Many years ago, one of my closest friends asked me to list his home. Naturally, I went all in: professional photos, marketing, and a perfectly staged home that would’ve made Selling Sunset jealous. Three weeks later—house under contract. Everything was sailing smoother than a yacht off the Amalfi Coast… until the dreaded inspection day.
Now, if you’re in real estate, you know there are good inspectors, bad inspectors… and then there’s that inspector. I won’t say names (don’t even try to guess in the comments!), but if you’ve been in the biz long enough, you’re already clenching your jaw.
First red flag: he showed up 30 minutes late with a whole entourage like he was filming an episode of CSI: Home Edition. Five cars. At least three dudes. One clipboard. And a whole lot of chaos.
They kicked things off with a shower pan test, which basically involves plugging the drain and running the water to check for leaks. Classic. I stepped into the backyard to take a quick phone call, thinking everything was fine. When I came back in, I stepped into what can only be described as Lake Real Estate Regret. Water had overflowed from the shower, flooding the hardwood floors. Not a drip. Not a puddle. A full-blown water feature in the living room.
I panicked and sprinted to the source while they stood there like deer in headlights. I raced to buy towels. When I got back—oh, it gets worse—they had used all of my friend’s towels to soak up the mess. Not Walmart towels. These were $300 Italian towels. Imported. Fancy. Soft enough to dry tears caused by bad commissions. Most of them? Ruined.
Then, without consulting me, they tore up the carpet and padding in the hallway. I walked in just in time to see one of them dragging the soaked carpet over his shoulder through the garage. Before I could scream “STOP!”, the back end of the rolled carpet slammed onto the hood of my friend’s BRAND. NEW. RED. Ferrari 360 Modena. And then, as if auditioning for Cirque du Soaked, he DRAGGED it across the entire hood.
You could practically hear my soul leave my body.
I lost it. Politely, of course… in the way that only a Realtor suppressing a total meltdown can. I told them to leave immediately and informed them they’d be covering everything. Towels. Carpet. Floor repairs. Therapy. The whole package.
The Ferrari? Miraculously, after a professional detail, not a single scratch. (Praise be to the car gods.) I made the inspector sign off that they’d also cover the floors if they buckled. They did pay. (Miracles do happen.)
But wait—there’s more!
The inspection report comes in: house needs a new roof. No biggie—we had a new one installed on Monday. But Mother Nature wasn’t done with me. Tuesday, it hailed like the end times and totaled the new roof. So what did we do? We installed another new roof and closed that Friday.
Two roofs. One week. One traumatized Realtor. Zero scratches on a Ferrari.
Looking back, it was a disaster wrapped in a flood wrapped in Italian towel carnage. But somehow, we made it through. The house sold. My client is still one of my best friends, and yes—he’s still an amazing chiropractor who keeps my spine in line after real estate tries to break me.
Moral of the story?
If you survive real estate long enough, you’ll have war stories. Some involve champagne. Some involve water damage and Italian textiles. But every now and then, despite the madness, it all works out. Just maybe keep the Ferrari parked somewhere else on inspection day.
Wyatt Poindexter - The Agency Oklahoma
