Thursday, May 31, 2012

Real Estate Training

“So Dad, when do you train me?” I said as I eagerly jumped into the car next to him.  We would carpool to work since we lived in the same house and we were going to the same office.  I was in my early twenties.

“Oh, all in good time,” he answered me.  

But what he really meant to say was, “Never.  I am never going to train you.  You will never know what you are doing in real estate.”

We walked into the office, “Which desk do I take?”  I could tell it wasn’t going to be a significant issue.  I looked out into a silent, unoccupied room, around 15 empty desks.  The only people who worked out of this office were my dad, his real estate partner, and my grandmother.  The office was held strong by my dad and his partner.  As for my grandmother, she was and had been ready for retirement for a while now, but was avoiding it.  Therefore, daily she arrived and daily she sat, tapping her freshly coated pink finger nails, awaiting any business that might suddenly, randomly blow in her way.  

I took the desk right behind my father so he could train me better.  Get ready world!  

I sat down at my desk.  “So what do I do, Dad?  I am ready!”  

The phone rang, interrupting the start of my training.  He reached to answer it.  

I guess training would come later.      

So I sat at my desk a lot.  And my grandmother also sat at her desk a lot.  We sat there together, watching the world go by.  Makin’ the big bucks.  Swimming in the dough.  

“Hey, Grandma, are you finished with the People magazine yet?”

She handed it back to me as I passed her the copy of the In Style magazine I just completed. 

“Dad, why am I here?  You aren’t even training me?  Where is all of my training?”

“Okay,” ready for your training?” he replied.  “Pass out these fliers to houses in the neighborhood.”  So I did, and in doing so I found real estate to be very exciting.  Being chased by dogs.  Running through sprinklers.  Stepping in dog poo.  Being yelled at by the elderly as you approach their doors.  

“Dad,” I said when I got back to the office, wet haired, sunburned, and breathing heavily, “When does my ‘proper’ training start?”

“What is that smell?” he asked, picking up his foot to look on the underside of his real estate loafers.  

“Dad!  My training!” I reiterated. 

So then came the training.  

It started with a math problem.  He turned his chair around to face my desk and gave me an equation.  A most difficult one if you ask me.  He was throwing numbers at me left and right, and my pencil was wildly, frantically responding.  “So, Janna, if you take the interest and you divide it by the bla, bla, bla, and then you take away the bla, bla, bla, how much is the house worth?”

“Um....” I quickly did my calculations and then answered, “Ten thousand dollars,” raising my tone at the end, really just turning my statement into a question. 

He stared at me in disbelief.  “A house that cost ten thousand dollars?”  I could see him holding back a laugh.

“That is what I said,” I responded.  What is wrong with him, I thought to myself.  I looked back down at my paper.  “That is what my figures are telling me.”

“Think, Janna!  Think!” he raised his voice.

I raised my voice even louder, “I am thinking!  And I am thinking that this house you talk of cost ten thousand dollars!  How am I supposed to know how much houses cost!?  You are not training me!  Where is this house you are talking about anyway?”  

I was so angry and frustrated, I said, “Somewhere,” and then I yelled,  “SOMEWHERE in the world,” pointing my finger into his face, “a house does cost ten thousand dollars somewhere, Dad!!!!" 

“I QUIT!” I stomped toward the door and burst out of it as hard as I could to really drive my point home.  I stood in the middle of the street staring out at the parking lot, my eyes scanning through all of the cars, none of them being mine.  Great, I don’t even drive myself to work.  I turned back around, quietly opened the door, stuck my head in shamefacedly and asked under my breath, “Can I get a ride home?”

He calmly answered, with a slight uplifting of one of the sides of his mouth, “When I am done with work.”  It was a smile.  I know it was a smile.

“Ahhhhh!!!!!!”  Cuss.  Cuss.

This was not work.  And this was not working.

I gracefully stepped out of my real estate business right after my dad showed the only client I ever had one of his houses for sale while I was on vacation.  He closed the deal, and I was paid and went to Europe with the money. 

I love real estate!!!

Here I am with a Scottish bagpipe man.

And here I am with the Loch Ness Monster.

And that concluded my endeavors in real estate.

It ended with the realization, I don’t work well with my father.  And I am not sure what you do in real estate besides pass out fliers.


  1. Enjoyed this entertaining conclusion to the story :-) Have a great weekend!

  2. I worked for my dad for several years in his medical office, doing transcription from audio recordings. He had a horrible habit of mumbling into the recorder while shuffling papers and of course it was all medical lingo, which I was learning on the job, so I usually had to interrupt him 20 times a day to ask him what some part of a sentence was supposed to say. But I still miss those days sometimes! I quit working for him when he had to retire due to disability, but I got REALLY good at keyboarding and can still type about 100 w.p.m.

  3. Ok. So you've done had that baby and we've not heard a word. I hope all is well, and PLEASE OH PLEASE blog soon. :)