Trout for Dinner

Yep, that's me and two rainbow trout at Bennett Spring State Park on Monday, March 16. What?! How can you say I'm posing with someone else's fish? I caught those babies myself. In fact, I was the only one of our party of four who caught anything--and not just one trout but two. Don't they look yummy?
You may think I'm some sort of skilled fisherperson, but you'd be wrong. These two unfortunate fishies just happened to have bit my baited hook. It's great to feel that tug on the rod, followed by me yelling, Jerry help me! I love Bennett Spring, the glass-clear water, the 1930s dining lodge, the park store (where I bought a Brighton knock-off watch for $9.95 last year). To some people it's surprising that I like to fish. I'm sure surprising is not the word used by certain fishermen at the park, all decked out in their vests and waders and hats, using fancy rods and reels and gourmet bait, when they see an amateur, improperly dressed female, using a $19.95 rod, reel in two trout. The pictured fish are now headless and frozen. I hope to catch a few more soon for a smoked-trout dinner.

The Strange Days of Selling Real Estate

When Jerry and I bought our house five years ago, I got the bright idea that selling real estate might be a good way to make some extra money. After all, the agents didn't seem to have to work too hard; Jerry actually did most of the follow-up telephoning and negotiating. So I took realtor classes at a Holiday Inn at the Lake of the Ozarks for two weeks, from a teacher who I assume had told the same corn-pone jokes for 100 years. He brought his cute little hound dog puppies to class in a box a couple of times, as well as a sample of an air purifying machine he sold on the side.

I passed the exam, paid about $1000 in license fees and joined a discount real estate company in Jefferson City. My broker was not very popular in the real estate world of JC and in fact had a real inferiority complex about it for which she compensated with a superior attitude. But it was the hey-day of the real estate bubble, even in Jefferson City, and our little renegade brokerage was doing pretty well.

I was quite nervous about my first transaction involving a nice but odd couple. He was in IT at an area university and had one of those Amish-type beards where you don't shave anything, just let it grow like a mane all around your head. She was a former teacher who had no control over her two children. Happily we didn't have to look at too many houses before they found one they liked. It had some sewer problems, nothing major, and the closing went smoothly. I got a nice commission check and thought, that wasn't so bad.

But several subsequent transactions didn't go so smoothly. A guy pulled up to the office in a very expensive Mercedes and wanted to see a condo. You'd think someone who drove a car like that would be legit but no. He said he was a former ski instructor but I wasn't clear what he was actually doing now. He was working with a nice mortgage lender but had yet to be approved. Still, he made on offer on a beautiful condo which the sellers accepted. Time went by and still there was no loan approval. The desperate sellers and their increasingly frantic agent called me constantly. Of course within a few weeks the guy's Mercedes was repossessed and someone saw his stuff piled upon on the sidewalk outside his apartment building. We came to learn his deposit check had bounced--but the bank failed to notify anyone. In the meantime the seller lost a qualified buyer. I learned a big lesson: don't work with incoherent idiots.

An older couple was interested in buying a house in the countryside outside Jefferson City. While I was showing the place to the couple, their daughter and toddler grandson, the woman mentioned a news story she heard that day about the tragic death of a baby whose crib was near a window with blinds and the poor thing strangled in the cords. Just then her grandson wandered near the blinds in the house we were touring and the woman freaked out and screamed, Move him away from there! as if he'd suddenly whip up a little noose and hang himself on the spot.

Another buyer was a guy who was the manager of a fast-food restaurant. I never was sure if the woman and baby he lived with were his wife and daughter. They found a nice house and we wrote up the contract. There were a few pieces of drywall in the garage that the owner intended to use to finish the lower level but hadn't gotten around to it yet. I put in the contract that the sale was to include the drywall for finishing the lower level. The buyer, however, took that to mean the seller should provide all the drywall to finish the project, about $300 worth. This creep called me constantly, asking, What about my drywall. The seller finally--reluctantly and angrily--provided all the drywall and the sale closed. I remember feeling sorry for the woman and baby and wishing I could tell her, Run as far and as fast as you can from this putz.

I had a seller whose wife had died and who imagined the Mafia was after him (in Jefferson City?!). He wanted to get rid of his condo as fast as possible so we listed it for a ridiculously low price. A woman brought over her mother who walked in the door, took a look around, and said, "I am home!" and offered an even lower price than the owner was asking. But he took it. I think that was my easiest sale.

I showed a very cool home to a man and his very annoying, name-dropping wife. I thought she must be some bigshot lawyer or corporate executive with her superior attitude. I felt better when I found out she was "in marketing" for a local car dealership. The home owner was an even bigger name-dropper. She had baked cookies (you know, for that enticing Martha Stewart fresh-baked aroma) and showed no signs of leaving so I could show her house. In fact she led the showing herself. I might as well have disappeared as the two women tried to impress each other with their accomplishments and connections. The seller did confess to me her hot tub had saved her marriage (until she moved to New Mexico a few months later).

A very nice military man had to find a house fast. His fiancee, who was buying the house, was moving to town soon. We found a beautiful home in a nice area, sent pictures and she said Great. She got a loan and everything was going smoothly until the inspection. There was evidence of termites. Traditionally the buyer pays for the termite inspection and treatment but this chick refused to spend the $300. The seller's agent said the seller was already "giving the house away" and didn't have an extra cent. Neither party would budge. Finally I called the buyer and told her she would lose the house and her patient fiance did not want to start over again over $300. She reconsidered and we closed. Six months later I got a call from my broker (I had left by then) that I still owed $300 for the termite treatment; the buyer said I had told her I would pay for it. I said, No I never told her that and anyway the deal closed so leave me alone. Then a notice to pick up a certified letter, sent by my broker, showed up. I told a friend about it and he said, Don't pick it up. Hmmm, I had never thought of that--I thought you were obligated to get those. Another little card came about a second certified letter which I also ignored. I haven't heard another word about it.

My favorite buyers were a lovely Vietnamese girl, her cute hip hop African American boyfriend and their gorgeous baby girl. After a couple of heartbreaks over homes that needed too much work, they finally found a cozy place with a one-acre yard. They were so happy and excited. I always wondered what the middle-aged white neighbors thought.

My farewell to real estate was finding a house for a volatile alcoholic who every Friday would drive four hours to a cabin in southern Missouri in order to drink all weekend, then come back Sunday night. He made a decent offer on a nice older house that was part of an estate but the kids rejected it, holding out for more money. The buyer found another house that needed a lot of work. He moved out of his apartment (not very smart) and fortunately the home owners let him move in and pay rent. He paid for an inspection that revealed problems that would cost more to repair than the sellers wanted to pay. So he had to move out. He told me he lived in his car which didn't surprise me. A couple of months later I got a call from the agent of the sellers of estate house. Was my buyer still interested in their mother's house? It had a new price--exactly what my buyer had originally offered. So we wrote another contract just like the first one, waited a few more weeks for the out-of-town lender to bless the sale and finally closed.

My real estate career lasted about two years. I made a few bucks but looking back I don't think I was very good at it. I wasn't aggressive (hungry/desperate) enough. I was reluctant to insult a home-seller who thought her hideously decorated house looked fabulous. I was stunned by the viciousness of the barracuda-like older female agents who had been selling real estate for decades. I hated wasting beautiful weekend afternoons showing ugly houses to losers. So I was glad when I got an offer to write a beauty catalog. I picked up my final commission check, told my broker adios, packed up my office in about 15 minutes and kissed real estate goodbye.

P.S. One valuable thing I learned from the experience was that you don't really need a real estate agent when you are buying or selling a house. The main service an agent offers is showing your property if you're selling. If you're buying, you can find your own properties online. The paperwork isn't that complicated; the lender can help you with it. So save a few bucks and do it yourself.

The Curse of Eternal Revenge

Someone is causing trouble for somebody near and dear to me so I offered to invoke the Curse of Eternal Revenge. It all began many years ago when Bruce Springsteen came to St. Louis to perform at the long-gone Arena. My roommate Eileen and I were intense fans. Eileen worked in the newsroom at a local TV station. A colleague of hers had a friend of a friend etc etc who could take him and Eileen backstage after the show to meet The Boss. We both assumed I'd tag along, too--surely Bruce would not object to meeting another cute young thang. The big night came and after the show we met up with Eileen's colleague at the assigned rendezvous, a lonely stairwell deep in the bowels of the Arena. We both started to follow him and he said, Wait--only Eileen can come. We both said, What?! What's the difference? He said, I told them I'd bring one person and I don't feel right bringing two. Again we both said, What?! But he was insistent with that kind of attitude only a real asshole possesses. Eileen said she wouldn't go and I said, Don't be insane, go meet The Boss! I put on a happy face but I was enraged. As Eileen disappeared down the stairs with her colleague and as I sat alone on a step somewhere in the Arena for about 20 minutes, the Curse of Eternal Revenge was born. Over time I got over my anger and forgot about the whole episode until a few years later. Eileen's colleague was diagnosed with a horrible disease and had to quit his job. Today he is confined to a wheelchair.
I realized the Curse of Eternal Revenge may have some heavy mojo after another situation really pissed me off. I was rushing back to my downtown St. Louis office around lunchtime and decided to stop at a little deli on Market Street for a carry-out. The place was mobbed and I didn't really have time to study the menu board so I just ordered a chef's salad, figuring that's a safe choice. I paid $6 or $7 and was handed a smallish plastic container with iceberg lettuce, some carrot and cheese shreds and a sorry looking tomato. I said, Wait there must be a mistake, this isn't a chef's salad. The cashier said, Yes it is. I said, I changed my mind. He said, you already paid for it and you're holding up the line. I could tell I was getting the evil eye from everyone behind me so I left. I was so angry when I got to the office I immediately banged out a letter to the manager telling him about his rip-off salad and rude cashier. A few weeks later I realized I had not received an apology or a coupon or anything from the deli. Time to invoke the Curse. I think it was a couple of years later I saw on the news that the deli had been shut down due to a hepatitis outbreak. Several customers were sick and one was in intensive care. He eventually died.
Not long after that I briefly worked for a small advertising agency whose owner was a crook and a liar. He was the type of person who used office postage to send thank-you notes for wedding gifts. Three of us who worked for him bought a lovely orange tree (fertility and all that) for him and his bride (whom he impregnated in the back of a car and lied about the due date to try to qualify for health insurance; it didn't work). Later he asked my co-worker, What kind of cheapass wedding gift is that, a tree? Once he opened a sealed envelope to substitute his name for the art director's on a contest application (which we won and the art director got the credit she deserved; the asshole never said a word about it). I could go on and on but you get the idea. One day I hit my limit and quit but not before invoking the Curse of Eternal Revenge just on general principal. I'm sorry to say this loser's baby was born with a heart defect and had to undergo several surgeries (happily he was okay except for having to endure that idiot as a father).
More recently I worked for a state agency whose upper management was a group of morons. The head of my department was a tall woman who was completely in over her head. She spoke in a whisper and polished her nails during meetings, which she frequently called without warning and which made everyone shiver and shake and hyperventilate. I have to admit she intimidated me at first, until one day she wore short sleeves and I got a look at her hairy man arms. That cured me. Two of her underlings, devout Christian mid-Missouri men in their 30s, shared a cubicle and giggled together all day. One of them was my boss who I just couldn't connect with. He was very critical of my work which was unjustified and frankly, something I wasn't used to. His complaints consisted of nitpicky crap, such as something wasn't strict AP style (although it flowed better) or this should be a comma, not a semi-colon--basically stupid power-tripping BS. I despised him and after one ridiculous meeting over some nonsense I just had to invoke the Curse. Soon after, I was finishing up a project and stayed at work later than usual. I needed something from the office complex across the hall where this guy worked. I was stunned to see his half of the cubicle was empty, although he had been there earlier in the day. I asked a colleague who was working late what was going on. She said he had been escorted off the property that afternoon. To this day no one knows exactly why, but the rumor was he had been surfing porno sites at work.
There's still an active Curse of Eternal Revenge out there. It was invoked against a former colleague who had the capacity to approve advertising in a newspaper I published for a while, which would have been a big help, but for whatever reason she never did. Occasionally I Google her to see if she's alive or dead or whatever. I don't like to waste my Curses and have that mojo floating around aimlessly.

UPDATE 5/10/09: Regarding the final curse, it is still active. The curse-ee is alive and working in a major Midwestern town. I could cancel the curse against her but I don't care to. And so we wait...

More Time To Waste

Lately I've noticed I have more time. I'm not doing anything particularly special or useful with it but it's strange and wonderful to have it. I can actually allow myself to relax a little more and watch a movie or wander around outside. This extra time is the result of two losses and one gain. I used to drive two hours to St. Louis every other Tuesday to take my mom to the beauty shop. She had her hair done by Sandy for nearly 40 years (mom was 81 when she died last September). Eleanor had a few wisps of her own hair, the result of relentlessly teasing it throughout the 1970s. I marveled at Sandy's ability to weave a little hairpiece into my mom's sad strands and create a huge bouffant crown of hair. At first I resented those Tuesday command performances but soon I got used to the routine and appreciated being able to schedule appointments, see friends and go shopping. Besides the Tuesdays I was busy with mom's frequent doctor appointments and hospital stays and of course trips to Dierberg's to keep her pantry and refrigerator stocked.
Another loss was my dachshund Frankie, my "special needs" dog who was 99 percent blind and diabetic, which required two daily insulin shots. Somehow Frankie got himself into a routine in which he was served his breakfast at 2 a.m. Most of the time Jerry got up with him but I did my share. We couldn't toss Frankie outside on his own because of his blindness--he occasionally ended up in the pond and once disappeared into the woods for several hours (miraculously Jerry found him sleeping under a tree). Despite his conditions he was fairly self-sufficient but still needed a lot of looking-after. It all caught up with him last August, just before his 14th birthday.
The gain is the election of President Barack Obama. During the campaign I admit I was addicted to political blogs and spent way too much time devouring them. I'd get outraged over Republican nonsense about every 15 minutes. It was very tiring but compelling and I could not stop. Now I visit a few blogs but it's nothing like before. Obama won and even though I don't and won't like everything he does, in most ways I can relax.
Eleanor, Frankie and Barack Obama--thank you for the time. I'll try not to waste too much of it.

Spring IS Here

Today it is confirmed: Spring is here. Here's how I know. First, as I as walking to the parking garage after work, I heard birds chattering noisily. Looking up, I saw two tiny birds, one whose beak was stuffed with sticks and leaf stems twice as long as its little self, apparently building a nest in a utility box with wires coming out of it, near the top of a building in the alley. The closest tree, surrounded by a little patch of dried grass, is about 100 feet away on the street. Think about the force of Nature that compels those birds to make that 200-foot round trip dozens or hundreds of times until the nest is just right. How do they know when it's completed? What if it storms or snows in the next few weeks? I'm glad to know they will be there and I'll try to get some photos.
Second, the tree frogs were vociferating loudly as the sun set tonight--always a sure sign that winter is over, or almost.

It's My Birthday

Today is my birthday--the traditional time to reflect. I'm feeling a little pressured because a friend is coming over later and the house looks like it has been hit by a tornado--so does Abigail the sheepdog. What I really want to do is grab my camera and get into the woods and take a few pictures of things I saw out there a few days ago--curious rock formations, trees with secret openings, green things starting to pop out of the ground. Maybe in a while I'll take Abigail (and my camera) for a walk, THEN clean her up for company.

Turning 57 is just wierd. It's my first birthday without a mushy birthday card To My Daughter from my mom, carefully selected by her from a big box of all-occasion cards I found in a drawer. She'd want to take me to lunch in St. Louis and charge it on one of her way-too-many credit cards that I wish she had told me about (the pay-up-or-else letters from her creditors have finally stopped coming). Jerry baked a chocolate cake for me, from scratch, and after we go out to dinner at the new round restaurant at the top of the Doubletree Hotel (my choice), we'll come home and light candles and sing Happy Birthday to me. I'm looking forward to it!

Obviously I'm staying home from work today and wishing I could do it more often. I have Classic Soul music on and I'm singing along. There's really nothing to complain about--and I'm not. Except, I guess, I don't like how fast time goes and how hard it is to grab it. I have a lot of memories, and on the other side of that, a lot to look forward to. But how in the world could I be 57 years old?! I feel the same way I've felt for many years. Of course, I don't see that fresh face in the mirror any more. And I do move a little slower. And if I have to get down on my knees or on the floor (to look for something or put something away), it's really, really hard to get up again.

A Troubling Dream

Do dreams have meaning? If you think they do, tell me about a troubling dream I had a few nights ago. It lasted about five seconds but was so intense it woke me up. In the dream it was totally dark and I was hurtling down through the sky toward the sea. I don't know if I jumped or fell from a plane, or from a ledge, but I knew it was the end and there was nothing I could do about it. I was very mad and distressed--mostly mad. I didn't want this to be happening but I couldn't stop it. I woke up before I hit the water.

I still can recall the feelings of this dream, how upset and helpless I felt. What could it mean? I looked around my life to find some clues. This seems like it must be a classic dream that people have been dreaming for centuries. But how does it apply to me?

The End of ... Something

"If we got a few good licks in
no one's ever gonna know
cause we're going out of business
everything must go."
--Steely Dan

Today the recession caught up with me in the form of the news that a tabloid I wrote for ceased publication. It was a monthly newspaper for and about retirees in Central Missouri--not the most exciting stuff but enough to create a respectable paper. It seemed to have plenty of advertising from nursing homes, medical groups, insurance agencies, home health providers and hearing aid companies.

I wrote about antiques in a column called Then & Again that discussed what something had been used for and its current collectible value. It was an easy $60. In fact, every month when the check would arrive I'd be surprised and glad all over again and take the family out for Chinese.

I'm proud to say in the three-plus years I wrote the column I never covered the same subject twice. My last one was about wrist watches and along the way I also wrote about dog collectibles, Santa Claus stuff, vintage furs, wedding gowns, movie posters, bicycles, road maps, rock band t-shirts, table cloths, sewing patterns, campaign collectibles and much more.

When she sent her farewell email, the editor told me Then & Again had been one of the most popular features in the newspaper. To me that's simply amazing because during the entire time I wrote it, I never heard a single comment from anyone, ever. Not once. Never. So it's the end of something, but apparently nothing anyone will miss. (And unfortunately it's not preserved online.)