Looking for a rental home that doesn’t feel like a rental home? You’ve landed on the right page.
Nestled in the foothills of Shadow Mountain, this terrific five bedroom, three bath home is the pride of North Phoenix. That’s right, I said five true bedrooms.
A first-time rental, the relocating owners have painstakingly upgraded this home over the course of the last two years. From the architectural stone on the front exterior to the pavered front and back patios, you will be welcomed by the pride of ownership that simply does not exist in typical rental housing.
Featuring 4 bedrooms / 2 bathrooms up, and 1 bedroom and bath down, the 1998 construction boasts a family room, living room and formal dining area in addition to an eat-in kitchen nook.
And the kitchen … oh, the kitchen!
Recently remodeled with richly refinished cabinets, glass mosaic backsplash tile and newer appliances, you’ll be tempted to spread out on the generous kitchen island and simply bask in the room’s grandeur.
If you must leave the kitchen at some point, I highly suggest you only do so in favor of the resort-worthy backyard. The expanded back patio has been recently upgraded with pavers and a built-in firepit. Sit down for a spell on the built-in bench swing and let the world disappear for awhile as you laze away the day.
And, of course, the coup d’etat … the pebble-tec swimming lagoon (to just call it a “pool” would be a gross disservice). Fenced to accommodate those with fledgling swimmers, a salt-water filtration system was recently installed to spare your eyes, skin and hair the harsh chlorine experience. Perfect for a dip on those warm summer days, you’ll feel you’re treating yourself to a “staycation” in your very own home.
And what kind of resort experience would it be if you had to maintain said lagoon yourself? You provide the mimosas; the landlord will provide the pool service.
Of course, none of these amazing features would matter in the least if the home was not centrally located. Nice as the total package is, you likely wouldn’t want to commute to the other side of the moon to enjoy it. As the old adage goes, the three rules of Real Estate are location, location, location. Fortunately, the home sits along the prestigious 28th St and Thunderbird corridor. With high-end custom homes dotting the neighboring subdivisions, you will be equally thrilled with the ready access to the 51 freeway for an easy commute to downtown Phoenix.
If this is the lifestyle you envision, but aren’t quite ready to make the long-term commitment of a purchase, come take a test-run with us. Your only regret will be that you waited so long to start living the life you’ve always wanted.
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“Why is his skin all splotchy?”
Chip Donaghue stared at the pathetic, grey man on the gurney. Tubes ran in and out of his crystallized body, connecting him to a bank of beeping machines and monitors.
“Sublimation is typical,” the humorless doctor beside him announced.
“Freezer burn,” the doctor clarified, his high-pitched voice at odds with its gravelly undertones. He struck Chip as a man who had spent considerable time exploring the outer edges of life’s spectrum.
The beeping intensified moments before the patient sat straight up.
“He’s awake,” Chip shouted, taking a step toward the bed before being restrained by a vice-like grip.
He looked back to find the doctor’s skeletal hand clamped to his meaty shoulder.
How can he be that strong? Chip wondered.
“Keep your distance,” the doctor rasped. “He’s not lucid.”
“Like hell,” Chip argued, struggling in vain to free himself. “Look at him!”
“That’s just gas,” the doctor informed him.
“Gas,” Chip protested, incredulous. “He’s sitting up for crissakes!”
“The cells in the core are the first to awaken,” the doctor assured him. “They expand as they release CO2. Get too close during the herky-jerky and you’re apt to get clipped by an errant limb.”
The patient’s mouth remained a frozen “oh” as his sightless grey-brown eyes stared into the infinity. His right arm suddenly shot straight up.
“Pow, right in the kisser,” the doctor whispered. Sensing resignation, he relaxed his grip on Chip’s shoulder.
The two men watched in silence as random body parts took turns flailing about over the course of the next few minutes. Chip was reminded of a fish flopping around on dry land, desperate for breath. The room took on a gamey odor as life returned to long-dormant flesh.
The chaotic symphony reached the patient’s face.
“Now remember,” the doctor reminded Chip. “He’s not going to recognize you. Not at first, and maybe not at all.”
Chip sighed. He’d been waiting for this moment for six years. Now that it was finally here, he wasn’t sure he was ready for it.
The patient’s left eyelid spasmed. Then the right. His nose twitched.
This is it, Chip gulped. Please … oh, please …
The patient did not respond to the doctor’s query.
“Mr. Niedelman,” the doctor tried again, in a stronger voice. “Can you hear me?”
Ed Niedelman broke six years of silence by barking like a dog.
“This happens sometimes,” the doctor assured Chip. “The synapses of the brain are especially prone to bursting and misfire upon rapid thaw. Give it a minute for the connections to reestablish themselves.”
“No,” Chip said shaking his head as the woofing continued unabated. “It worked! By God, it worked!”
The doctor raised a quizzical white eyebrow.
“This is how Ed celebrates a big sale,” Chip explained. “If you remember, we had him frozen at the closing table for the Meyers transaction. We had no more leads to feed him, so figured we’d put him on the shelf while we rode out the storm. Wanted his last memory to be a good one. Bless his heart, he still thinks it’s 2006!”
“Welcome back, big dog,” Chip, the managing broker at Prickly Pear Properties, gushed as he approached his sales associate. “You ready to eat?”
Niedelman jumped out of the bed, howling. He nearly lost his footing as he landed in a pool of water on the polished concrete floor.
“Outstanding,” Chip bellowed, clapping his underling on the back as he helped free him from the wires and tubes that bound him. “Let’s go wake up Peterson.”
The doctor attended to the vacated station as the awkward pair lumbered over to the next cryogenic chamber.
“One second, gentlemen,” he sighed, eyeing the half-naked, born-again charlatan and his Svengali with despair.
He had lost nearly fifty percent of his clients to reanimation since January first. The recovering Real Estate market was exciting news to everyone but him it seemed.
Time to start farming for new clientele.
But who? As Realtors began their rise from the ashes, which demographic was ready to take its place at the precipice of a great unknown … and in his freezer?
A thin smile spread across his narrow face as it came to him.
Of course, he thought. Moderate Republicans.
Scottsdale, AZ – Recent studies suggest that consumers still envision salesmen as fast-talking, slick-haired, turquoise-pinkie-ring-flashing hucksters who would sooner eat their own gold teeth than hesitate to push their mothers into traffic if caught standing between them and a sale.
Which makes the case of Agnes Friedman all the more unusual.
“I’m more of a go along to get along type,” Mrs. Friedman, a Real Estate agent with As You Wish Realty, LLC told BSRE news.
Admired by her peers for an amicable disposition which makes cross-transactions a breeze, she has come under fire as of late for her “path of least resistance” model of client advocacy.
“Nobody likes a salesman,” Friedman explained. “Well, I mean, maybe some people do, but I … I’m not saying it’s wrong if you do, just … what do you think?”
Bethany O’Leary, a former client of Friedman’s, was originally drawn to that very unsalesy manner when selecting a REALTOR to list her 4 bedroom McCormick Ranch home last May.
“She was such a breath of fresh air,” O’Leary told reporters when reached for comment at the same 4 bedroom McCormick Ranch home. “All the others wanted to talk about the market and toot their own horns. Agnes was willing to listen … and to ultimately do whatever I told her to do.”
Asked to corroborate, Friedman smiled and offered reporters coffee.
“No, the house didn’t sell,” O’Leary admitted. “But it didn’t sell on my terms.”
Dennis LeGrudge recently purchased a home utilizing Friedman’s services as a buyer’s agent.
“It started out great,” LeGrudge said over the sound of running water. “Agnes showed me everything, whether I was qualified to buy it or not. She even brought snacks.”
Things went awry once Mr. LeGrudge located a property that he wanted to purchase.
“At first, her advice made a lot of sense,” he allowed. “I didn’t want to insult the seller, so I gave him full price.”
In hindsight, LeGrudge thinks that may have been his first mistake.
“I wish I’d known the house had been on the market for fourteen months,” he lamented.
Problems compounded for LeGrudge when the home inspection revealed a bad roof and a missing air conditioning unit. Rather than banging heads with the seller on the deficiencies, his agent convinced him that all homes had issues, and not to upset the seller by requesting frivolous repairs.
“Frivolous,” LeGrudge scoffed. “Hear that burst pipe? I think they plumbed this place with twisty straws.”
One competitor, who chose to remain anonymous, hopes Friedman never lets the industry change her.
“It’s inspiring to see someone so determined to remain true to her benevolent nature in this dog eat dog business,” Agent X said. “I hope she never loses that.”
When pressed, Agent X admitted he has an ulterior motive for Friedman to continue with her current practices.
“Yeah,” he confirmed with a wink. “As long as Agnes negotiates like Bambi, I’m more than happy to thump’er.”
– Paul Slaybaugh, Disassociated Press
BSRE NEWS – In a long anticipated move, an obscure Real Estate blogger has announced she is completely out of fresh content ideas.
“I just don’t know what to write about now that my cat died,” Dolores Pentupangst of Katy, Texas lamented. “Frolix was good for one, maybe two posts a week with his wacky antics. Now that he’s gone … you don’t just replace that kind of hole in your blogroll.”
Long considered a black hole for creativity by her peers despite a prodigious output, Pentupangst has been reduced to trolling the Real Estate net for content to take issue with in recent months.
“Trolling itself is an art,” she assured reporters from her basement via Skype. “You have to wait for just the right moment to jump in and piss all over the original poster and the sycophants in the comment stream. Too soon and you kill the thread prematurely, limiting the damage. Too late and no one is around to witness it.”
Pressed on whether surfing the interwebs 23 hours a day in search of a fight is the highest and best use of a Real Estate agent’s time, Pentupangst assured reporters that she had more than enough time left over to sell a home this year.
“Not everyone has the gift of original thought,” Bob Stuartson of ReTopBlog admitted of those who utilize his online Real Estate writing platform. “Some are better suited to what we call ‘reblogging’ and ‘counter-posting.’ If you can’t write your way out of a wet paper bag, your options are pretty much limited to reconstituting someone else’s work or calling them stupid.”
“Not original, huh,” Pentupangst countered, chuckling. “Tell that to the clown in Delaware who authored the piece about dual agency last week. I bet he didn’t wake up on Tuesday expecting to find his name hyperlinked to a picture of a sow’s ass in comment number thirty seven.”
While Pentupangst may be reduced to critiquing the work of those who contribute original material to the collective mainframe for the time being, she doesn’t figure to be out of circulation for long.
“I adopted a Yorkie.”
Paul Slaybaugh, Disassociated Press
Reggie stared at the pen.
Held between the thumb and index finger of the hand that emerged from a white coat sleeve, the golden implement caught and reflected the overhead lights in mesmerizing fashion. No doubt by design.
Reaching to accept the offering, he did so not of his own volition. As had been the case since Emma declared the community “home” within seconds of their first visit, Reggie felt the conveyer belt moving beneath his feet, hurtling him towards a purchase that didn’t feel right.
The house was exactly what he wanted. Boasting 3 bedrooms split from a home office, the warm slice of Tuscany was ideal for his burgeoning family. A play pool, a swing set in the middle of the community park and a tree-lined street with neighbors who actually waved when they saw you coming … it was Pleasantville in every conceivable way.
As he took the pen, squinting away the glare to scrutinize the engraved homage to the “Top Producer” across the table, he chastised himself for his hesitance. If there was one thing that defined the walking neurosis that was Reginald Painter, it was the perplexing inability to make a decision. Asked to pick the movie on date night, he’d break out in a cold sweat between the “Romantic Comedy” and “Thriller” aisles. Given a choice of soup or salad, he was apt to order both. Why, the mere mention of “paper or plastic” had been known to reduce him to a catatonic state. Steeling his resolve, he hunted for the signature line with his trembling hand.
The air fled the sales office as the world around him slowed to a crawl. He felt as though he were breathing through one of Gabe’s twisty straws. Unable to scrawl his name and unable to pull his hand back, he stared at the ponding ink where the pen dug into the contract. The formerly amicable pair of watery, brown eyes across the table narrowed to predatory crescents – the flint of a looming sale sharpening the agent’s countenance to a wolfish blade. Reg’s mind eye foresaw a suddenly hirsute figure leaping upon the table between them to howl over its fresh kill.
Then the noise of the cavernous surroundings returned, louder than before, amplified by the preceding silence. The man across from him once again nothing more than a run of the mill sales associate, making him more or less human. The agent laughed in obvious discomfort.
“Earth to Reg,” the Realtor was saying. “You okay in there, boss?”
“Yeah, um, fine. I’m fine. Sorry,” Reggie responded.
He looked around to see if anyone else noticed the episode, his face hot with embarrassment. A manic middle-aged woman was loitering in the vicinity, but she was too busy prattling on about her recent kitchen remodel to pay him any mind.
Re-gripping the pen with a sense of determination, Reggie bent again to make his mark. It was time to move out of a self-imposed Purgatory and into the rest of his life. And his dream home.
Expecting a Herculean effort in deliberation, he was shocked to see his hand fly across the page, with flair no less. He’d done it!
Except he hadn’t. Seeing an indentation but no ink, he realized the pen was dead. He chuckled at the irony.
“Not a problem, not a problem,” the agent assured Reggie as he rifled through the pockets of his ill-fitting jacket, his broad shoulders testing the tensile strength of its burdened seams. “I have a spare here somewhere.”
Now it was the agent whose brow began to sweat. The momentary panic relented when he found what he was looking for inside a coat pocket.
“Your sword, my liege,” the agent intoned, bowing his head in mock reverence and extending the considerably less impressive Bic that was emblazoned with prescription drug branding.
When his joke was met with silence, he lifted his head.
Reggie was shuffling away in the direction of the television. He was missing a slipper.
“How’s business today, Mr. Landry?”
The agent looked in the direction of the new arrival’s voice.
“Brisk, sir. Brisk,” he assured his questioner. “I’m closing a sale right now.”
“Or I would be if you hadn’t gone and chased off my prospect,” he snorted as his eyes drifted back to the retreating figure.
Reggie had sauntered over to a cluster of unoccupied chairs on the far side of the recreation room, paralyzed into standing by the multiple seating options.
“The Vintage Square Development,” the newcomer asked.
Saul Landry eyed the interloper with suspicion before a wide smile spread across his face.
“Why yes, indeed … Vintage Square… marvel of modern architecture and the last place you will ever call home,” he segued. “You strike me as the family type, am I right?”
“You got me,” said the doctor, settling into the chair opposite his patient. His own face stared back at him from the identification badge on the breast pocket of his pilfered coat.
“Do you have any move-in ready specs,” the doctor asked, placing a tape recorder on the table and pressing ‘record’ as he welcomed the forthcoming sales pitch for the long-defunct housing project.
Now that the outside world stood at the brink of a recovery, the rehabilitation efforts for his charges at the Shady Acres Home For the Criminally Inequitable could begin in earnest.
Today’s was an important session.
“You’re in luck,” Saul answered, adjusting his non-existent tie. “Looks like one just opened up!”