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.

After any trauma (realtor-induced)(see category: travel) I go back to my first loves. There are many. Ballet was my first passion but I grew too tall. That was before the days of Karen Kain and other long-limbed dancers. In my days you had to be petite– which I never was.

Then painting.

And only much much later, writing.

“Put all this stuff away,” realtor Max instructed me. He meant my paintings, my family photos, my books. I felt stripped naked. Never mind. A STAGER would tell me what to replace my treasures with. I can roll up my Persian and rent nice furniture.  

I still feel queasy about the whole misadventure. My husband feels totally washed out, demoralized. But see, that’s the point: Realtors make you feel so unworthy that you’re glad to grab at anything to restore a bit of your humanity.

“They’re not coming back,” I tell my husband. “I won’t let them in the house.”

Still, my dream house on the hill is up for sale. By us. No intermediaries. Take us as you find us.

I got eighteen e-mails from Realtor Max today.

Maybe he’s not even a realtor. I mean, just anybody can say they’re a realtor and walk into your home, right?

I’ve nothing cute or funny to say right now. I’m scared.

Yes, I’m still trying to sell my house, but now the gloves are off.

I’ve been so busy with Ann Coulter that I’ve almost forgotten my house and realtor Max, my most recent sweet-talking bed-wetter.

Ann sure knows how to call a spade a spade.

The foxy lady walked away with $10,000 without even turning up to deliver her talk. 

Hey, a realtor could almost do that. Make $10,000. But he or she would have to turn up.

Not do much, mind you. Get on the computer, click on MLS. Presto! No sign to put up. Nothing. It’s all MLS.

Moment!

A real estate agent can make twice $10,000 if it’s exclusive.

Ann probably had to pay air fare and hotel but the agent just ‘comes over’.

We noticed Max was driving a glossy jet-black extended-cab pickup (upwards $40,000).

To misquote Ann Coulter:

“Scragsville: Indian for ‘Land of Bed-Wetters.'”

Charmed or snowed? That is the question.

Yes, I suppose I still sort of like Realtor Max. Still, having slept on his spiel, the charm has dissipated but the words linger on.

He wants to bring in a STAGER.

Giving a cursory sweep of his hand, he asked: “You do all this?”

“Yes, those are my paintings,” I replied, somewhat taken aback. Now I know the guy’s not a connoisseur but, until now, my work has been admired and valued. From past exhibitions I’ve kept a few paintings particularly meaningful to me, all in costly frames.

“Well, this is OK,” Max continued blithely, shrugging at my Sunflower “But…” he trailed off, glancing at a large painting (actually unfinished) above the mantle. I like to live with a piece, see what it tells me. For now it tells me leave me alone.

Then we get to ‘clutter’ (Max’s word).

In an heirloom silver frame I have photos of my family—black and white, some circa 1918.

They should be gone.