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Blogs by Laura Spinella
This has Nothing to do with Pitbulls
7/29/2010 11:22:34 AM
The second I sold a book came the question: So when are you quitting your regular job? LOL to that and the equally amusing: Where does your book tour start? While I’m, of course, flattered by the rock star illusions, quitting my regular job hasn’t crossed my mind. Before BEAUTIFUL DISASTER sold, I explained my job by way of two veins: writing that I get paid for and writing that I hope to get paid for. While the latter has become a reality, I’m hardly in a position to let go of the guaranteed cash. I’m fortunate to freelance for a local newspaper, (just outside the Boston loop) covering the real estate beat for the past five years. Prior to that, I wrote for a regional magazine and newspaper on Maryland’s Eastern Shore. Newspaper or magazine writing may not pay the mortgage, but it pays enough bills to avoid employment that would mean certain doom for me—and the job. The idea of a nine-to-five environment sends me into a panic attack: insurances offices, grocery stores, and hair salons tending to incite the most caustic arrhythmias. But the idea of spending day after day in a dark corner with a lap top and no human contact, I’m okay with that. So goes the mind of a writer—or maybe just somebody with a social anxiety disorder.
Anyway, the beauty of freelance writing is the flexibility. I cover our Home Portrait section, which means I spend a couple of days each week in strangers’ bathrooms. Well, that’s the short cheeky answer I like to give. The job runs the gamut. It takes me to ho-hum duplexes that I can, at this point, produce a decent piece on if I suffered an aneurism while touring, as well as multi-million dollar estates in the ritzier suburbs of Boston. Naturally, they’re fun to see. Who doesn’t want to know how the other half lives? I’ve even learned curious nuances of high end living: Buy a Wolf over a Viking if you’re going for the six-burner, professional grade stove. The repairs on the Viking are astronomical. Rich people have just as much laundry and bills lying around, but generally a better library. And here’s my chronic pet-peeve: If you’re paying anything over 1.5 million for a property there should be a pool. I don’t care if you like pools or don’t like pools, if you spend six months a year in gated community in South Beach. For that kind of money you should get a pool.
For the most part Realtors are friendly people. I’m not the buyer or the seller, I have no dog in the hunt, plus I’m there to say nice things about their listing. That generally translates into a nice conversation and a low pressure situation. Not that the past five years haven’t resulted in a moment or two. Once I was scheduled to tour a median priced property, nothing special from what I could gather from the pre-tour photos. The Realtor had been anxious for the story, apparently needing to move the property. The homeowners were present, which is not my favorite situation. In this instance one of two things occurs, they follow like a shadow, making me feel as if the Artful Dodger has been summoned to pick pocket their property. Or they want to tell me about the thirty years they’ve spent in the home, everything from the baby book memories to the upgrades. The memories aren’t so bad, but when they whip out the notebook noting the washer change to the kitchen faucet in 1991, we’ve got a problem. I digress, back to my median home tour. Upon entering this particular house I sense a tense vibe. The husband is standing on one side of the kitchen, unwilling to make eye contact with me. The wife looks like she’s ready to burst into tears, poised at the opposite end. I get the feeling I’ve interrupted some intense shouting. Seriously, the air is still vibrating from the decibel level. I don’t really have a choice except to ignore it and go about my business. The Realtor suggests we start in the bedrooms, which is odd but okay with me. Maybe these two will decide to take it outside while I’m noting the amenities in their master bath. (FYI put your money in the kitchen, not master bath amenities) We’re just about to retreat to the opposite end of the house when the wife screams, “No! You can’t leave me and sell my house!” With this she lunges for the butcher block set of knives. No kidding. I’m not sure if she’s coming for me or going for him, but the husband manages to tackle her before the paring knife—or worse—makes it to her hand. At this point, the argument picks up from where I guess it left off, the wife rather hysterical that her husband was not only leaving her, but leaving her for a man. Bug-eyed and short on breath, I’m thinking that a month in a dark corner won’t produce that scene.
And people wonder why I don’t quit my day job.
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More Blogs by Laura Spinella
• Home Field Advantage - Thursday, February 17, 2011
• Transaction Complete - Saturday, February 12, 2011
• We Are Go For Launch - Wednesday, February 09, 2011
• And This Happened Where? - Wednesday, January 12, 2011
• December Perspectives - Wednesday, December 22, 2010
• The Show Must Go On - Tuesday, December 07, 2010
• A Drum Roll, Please... - Friday, November 26, 2010
• One Author's Eye Candy - Wednesday, November 17, 2010
• The Witchcraft of Writing - Wednesday, November 03, 2010
• The Eureka of Cumulative Research - Thursday, October 14, 2010
• There's Something Odd About Us - Monday, September 20, 2010
• Summer Whine - Saturday, September 11, 2010
• This has Nothing to do with Pitbulls - Thursday, July 29, 2010
• Artistry & Bad Brakes - Monday, July 19, 2010
• Pack Up Your Troubles and Just Get Happy - Friday, July 09, 2010
• Character Analysis 101 - Sunday, June 27, 2010
• Ticket to Travel - Thursday, June 17, 2010
• Bound for Publication - Monday, June 07, 2010
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