Continuation of "Trying To Buy A House"

First of all, I must make a small edit to the first chapter of this story where, based on my experience as a tenant, I implied that good landlords were few and far between in Peterborough. I neglected to mention my wonderful friend, Rita Wilke, who has been over-the-top kind and generous - helping out whenever I was about to sink. Thank you!

Now, on with the story. Those of you who know me would likely describe me as tenacious and creative - two words that banks' mortgage departments don't have in their vocabulary. As I aged, I forgot about those tools that were rusting in the bottom of my personality basket. After giving up on buying a house due to a lack of interest in financing me by bankers and private brokers,  out of the blue and after we had given up, my wonderful RE agent called me. 

"Still interested in that house? Cause I have an idea." 

For the next two weeks, we danced the expressive dance of disappointment - the same ol' repetitive dance one does with people who just can't quite catch and move on the beat. Fortunately, she knew she was dealing with someone who would never stop dancing until the last instrument was packed up. 

But the last drum no longer fit its box and the other instruments began to burst out of theirs and they all began playing the sweet melody of a private mortgage at a good rate. 

I pushed for a 2-week closing and moved on that day - pouring wine for my friends in my kitchen, having a bath in my tub, sleeping in my new bedroom and waking up to a fresh snowfall clinging to my trees.

Oh, I forgot to mention that two days after the offer was sealed, I had signed leases for the upstairs and downstairs apartments. I rented the upper because I had previously booked tickets to Mexico for the winter. I mention this just to emphasize the point that square pegs usually are much more clever than round ones. 

Trying To Buy A Frickin’ House in Ontario These Days

I have always owned a house - 45 years of my life owning a house. In 2016, I sold my last home, my principle residence which was in Panama. Then I decided to follow my roots back to southern Ontario and take time to ponder where I wanted my adventuresome soul to lure me to next.

Well, the net that gathers wonderful friendships was quickly thrown over me and I was pulled into the best book club one could imagine - flat out fun, clever, supportive, beautiful, experienced women.

My wretched journey as a renter in a town with only .5% vacancy began.  Toronto had discovered my hometown and put a lock on affordable housing. I decided that finding a shared, inexpensive live-in apartment would be the only arrangement that I could afford which still allow me to travel out of Ontario’s wretched winters while paying a second rent in order to keep warm in the tropics.

Over the next three years I dragged my rapidly shrinking stash of stuff on a journey through five rentals - all owned and usually occupied by stone-heads, drunks, sneaks, or conniving bullies who pretended to know and practice the art of being good landlords.

Wow - what a bitchin', un-Zen experience.

So, I had a meeting with myself to figure out a way to become independent again - i.e. find an

‘affordable’ house which now meant a minimum investment of $350,000. Bloody hell!

Normally I am not one to fib, but when you play poker with the banks today where the old rules at least gave you a chance were no longer the rules applied. The new ones have been sprayed to death with financial pesticides and these new GMO’ed rules are beyond one’s comprehension. I found myself a creative born-again flat-out liar.

I lied my way around their endless list. One of the rules is that you cannot move any money around once you have started working with one of the tainted brokers (yup - the bankers brushed me off as quickly as you read this sentence). My storey was that after I sold my home in Panama, I buried a large stash of gold coins in a secret place due to the number of countries that had recently collapsed financially and due to a redhead named Donald (or, was it a bridge loan from a secret lender? Can’t remember.)

Some other rules I simply couldn’t get around, are that you cannot borrow from a friend; you cannot count the income from the sale of your principle residence; you cannot take into account the amazing income you made before the past two years wheeling and dealing in pot stocks; and your future income from renting out the new house’s basement? Nope - nothing counts cause nothing made by an entrepreneur is approved by the rubber stamp man .. . . . Annnnnd, then they will likely knock you out at the knees by asking you to cough up a co-signer who, if it is your kid who lives out of Canada, is ruled out. F- -king hell.

To wind this sad tale up, they won - even though I actually had a winning hand for a smart lender.

M

P.S. if you are in my hometown and looking for an amazing house sitter or tenant - you know how to find me.

P.P.S. Oh boy - look what I found! The cute little cabin on the left is for rent and it says by the door that a light is included! Jeeze Louise - everybody is jumping on the bandwagon.

40 Years! Are you kidding?

Nope. I am not kidding. That is how long it took me to find our First Mate from my boating days onboard our 112' submarine chaser, Sondra II, in the '70s. For those of you have not read my book, Stuart West was the first brave (although naive) soul to sign up just days before we set sail for Key West from Halifax.

Here is the excerpt from the book.

THE MOTLEY CREW

Mahone Bay, Nova Scotia

August 1978

“There are three sorts of people; those who are alive,

those who are dead, and those who are at sea.”

-LD CAPSTAN CHANTEY ATTRIBUTED TO ANACHARSIS, 6TH CENTURY BC

OUR motley crew miraculously began to pop up out of

nowhere. First, it was a former junior-level schoolteacher from

Ontario who, bored with kids, was looking for something to

shake him up a bit. Stuart simply appeared at the bottom of the

gangplank early one morning. Once invited aboard, he walked

up the plank with purpose in his stride, accompanying his

introduction with a convincingly firm handshake undoubtedly

designed to offset his lack of experience. I studied him as he

approached. His body was sort of non-descript—not tall, not

particularly muscular or fit as indicated by his slight paunch, but

his overall appearance was certainly striking. Great shocks of

Irish-red, shaggy hair and complete facial ‘fro the texture of a

Brillo pad juxtaposed his Ralph Lauren fashion statement.

Overall, there was a softness about him that I liked—slow-

moving mannerisms, quiet speech, full lips that smiled easily and

green eyes that listened. I had a feeling he would be good for

David. Over coffee, we discussed the fact that no pay would be

involved, that it would simply be room, board and uncharted

excitement in exchange for work. We took him on, and because

he was a guy and this was the '70s, he was instantly made First

Mate. I didn’t like it but decided that David’s decision was a

means of making Stu feel welcome and important. For once

in my life, I kept my mouth zipped because I knew from the

racing scene that crew status changed like poll positions.

Stuart stayed with us for 4 years and became a great asset to the small team of 3 by the time we reached our destination. Thank god, cause a crew of 3 is a bit scarce for a 112 footer! We left Mahone Bay, Halifax, knowing nothing about going to sea - and I mean absolutely nothing - and we arrived in Key West, about a month later, seasoned sailors. It was not a nautical school for the weak at heart. 

Eventually, things started going south and Stuart decided to bail on a day that I was not present. No forwarding address and no memory of his last name were left behind. I mean, who uses last names unless you have to?

And do you think I or any of the crew or acquaintances from those years could remember it? 

So, 40 years ticked by. 

About a month ago, on my author's Facebook page, he popped up! And yesterday, we met up with a big hug in a little town in Ontario halfway between each of our homes. He is happy, healthy, successful in the education field and retired, spending his days traveling when possible. It was so darned good to see him and to share our common stories and have some belly laughs. 

Moral of the story - get the last name!

So You Want to Write a Novel?

You have been dreaming of writing a memoir of your amazing life or a fictional novel of a great story that has been living actively in your mind for ages. And, you can't help but dream of the nice little profit on the sales that will pay for your holiday. Just a few grand - well, maybe five. After all, it is a great story!

So, full of enthusiasm, you start bangin' it out. The first chapter just bursts out of you, but you decide to hold back from sharing it with your published writer friend until you have a few more. You just write it the way it flows to the keys, figuring it is bound to work. Finally, half a dozen chapters are ready. You email them to your friend.

Days go by with no response. You send a nudge. Finally, a week later, there it is in your inbox. You're on your mousse faster than a fruit fly to red wine and your eyes land on a first sentence that reeks of bad news  -

"I'm going to be frank with you." 

And on it goes, telling you that your story is written in the wrong person  (whatever the hell that means). Then, he drops the big bomb asking -

"Why, in your opinion, is your story worth telling?" 

Isn't that bloody obvious?

You close your computer a bit too hard, gather up your notes in an unorganized way, pour a stiff one, light up a spliff and turn on Netflix - for six months.

Then a google search cautiously begins and you take a stab at changing from the 3rd person to the first.

"Better,' he writes, "but you still have not found your voice. You're all over the place."

"Fuck it. This is no fun."

Then you go through what most first-time writers experience - you poke at it occasionally. One day, out of the blue, you realize that you've found the elusive voice. You are hooked. Hours, months, years are spent in cafes, wine bars, libraries ... writing, writing, writing.

Nearly half a decade later, you are finished. And, it is actually a pretty good book!

Then comes the time to decide whether to self-publish or to look for an agent who loves your book and will get you signed up with a publishing house. It seems to make sense to self-publish as that is all the rage in the industry now and you have more control bla bla bla.

You self-publish on Amazon - easy and cheap.

A couple of years later, you are tired of Amazon taking such a big chunk, of the low sales, of the competition, of the inability to enter prestigious contests. You decide to go to a  prestigious Lit Festival and pay for time with a gal who will teach you how to pitch an agent and then you spend 15 minutes each with three agents. 

"Is that your book on the table? You self-published it? No, no and no. I can't help you."

All three of them say the same damn thing!

Guess what. Agents and publishers won't touch a self-published author - something to do with the fact that you own the rights ... You are on your own, baby until you sell 10,000 copies.

WHAT?!

Partly out of desperation and partly out of being conned, you sign up to a couple of bullshit on-line workshops on how to make your book a "Best Seller" - producing nothing but anxiety and a hole in your pocket. Then, out of sheer stupidity, you take a wack at producing your own audiobook. Now the hole is a whole leg missing in your pants.

See where this is going?

Moral of the story? Research online on how to write a good story first. There are rules. Then, after a qualified editor has gone through it, send it to agents who have published books similar to yours. Attend Lit Festivals . . . . . . . .

Good luck!

Ahhhhh, Coquetry

This afternoon, a man, a handsome man, a younger handsome man, subtly flirted with me. In a corner of a charming San Miguel de Allende café, my gray hair and I were writing on my computer. There were only seven pequeña tables, five of which were standing empty. I watched him saunter in, check the place out and order his coffee. I was already wishing I could highlight all of his clothes and press delete.

Approaching the table beside me, with his hand gesturing and an alluring smile, he laid that sexy Mexican accent on me. “May I sit here?” (His use of the word ‘may’ was not only correct grammar but somehow much more alluring than ‘can’). 

Making eye contact, an absolute necessity in flirting, and giving my response the pause that is also effective, I sweetly answered, “You may.” I marveled at the verve that the brief exchange had generated, energy somewhat foreign to us Canadians as of late. Sharing classy manners while sipping our delicious cappuccinos and stealing quick side glances, I wondered if a naughty little fantasy was sweeping his imagination as it was mine. When he rose to leave, he again bent towards me slightly and wished me a lovely afternoon. Slightly tilting my head, another subtle trick from the ol' flirting bag, I smiled. “Lo mesmo.”

I walked out of there feeling like Eva Mendes.

It seems to me that flirting has become an endangered art form. It's an occurrence so rare, most of us have forgotten how to even do it and we have also forgotten the warm fuzzies that come with it. So, get out there and have a flirt or two as spring brightens up your spirits. But remember, flirtation is not without challenges – keep it vague and subtle as uncertainty adds an element of anticipation that makes the act seem more like a game, prolonging the excitement and extending the mystery of the encounter.

                                             

Musical Side-Tales from and Adventure Memoir

Thank god for the internet! Here are some little historical music ditties I found online while writing my novel, "Because We Could: An Unauthorized Love Story". The book contains a lot of references to the great Rock n' Roll of the 70's. A few musicians were also characters in the story: David Keller (aka Crazy David), Burton Cummings of the Guess Who, and Toby McGregor.

For a soundtrack of the songs in my novel, you can go to youtube and have a listen on my channel:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5KKd0kE_21M&list=PL-Vh_rImJmwyEKylxlJFE8oqIJYIV6DFc

In this Article in the Tonawanda News, Saturday, January 4th, 1975
"Crazy David prefers making money, not war."

http://fultonhistory.com/Newspaper%2011/North%20Tonawanda%20NY%20Evening%20News/North%20Tonawanda%20NY%20Evening%20News%201975%20%20Grayscale/North%20Tonawanda%20NY%20Evening%20News%201975%20%20Grayscale%20-%200063.pdf

For more history on David and his band from Alabama in the 60's, The Preachers, visit:

http://www.garagehangover.com/preachersal/

                                                                                                                          David - 70's as Captain of the Sondra II

Often a Hammond B3 organ and Leslie are mentioned in the book. To hear the sound of this quintessential Rock and Roll combo, have a listen to Procol Harum:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cGA2FzEAW58&index=1&list=PL-Vh_rImJmwyEKylxlJFE8oqIJYIV6DFc

______________________________________________________________

 

Tobias McGregor! Catch him banging it out on a Hammond B3 here:

 https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ks3WUOO4M80&list=PLvOhbbXFivVGBelpgqjYvmV6KLEb6iRpa

______________________________________________________________

For some really interesting Rock history, visit Burton Cummings Twitter site at:
https://twitter.com/search?q=burton%20cummings&src=typd&lang=en

                                                                    

The Guess Who - 60's. Burton Cummings is second from right. My favorite 'Guess Who' Song:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O3LTmDUAhMM

 

Feeding a Superhero - they do eat, you know.

Life is so much fun sometimes. 

Who would have thought that, when I woke up one morning back in 1987, I would be scraping Superman's plate after a midnight meal during a film shoot?

“Get out! That was Superman?!! Maybe I should save this piece of bread left on his plate and sell it as a collector's item years from now – fetch  thousands.”

The next day, the meal was to be served in a church basement at 5:00 p.m. Leaving my catering staff to load up and set up, I tore out of the kitchen at the last minute to pick up my 7-year-old son, Nathan. After he was buckled up, I started the engine and revved it up a few times to set the scene for a surprise. I had his attention. 

“Sooooo, Nathan, how would you like to meet a man that is ‘Faster than a speeding bullet! More powerful than a locomotive!’?”

“Seriously, Mom?!!!”

            

"Here, you'd better put on my sunglasses so no one will recognize you."

            

En route, he talked a mile-a-minute. As he was jumping out of the car, he looked back to announce that he’d decided I was going to make him a Superman suit for Halloween which, he reminded me, was only 9 days away.

When we arrived, Christopher Reeve was at the ‘make your own sundae bar’. I went to grab my son’s hand to guide him over there, but it wasn’t available. I mean, who would want their mom to be holding your hand when you met ‘The Man’? 

“Superman, meet Nathan.”

Reeve gave him one hell of a handshake. During the shake, my son’s gaze kept moving back and forth between his hero’s face and the hall’s high, small windows. 

“How come you don’t have glasses on? And how the heck did you get in here, anyway?”

“Welllll, um, my glasses are in my briefcase and, when I’m disguised as Clark Kent, I walk in through doors so nobody will know that I am - you know who. Hey, would you like to join me for a sundae, Nathan?” 

“Do you play sports, son?”

“I play hockey, Superman. I’m the goalie. My Dad says I have all the equipment except for the penis-rack.”

Reeve, while giggling, somehow managed to say, “I hope you eat hard boiled eggs then. All the superheroes and goalies do.  Come on, let’s dig into some ice cream and cover it with hot fudge sauce and whipped cream. Lots of whipped cream!”

My kid would have killed me if had known that I had prompted his hero into putting in a good word for hard-boiled eggs, the greatest lunch-bag food ever invented but seldom actually eaten in any school lunch room. 

Halloween night snuck up fast and I was frantically finishing my son's costume while he supervised and munched away on what he now called his ‘superfood’.

“Come here, Babe. Let’s try this magical suit on and see if it fits.”

It fit perfectly but before I could stop him, he took off out of the sewing room, ran down the hall, launching himself into the air - hands stretched out in front but legs refusing to lift for take-off. CRASH! 

Running to my splayed-out superhero, “Oh my god, Honey. Are you okay?”

Resisting tears, “Yeah, but this stupid suit doesn’t work, Mom!”

Years later, Christopher Reeve fell too. But he fell so hard and so wrong that it paralyzed him. The world thought, how ironic when it heard the sad news. Over the years, he came into my mind often. Yesterday, on the radio, there was a clip on the history of ‘Superman’, the first superhero who was born in a comic book 80 years ago. 

Not only was Christopher Reeve a great actor, but he stood out for so many other reasons – he was just a regular-guy movie star, someone who gave my son one of the best thrills of his life and a man who became a real superhero.