Oh tempus! Oh mores!

I think that’s Latin. I did study this useful language in high school and even at university.

Roughly translated it means OI VEH!

WARNING: you may find this post long and boring. It’s therapy for me.

Saturday dawned bright but windy. We had decided not to show the house for a few days to get over the Vulgarians and to spruce it up a bit. But somehow a lovely Middle Eastern lady managed to cajole me on the phone and we said:  OK, already. You seem to be really really interested and you sound like such a nice lady that we will show it to you since you are in such a great hurry and just LOVE the neighbourhood.

My husband had a premonition that things would turn out badly.

I didn’t feel anything, just rushed through my check-list: bed made, no dishes in sink, loo acceptable, dogs outside.

At noon they arrived.

Immediately I was enchanted by their little boy. I used to teach kids that age. My Saturday morning ages 4-6 group. This little fellow was particularly bright and so well behaved. My Laachuk too fell in love with him.

So we all traipsed upstairs and back downstairs and outside and back inside.

Spying a corner of one of my painting, Middle Eastern man exclaimed I LOVE THAT PAINTING. Fleetingly I wondered what he could love about it since it was mostly covered up by other stuff but whatever. I felt he should see the whole thing. I uncovered the painting and yes yes he LOVES it. He tells us he’s an architect. Hmm… Wife holds toddler and asks intelligent questions. High energy all around. Things are reaching a climax.

Yes! ‘Architect’ makes an oral offer on the house and adds MY OFFER INCLUDES THE PAINTING. WE WILL DISPLAY IT IN A PROMINENT PLACE. He looks quite self satisfied. He knows he has flattered me. What he doesn’t know is that this is my MOST PRECIOUS painting, stored in the basement simply because it is too large for the drawing room.

A slight pause ensues. Casually the ‘architect’ comments on a family pictures: “Is that your grandfather?”

At that, filled with the milk of human kindness, I leap up off the settee and hand him a copy of PORTRAIT OF A LATVIAN  BEAUTY.

(Big mistake. For the life of me I can’t figure out why giving one of my books as a gift brings me bad luck.  But it does.)

Goodbyes are said. Family leaves after being told we’d call.

We counter offer. Via e-mail. Then wait.

Knowing that these folk were in such a tremendous hurry to see the house, we telephone. No answer. No cellphone? Don’t architects carry cellphones?  I mean after they make an offer. Don’t they want to know where things are at? Then it occurs to us. Maybe these folk are out making oral offers all over the place.

A few hours later lovely lady e-mails telling me that they had NOT (her emphasis) made an offer. Had they meant to make an offer they would have done so in writing. So there!

What!? Gasp!

I look up architect on google. He’s not.

“OK, give me back my book,” I demand. My feelings are really hurt.

“Sorry, book was gift,” comes the reply.

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?

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.