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?

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.

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