too many more direct hits and my retirement goes on indefinite hiatus.”
“So what do I do with it,” Ramiro asked.
“Nothing,” the old man replied.
“Nothing?”
“Nothing. The HOA board will be by with the space suits and shovels to fill in the holes this weekend. We bury our own in these parts,” he explained.
“But it will still be here,” Ramiro objected. “Shouldn’t we dig it up and get rid of it or something? I don‘t want this thing in my neighborhood!”
Steam began rising off the shuddering orb as a high pitched warble sent the cowering dog between its master’s legs.
The old man chuckled, extending a leathery mitt into the void.
“Fool’s errand, son. Like trying to drink your way out of the ocean. Dig up one just in time for two more to hit. They’ve started hammering us so hard that all we can do is bury them as best we can and pray the appraisers don’t find’em.”
“Yeah, swell,” Ramiro replied as he was pulled out of one hole and into another. “I think they bussed in a nearsighted cyclops from Calcutta to do mine.”
The Poltergeist Home Inspection Report
Date: 12/17/10
Location: 666 S. Hanson LN, Scottsdale, AZ 85258
Client: Scheptich, Myron
Present At Time of Inspection: Buyer, Buyer’s Agent, Malevolent Spirit(s)
Time of Inspection: 1:57 PM MST
Weather Conditions: 72F degrees, clear skies, light winds out of the SE.
Note: Findings limited to visible observations of property condition at the time of inspection. Lemonbusters, LLC not responsible for property deficiencies discovered subsequent to the date noted on line 1 of this report. Damages for errors and omissions limited to the cost of inspection.
Grounds
Distinguishing Lot Characteristic: Hillside
SW corner of property bisected by natural arroyo. Recommend additional investigation to determine if designated flood plain.
Possible earth fissure detected in east side yard between garden and block wall along property line.
Front and rear sprinkler systems detected, but not tested.
Note: Homesite familiar to inspector – believes his great aunt Stella may have been buried in the atrium. Possible explanation for faulty grade present at that location.
Exterior Structure
Heaving to concrete slab of front sidewalk and separations at the north stem wall of the home indicate possible settling issues. Recommend further investigation by structural engineer to determine presence of expansive soil and extent of damage to foundation.
Main Roof
Concrete tile applied over underlayment. Noted three (3) cracked tiles on southern slope (photos 1a & 1b). Vent stack penetrations require resealing. Improper flashing in valleys. Recommend evaluation and repair by licensed roofer.
Garage
Standard two-car stall with attached utility room. Slight discoloration in concrete noted, likely motor oil.
Attic access limited by ectoplasmic resin. Ominous thumping and disembodied caterwauling in crawlspace between trusses not inspected.
Water heater functional, but nearing the end of its useful life. Manufacturer’s label indicates 13 years old. Unit speaks indecipherable dead language not recognized by Western civilization at the time of this inspection.
Interior – Kitchen
Vent stack from fan hood terminates in the attic, resulting in improper ventilation. Recommend repairs.
Kitchen outlets not GFCI protected. Code did not mandate at time of construction, but recommend consultation with licensed electrician to assess safety hazard.
Flooring slab appears to be notably off-level as chairs observed sliding from one end of the room to another throughout the course of the inspection. (photos 2a, 2b, 2c, 2d, 2e, 2f)
Anti-tip device not installed at range/oven.
Interior – Master Bath
Left master sink slow draining.
Tub/shower diverter valve not functional.
Water shut off valves frozen at both sinks.
Recommend evaluation and repairs by licensed plumber.
Interior – Hall Bath
Toilet runs after flushing. Literally. Recommend securing base to floor with reinforced lag bolts.
Interior – Family Room
Cracked picture window at west wall has breached seal and fogging between the panes. Recommend repair/replacement.
Appearance of two restless apparitions noted at stairwell. Unable to make definitive age determination.
Interior – Bedroom 2
Damage to drywall at south wall (photo 3a).
Heavy staining to carpet (cosmetic) (photo 3b).
Interior – Bedroom 3
Demonic entity precluded inspection of walk-in closet. Recommend seller make accessible prior to final walk-through.
Air/Heat
Ambient temperature allowed for unit to be tested in both heating and cooling modes. Unit functioned properly in heating mode, but did not attain optimal temperature split in cooling mode. Recommend evaluation and service by licensed HVAC tech.
Electrical System (Main)
Sixteen double taps (two circuits running to the same breaker) located in the main panel. Panel improperly grounded to the underworld.
220V line for the dryer improperly wired to rheostat.
Multiple instances of 60W bulbs in ceiling fans and wall sconces illuminating past structural limitations and shattering. Recommend capping exposed wiring until replacement bulbs can be installed and cause determined.
Reversed polarity at “half-hot” outlet in den. Improper splicing of the 110V line at the same outlet appears to power the portal to hell in the sub-floor. This would be considered faulty installation.
Recommend complete evaluation of electrical system by licensed electrician.
Pool
“Pops” in plaster appear to represent cosmetic deterioration. Recommend monitoring for further degradation or appearance of rebar staining.
Pool motor not grounded.
Pool light does not function when garage door open or curling iron plugged into bottom outlet of the master bath.
Backwash valve leaks when activated, allowing for possible release of evil (known carcinogen) into the ecosystem. Recommend replacing packing nut and hosing any/all displaced life force off cool deck. Further recommend upgrading from carbon to “DH” filter to improve overall filtration and water quality.
Inspection of main drain cut short by chanting and otherworldly green glow emanating beneath its housing. Original contractor appears to have only moved the head stones. Recommend licensed contractor exhume and relocate bodies of trapped spirits to undeveloped plot.
Review of entire pool system required by licensed pool contractor.
General Observations
This home is in overall good structural condition with a few action items that require immediate attention. In addition to the findings noted previously in this report, inspector recommends burning sage in all four corners of every room and consulting with licensed shaman for proper incantation/invoking of ancestors.
As exorcism typically falls outside the scope of standard home warranty policies, recommend paying for extended Max Von Sydow coverage.
Dead cypress tree outside bedroom 3 window too close to structure. Possible root penetration and moisture damage to foundation. This species of tree has been known to come to life during violent thunderstorms and devour children. Recommend consultation with professional arborist about relocating tree elsewhere on the premises.
Possible termite damage noted at garage stemwall. Recommend evaluation and treatment for wood destroying organisms.
In the event “they’re here” or ever become “here,” inspector recommends professional remediation by licensed exterminator.
Front door latch sticks.
_________________________________________________________________________
Lemonbusters, LLC not responsible for supernatural occurrences and/or the actions/findings of our referral partners in the psychic realm. Should your home be declared clean by a third party affiliate, Lemonbusters, LLC is in no way liable should your child subsequently be attacked and dragged under his/her bed by a maniacal clown.
Lemonbusters, LLC recommends consulting a specialist prior to going into and/or staying away from the light.
Lemonbusters thanks you for your business and wishes you the best of luck with your new home!
Desk Job
“And here is the mezzanine. Happy hour runs between five and six, Monday through Friday. Three dollar wells and half-price appetizers. You have to try the shrimp cocktail. It’s to die for.”
The new arrival looked about in wide-eyed wonder. He hadn’t known what exactly to expect, but it most certainly wasn’t … this.
“This way, please, sir,” the concierge prompted as he led the guest through the piano bar and into the landing beyond. The haunting bridge of the Doors’ classic People Are Strange followed them into the passageway.
“That is the best Jim Morrison impersonator I have ever seen,” Carl gushed as he cast one last look over his shoulder at the opulent parlor, squinting against the restless light that chased itself from one diamond-studded adornment to another.
“The gym is open 24 hours,” the concierge informed him upon stopping short, causing a distracted Carl to bump him. A pleasing combination of magnolia and sun tan lotion escaped the smart, white linen suit.
“Free weights, nautilus, cardio. We have spin classes from 9 to 10 AM, and combat pilates from five to six PM on weekdays,” the concierge continued.
“Combat pilates,” Carl echoed.
“Beats me,” the concierge chuckled in response to Carl’s raised eyebrow, “but the ladies love it.”
He looked in both directions before addressing Carl again in a theatrically hushed voice.
“Word has it the program was developed specifically for Jane Fonda. We’ve been told to expect her any day now.”
“I’m not really much of a workout guy, but the sauna looks incredible,” Carl admitted. “Mind showing me the theater room I read about in the check-in literature?”
“Fifth floor, right next to the all you can eat lobster buffet,” the concierge replied. “We’ll hit that right after the complimentary day spa on four. Peruvian mud wraps, deep tissue massage and the best exfoliating facials this side of heaven … if I may be so bold. If for no other reason, I recommend visiting for the eucalyptus water alone.”
He led Carl to a bank of elevators. There were no buttons to depress, but one arrived of its own accord, opening to reveal an all glass enclosure that looked out to a vast, watery panorama.
“Ah, Lake Styx. No matter how many times I see her, this view never gets old,” the concierge admired. “As I understand it, you have been upgraded to one of our waterfront suites.”
“Lake Styx?”
“Yes, isn’t she grand? Damming up the river has not only allowed us to power the entire facility, but also to host a bi-monthly regatta. Captain Hazelwood looks tough this season.”
He waited a beat before continuing, an amusing thought appearing to grip him.
“Damming the river of the damned, now how’s that for irony?”
“I must confess,” Carl said as the elevator closed and began its descent, “this is not at all what I thought it would be.”
The concierge chuckled.
“Expecting fire and brimstone, were you? We still offer that in the basic package, of course, but you left your mortal coil in style.”
“I don’t follow,” Carl confessed.
“You packed a golden parachute before jumping from your previous plane of existence,” the concierge expanded.
“Meaning …,” Carl pressed.
The elevator came to a stop.
“Meaning your Certified Distressed Property Specialist designation is in demand.”
Carl stared at his olive-skinned host, too confused to speak.
“What? Don’t look so surprised. The man downstairs got caught holding a few investments when the market went to … well … here in a hand basket. The cash flow properties in Boca and gold are about the only performers left in the portfolio. We are sitting on a massive shadow inventory of souls, thanks in no small part to a rather unfortunate dalliance with sub-prime candidates. Faded rock stars, former child stars, ice road truckers … suffice it to say we entered into a few too many binding agreements with less than reputable types. With the topsiders defaulting at a record clip, we don’t have nearly enough agents to get these toxic apparitions off our books. The boss sends his apologies for putting the bacon double cheeseburger on the menu at Wendy’s, but the massive coronary you suffered was entirely necessary. We need you.”
The doors dinged open to a blast of in-rushing sulfur smoke.
“Sorry about that,” the concierge apologized between coughs. “Seals in the boiler room need to be replaced. Gets in the shaft every time they run the pyrotechnics on nine.”
The pair stepped into a hazy corridor as the smoke dissipated. Carl squinted at the hunched figure that awaited under a red velvet bellhop’s cap. His luggage was strapped to the porter’s back.
“Johnny Cochran?”
“Just JC here, sir,” the porter mumbled.
“WHAT DID I TELL YOU ABOUT TALKING TO THE GUESTS, SLAVE?”
Carl jerked to look at the concierge, disconcerted by the wickedly sharp features that had arisen from his previously nondescript countenance. The impossibly bass-heavy admonition held none of the sing-songy patois that had lulled Carl into comfort with its easy cadence.
“My deepest apologies, master,” the porter whimpered into his patent leather shoes. “Please not the Ito again. Anything but the Ito.”
“I’ll deal with you later,” the concierge promised. Turning his attention back to Carl, the wicked point of his chin receded to its prior blunted state. The burning embers inside his silver eyes smoldered for a moment before winking out altogether.
“I beg your pardon, sir. You just can’t get good help these days,” he lamented, nodding in the direction of the sniveling porter.
“JC here will show you to your room now. We can finish the rest of the tour after you get settled. Please help yourself to the complimentary minibar. The tequila is superb, distilled directly from the liver of Jose Cuervo. It regenerates daily, so the shelves are always fully stocked.”
“Thank you for everything,” Carl responded, offering his hand.
“The pleasure has been all mine, sir,” the concierge assured him with a smile, engulfing Carl’s hand in his own. The dainty grip of the long, slender fingers did nothing to camouflage the crushing power of a tiger shark that lurked just beneath his good humor. He winked, turned on his heel and strode back inside the waiting elevator. A fresh blast of sulfur strafed the hallway as the doors closed and whisked him away to depths unknown.
When the air cleared, Carl was alone with the porter, who signaled him to follow. After a seemingly endless procession of twists and turns along the serpentine corridor, they stopped in front of a room.
“No numbers?”
The porter didn’t respond as he selected a key from a crowded ring and opened the ornate door.
Carl’s face wrinkled in confusion. There was no bed. In fact, there wasn’t a stick of furniture in the room save for an IKEA desk cluttered with ten open laptops. A massive chain was anchored to a steel plate in the floor beneath the accompanying chair. The other manacled end lay open.
“There must be some kind of mistake,” Carl objected.
The porter offered of rueful shake of his head.
“No mistake, sir. Take my advice and get started on those BPOs. You don’t want to make him angry.”
“But, but … but I’ve got reservations for the centaur ride in thirty minutes,” Carl stammered.
“And I’m still waiting for my ride in the white Bronco,” the porter retorted. “Just keep your head down, turn your reports in on time and don’t ask any questions. Make waves and he’ll pull your account.”
“And then?”
“If the account don’t fit, he must acquit,” the porter replied.
“What is that supposed to mean,” Carl demanded.
“You go back above ground.”
Carl shuddered as he recalled the nomadic months of wandering a barren wasteland in search of a profitable niche amidst the post-Apocalyptic Real Estate market. One thousand undead zombie listing agents crawling over every remaining equitable seller. He took a deep breath, shuffled to the desk and secured the shackle around his left ankle.
“I’m not going back to that hell.”
New Feature: Subscribe To the Content of Your Choice!
Now You Have a Choice!
The blog as a Real Estate tool has been nothing short of revolutionary. Seemingly overnight, a million and two agents turned to their keyboards to flog consumers and search engine spiders with news from the front lines and advertise their wares. As the popularity of the blog as a marketing device skyrocketed, so too did the number of eyes scouring the medium for the latest market stats, home buying & selling tips, and community information. While there was a time when I was reluctant to believe that anyone would be much interested in the disjointed literary meanderings of a garden variety Realtor, it is evident that our readership at the Scottsdale Property Shop has become large and varied enough to warrant moving beyond the one size fits all content subscription offering.
For the six minutes that the professional blogging medium has existed, debate has raged as to what constitutes suitable blog content. Some eschew the inclusion of listings and dry market stats from the blog roll as it is not the most captivating copy. Others throw everything but the kitchen sink into the blog roll. After all, we’re here to advertise ourselves and our properties, yes? The fundamental failing from my vantage point does not involve what material is worthy of blog inclusion (I ascribe to the notion that there is a place for everything), but rather the lack of cohesion. Sure we sort things by topic and the like for our site visitors/readers, but what of our valued subscribers who are inundated with everything under the sun when their interests are often highly specific?
You should be able to subscribe to that which pertains to your interests directly without having to sign on for every single piece of content posted.
Home buyers don’t want to read “5 Tips For Selling Your Scottsdale Home During the Holidays.”
Home sellers don’t want to read “How Negotiate the Lowest Price on Your Next Scottsdale Home Purchase.”
Admitting the gaping chasm that stands between what a subscriber is bombarded with, and what he/she actually wants to receive in his/her inbox or reader, The Scottsdale Property Shop has moved to bridge the divide.
From now on, you, our reader, will have the option of subscribing to the content category of your choice. At the time of this posting, we are offering subscriptions to posts in the following categories:
- For Buyers – Subscribe to this category to receive only that content which involves purchasing a home in the greater Scottsdale/Phoenix area. Community info, buying advice, investment strategy, financing information, etc is all fodder for this category.
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- Creative Writing – I am a writer at heart. Some who follow me may not be the least bit interested in buying or selling a home in the Scottsdale area in the immediate future. Subscribe to this category if you are looking for a good read (or what passes for one around here) instead of 3rd quarter market stats. Humor, fiction … definitely not the local weather report.
- All topics – Fear not, you still have the option to subscribe to all blog content if you hang on every furloughed word that escapes this keyboard. Subscribe to this catchall category if you want it all: market reports, community spotlights, home buyer advice, home seller tips, new listings, creative writing, DVR programming instructions, smoked humpback whale recipes, things to do when trapped in a Chilean mine without an internet connection … the works.
Where do you subscribe?
Same place as before, right in the sidebar. You’ll simply notice that additional options exist where before there was only a prompt to “Subscribe to Blog.” You can also click the category links above to subscribe to the feed of your choosing.
If you just want to see houses, you can simply register to receive new listing alerts, or subscribe to any one of our live zip code feeds to have the latest homes for sale sent straight to your reader. You’ll find these options in the HOME SEARCH tab of the navigation bar.
We look to eventually subdivide (how Real Estatey of us) the categories further, but for now, we’ve got the basics covered.
Any thoughts? We welcome all comments and input that would help improve your Scottsdale Property Shop experience. If we fail to implement any suggestions, however, please note that some ideas suck more than others.
Thanks,
Staff