Yes, the house is beautiful, the garden ready to unfurl its glory. But there must be some sort of hex. We seem jinxed in our plan to sell the house on our own. The latest Vulgarian experience is turning ugly. I received a threatening e-mail from the male of the Vulgarian couple.
It’s early morning. Our home-made sign is now up.
What will today bring?
And tomorrow?
Digitalis, lilies and what have you. It was quite a job ripping out the scraggly brownish grass and planting a flower garden. But it was worth it.
Our puppy under the crabapple tree in our front garden. Can you believe that this fab property is now on the market? No Vulgarians please.
Good Friday we showed some nouveaux riche vulgarians from Calgary through our home and garden. From top to bottom. Every nook and cranny. Cupboards were opened, every inch inspected and my husband and I were both grilled about why we are selling, where we are going, where do we come from and who the hell are we.
“Are you Germans?” asks hyper overbearing female.
“No, we’re Latvian.”
“Duh?!”
Who are we indeed?
Very open guileless people. Ex-hippies. Yaw, we gotta toughen up.
Long story short: Vulgarians lowballed us and then were mad that we wasted their time.
Yaw, we definitely gotta toughen up.
Ages 6 to 8, sees the flowering of Child Art, according to Dr Viktor Lowenfeld.
Boring, boring, boring, Dr Lowenfeld, and I should know since this guy was a god in Art Education circles when I was a student ages ago both in time and in space.
Boring as this dry Austrian prof was, he did have a point.
My happiest professional years were spent with child artists—I can’t even say teaching since an adult can certainly not teach a child when it comes to art.
Today I saw two happy campers come into my home (ages 6 to 8 or thereabouts) and my old instinct of ‘hey-guys-just-pick-up-a-paint-brush’ was immediately re-activated.
A happy flashback to my past.
Our realtor-induced stress has lifted. The weather is phenomenal.
Hard to believe that it’s already summer. Still, this could well be Nature’s own April Fool’s joke.
Who knows? Monday it might snow.
The other day I had this ‘aha’ moment. Oprah calls it… well… she simply calls it the ‘aha’ moment. I guess it’s sort of a gotcha moment, a moment of truth or, as the English call it, when the penny drops.
My ‘aha’ moment came in bed, drinking my morning Earl Gray tea with lemon and honey and leafing through Scragsville’s morning edition of News. My eyes widened coming across an article headlined: ‘Pretty Woman’.
Seems a doting old gent had fallen for a pretty hooker, had attempted to rehabilitate her by paying to have her become a Real Estate Agent. The lovely lady did in fact become a Real Estate Agent but it was found that she was still turning tricks on the side.
The old gent is now suing to get his money back.
What does that tell me? It tells me that my take on these gals was bang on and a fitting closing/closure to my realtor misadventure.
Now it’s time to celebrate rebirth in my own little patch. Crocuses are up, lilacs have buds, and the sturdy iris are boasting juicy green stalks.
