That’s right.

I’ve been approached by a headhunter for Graydon Carter.

It’s about doing a piece in a major USA publication about my real estate experience.

I’m absolutely over the moon.

I’ve moved on.

No longer am I obsessed about what this realtor or that realtor thought about my little dream house.

With a bit of soft spring rain, the lilacs will be ready to burst into bloom. Already, timid little green ears appear on scraggly branches, (yes, there’s that word again) and the tall skinny crabapple tree in the back yard is stirring with fresh greenery. The one in the front garden is waiting a bit; early May is its season of splendour.

Will I still be here to see this wonder?

I mean, I’m not going to die or anything, but will my dream house be sold by then?

Who knows.

Right now I focus on beauty. Soon there will be clusters of Siberian iris and Oriental poppies and lush peonies creating a Monet-like garden that any artist would love to paint — not to speak of the fragrant lily-of-the-valley, the violets, the primrose, and daffodils, tulips and various other little buds whose names escape me at the moment.

A bit later will come the clematis and the bushy roses. Then, of course, the fall flowers.

But that is such a long way away.

I bought this property seven years ago from Judy Faulkner because I loved the garden. Judy did make a brief visit on Saturday but has declined my invitation to say hi. She’s very successful and very attractive with her pale algemarine outfit and calling card matching her pretty blue eyes. Apparently she’s too big to acknowledge a Scragsville seller already (even though this is her area, by all accounts).

Thinking back: I did call Judy seven years ago to check on a moving-in date. No response. She had bagged her 5%.

 End of story.

I suppose I shouldn’t say much about this.

It’s still a STIGMA.

Tsk… What’s wrong with me? Well, nothing. So I’ll just go right ahead and say it: There comes a time when even the most well-adjusted, balanced and rational among us needs a…er…well… Well, a Mental Health Day – or three. Experts tell us that one in 5 Canadians will suffer a clinical depression in the next few years. Easy does it, right?

So, now I have time to enjoy the many friendly faces depicted on the calling cards left on my kitchen counter or my living room coffee table.

The men are absolutely divine. The smiles immaculate. The women too. To be honest I have to think these folk have regular modeling jobs during the week and do bits of real estate on weekends. Or maybe the other way around.

To some sellers it could be reassuring that gorgeous people undertake to negotiate the perils of buying and selling one’s most precious possession.  I myself am not so sure about that.

The Falconer’s (not real name) female agents are so stunning that I don’t know if I can trust them. Maybe cause I’m secretly jealous and intimidated by their fresh young beauty and stylish high boots.

My position has to be: Give me an ordinary matron any day.

But do they even exist?

Dashing through the dust and grime of a neglected interior to make it presentable for the buying public has left me exhausted and bitchy. All winter long I’ve lolled around in my PJ s and bunny slippers, writing a bit, reading true crime books and sipping Santa Carolina.

(Already my husband hates this blog. It sounds as if I’m making him an accomplice in this crime of house neglect.)

(Heck, I wonder if Alvaro’s available…)

Anyway, the very first buyer who came through the door, a burly developer, made an offer. Bob Watzit was excited. I could read the balloon over his head: Hey, I haven’t lifted a finger and I’m about to make 20K.

Whoa!

I’m thinking the asking price must be too low. Here’s a guy ready to bulldoze down my dream house and put up a McMansion and still make money.

One thought leads to another. Not only do I not counter-offer Mr Burly Developer’s respectable offer but I reject it outright. Then I raise the asking price.

“Cool move,” my husband says. “We’ll be needing a bit of cash once we get to wherever we’re going.”

“(Expletive) her!” is the feedback I get from Bob Whatzit. Now both Bob and Burly Developer hate me.

 Still, the thing is that George and I have to vamoose at a moments notice. Leave the house immaculate, pack up our two monstrous canines and go sit on a park bench till the  realtor’s allotted time is up. Brr… It’s cold today.

And these damn realtors don’t always turn up. They’re way too important to phone and cancel.

Earlier today, this incredible luxury car (Mercedes  upwards 60K) drove up with a George Hamilton look-alike behind the wheel. He was bringing two red-necky females (smokers) to view my dream house.

We got out of the way, drove around a bit to give them time to talk about my house behind my back. Quick in and out. We came back early and they were gone.

 Events conspire, people conspire…

Last night Bob Whatzit invited himself over for a glass of wine. Why? You tell me.

The long and the short of it is that today I finally fired Bob Whatzit.

I think he’s glad to go.

Tomorrow is another day.

Scragsville has many hills and valleys.

My own little home happens to be perched high atop a hill. In fact, right smack dab on Mount Pleasant, currently the most desirable neighbourhood in Greater Scragsville.

You may think I’m a hibberty-jibberty sort of seller.

First, I want to do it on my own. Then, I get fixated on a fellow who happened to buy some of my books. Then,  next thing you know, I’m challenging realtor (and buyer of my books), Bob Whatzit, on the value of my home.

Here’s the thing. The other night, I had tea candles glowing in lanterns which swayed gently in my soon- to-flower crabapple tree in front of my house. I’m on my stoop, taking in the magic, when along comes a vision.

“Oh my God!,” I shout to my husband. “There’s this god of a guy dragged towards the front step by Francis.”

Francis! Who’s Francis?

(I had already met Francis some years before. Ever since he was a puppy, the pure white Golden Retriever of a dog would strain on his master’s leash to gain access to my little front garden and to the scent of my two monstrous canines. To my surprise, Francis didn’t seem to mind the little lessons in discipline meted out by my two brutes. In fact, he loved it.)

Now back to the other night.

At the end of the leash, holding Francis, is Alvaro. Mon Dieu! Seigneur! Alvaro is very tall, very handsome, very nice and very rich.

“You foolish lady,” he says to me in his lilting Columbian accent. My knees are weak. Even my husband finds this guy to die for.

Long story short, I get back to Bob Whatzit to raise the price of my little house. Alvaro likes my house. That’s enough for me.

‘And now, the end is near and so…’

I’m a Sinatra fan. I sang MY WAY in a karaoke bar in Kyoto, Japan and was surprised that nobody booed me off the stage.

But seriously.

Yesterday we went to the hardware store and purchased a HOUSE FOR SALE BY OWNER sign.  

When the sign was up it was hanging from our lamppost but I was quite shocked to see that George had used one of my paintings as a backing. Still, I have to say it looks quite good, actually. I’m seeing my work from a brand new perspective.

And now we wait. Look out the window. See who stops to write down our e-mail address. Of course it’s March Break. Everyone is away.

The next morning we respond to a few e-mails. Pretty feeble stuff. Folks figured that we’d be giving our house away because we didn’t know any better.

Do we?

Umm…

A fellow comes to mind.

Some years ago I held a book launch party at this very house and a strange little character turned up. A strange wonderful character, I should say. Accepting a glass of wine from me he said, “I’d like to buy every book you’ve written.”

What a way to impress an author!

Then, through neighbourhood chitchat I learned that this same fellow, Bob Whatzit (not his real name), is a real estate agent.   

Long story short, we are no longer alone in this perilous real estate journey.

“Your house is just meat on the hook for me,” Bob says at our meeting at which I am to sign on. “And it’s in pretty bad shape.”

“(expletive),” I reply with as much dignity as I can summon.

How will all this turn out? Will we ever be able to leave Scragsville?

Perhaps the time has come to get serious. At least for a very brief while.

As I’m writing this blog I’m shaking my head, astounded by what I can only call a very bizarre co-incidence.

From time to time people ask: How come you don’t paint anymore?

So, on March 11 I started to blog an answer (under category ART). I titled this blog ON NOT BEING ABLE TO PAINT ANY MORE.

This blog (and particularly the comments) was supposed to be a bit of a spoof of ON NOT BEING ABLE TO PAINT by Joanna Field (with a forward by Anna Freud.)

Many years ago a relative had given me this book. I leafed through it then but just didn’t “get it”. I’ve always called this type of writing ‘mind-fucking’. This one book in particular goes into the orgiastic feelings one has (should have?) during creation and such– well, I’ll say, crap.

Then, today March 14, I read an article in one of our local newspapers about the chaplain of the Royal Ottawa Mental Health Centre who is also an assistant professor of psychiatry at the University of Ottawa.

This chaplain cites the writings of Marion Milner as a great influence on her own work. Marion Milner is held up as a mentor and as a giant of early psychology.

I took another look at the book ON NOT BEING ABLE TO PAINT by Joanna Field. And what do I learn? Joanna Field is the PSEUDONYM for Marion Milner!

The proximity in time of these two separate streams of thought: one, mine on my blog and two, the article which appeared in today’s newspaper, gives me pause.

What do you think?

The weather has been fab here in Scragsville. I wish I had planted tulips last fall but my husband and I were so sure we’d be in Maine by now. So I didn’t bother.

What’s the latest?

Monday George drove to Montreal to take his Deutschkenntnisse (don’t you love the way German has those long long words?) B2. He parked our seen-better-days Volvo in front of the Goethe Institut, right behind a Maserati (starting price $118,000). Then he took a few minutes sipping coffee from the thermos and listening to the inspirational tape I had made for him: “Believe in yourself. Believe in your dreams. You can ace it. Believe. Believe. Believe…”

And, what do you know? A few hours later I get a phone call. The exam went well!

Get out the party hats and put the champagne on ice!

But then…

Yes, the very next day our plans go south. The Chef Arst, Her Direktor of the hospital which George had applied to is not quite sure. Maybe he’ll be in touch.

What happened?

I know what happened and I know what it is.

It’s the thing that must not be named. I feel disloyal even thinking it. But then, it could remain our own little secret if no one tells.  OK?

So, here goes: George is OLD. Yes. Old. But still younger than I, so how am I supposed to feel?

To be truthful, at this very moment, I feel good. Not only because of the Santa Carolina red but because I still have unfinished business here in Scragsville. If I told you what business that was your teeth would fall out and your hair would turn white. And I’d have to kill you.

Stay tuned.

Forward by Anna Freud:

“Certain inhibitions to create are ascribed to a fear of regression to an undifferentiated state in which boundaries between id and ego become blurred and one cannot symbolize the individual’s pregenital and genital orgiastic experiences…………………….”

Had enough?

As for me:  orgiastic experiences I’ve had a few but then again too few to mention…

 So how come I’m not painting any more?

1. Hard to lift a glass of Chilean red and paint with the other hand.
2. Too expensive. To be taken seriously I’d have to pay a fortune to get a painting framed, pay a gallery 45% and never see the painting again. That is, if I’m lucky. If not, I’d have to get shnockered on my celebratory wine, wolf down some cheese and crackers and look pathetic.
3. Can’t you paint for your own pleasure?

              No.      

 So now I’m not even writing books any more. Just blogging. It’s cheaper and can be done with a glass of wine at hand.

Today I wrote a letter to the Editor of Scragsville’s most prominent rag.

Here it is.

 I am shocked by the dismal prose of part-time creative writing teacher Nancy Lauzon in the article: “Canada’s female humour short.” 

Ms Lauzon states that she drones away as she is lecturing.  “With half a Prozac and a double scotch…”

Clearly this is Ms Lauzon’s attempt at humour.

But why at the expense of people who are suffering from clinical depression?

Would she say, “Hey, I need a shot of Tamoxiphen. These students give me breast cancer.”

 My letter will not be published.

Why?

For once I’m at a loss for words.