Post Covid Scissors Sale!

Shannon Kernaghan Shan-Bang-clse-up-web400 Post Covid Scissors Sale! Humor

(from online ad) FOR SALE: JW SHEARS, 27 TEETH

Funny backstory on these scissors: about five months ago my wife was frustrated with her hair. But salons were closed with the Covid lockdown, so I offered to help by trimming a little. Surprisingly, she agreed.

First, I consulted my University of the World: YouTube. Hair cutting looked pretty easy, at least after watching my max retention limit of three videos. “I’ve got this!” I shouted to Shannon. “I’m off to the beauty supply store to get some hair cuttin’ tools.”

Home again, I was excited to show her my purchases. Instead of smiles, she freaked out at the price. “But these are pro shears, babe, gotta have the best. After all, it’s YOUR hair.” With a little convincing (plus her desperation), I pulled out a kitchen chair and motioned for her to sit. “Relax, I got this.”

I wouldn’t let her watch me work or take a peek until I’d finished. Twenty minutes into my styling, something seemed different from the YouTube results. Oh well. Based on the growing hair pile at my feet, I’d done enough.

“You can look now!” and I pulled the towel from her shoulders. She hurried to the bathroom mirror. I expected joyous exclamations and was ready for hugs because once again in our years of marriage I’d saved the day . . . not a sound. Hmn. Not quite the reaction I expected. Wow, I thought, this is gonna be great. Maybe I can cut other peoples’ hair–

She raced from the bathroom and barrelled towards me: “What the f*ck! Why did I trust you with scissors?!” Her face turned an unhealthy shade of red. “It’s a good thing I don’t have to go any where for the next few months, as if that’ll be enough time for your hatchet job to grow out! This is worse than when my mom cut my bangs!”

I heard more curse words as she stomped away, and that’s when she yelled, “Get rid of those scissors! It’s either me or them, one of us goes!” I promised to make them disappear but simply hid them in a drawer . . . until she found them yesterday.

PS things are slightly better now that her salon opened again. “Jeez,” said the stylist. “You sure have lots of straggly bits . . . I’ll have to take off tons to get these sections even . . . did you have a fight with a weed whacker?”

REDUCED PRICE IF YOU BUY TODAY! I’m still sleeping on the couch. Please help.

Reflective Surfaces Are Scary!

Shannon Kernaghan Beholder-400 Reflective Surfaces Are Scary! Humor

When do you consider yourself old? Do you base aging on a number? Or on how many daytimers you’ve filled with events through the years? Or do reflective surfaces have the final say?

Anyone with an opinion will argue that age is a state of mind. Me? I say that age is a state of mirror. I’m putting my money on the reflective surface theory.

There are other ways to remind you of the dwindling sand in your hourglass. I call them “age assisters.” My age assister caught up with me recently in the form of a teenager. She did the unthinkable: she offered me her seat on the LRT.

In theory, this gesture sounds generous and thoughtful. Her offer was the sign of a well-behaved youth, aware of the world around her and alert to more than what’s happening on her Instagram page. 

After declining the offer, I thanked her, saying I’d be getting off soon.

Despite my short ride, there was plenty of time to study her flawless skin while I stood and gripped the overhead bar. There was more time still to wonder when my hair last shone like hers, without the boost from caustic chemicals and pricey products.

Then I weighed the facts: I wasn’t carrying bags of groceries and none of my limbs were bound in a cast. Here’s where things turned ugly. Instead of being thankful for her generosity, I screamed in my head, “Does she think I’m old? It’s not fair! I’m not ready!”

Sigh. “It’s official, I’m getting old,” was my next thought, with less drama. My self-assurance came to a clichéd screeching halt as quickly as my LRT ride.

But I’m over that negativity today. I’m back to my positive self with little more than an unexpected kick start.

Why such a turnaround? This morning a group of young men in their twenties drove by and whistled at me from their car, yelling a phrase that included “Hey baby!” and “nice [undecipherable body part]!” I spun around to make sure no one else was standing behind me, at least no one younger. And then I scanned my own body, in case I was dragging toilet paper on my sneaker.

Since the vehicle traveled past quickly, those young men had no idea what was beneath my ball cap and sunglasses.

But who cares? As an aging woman, I don’t mind occasional attention from strangers, even those who yell from their vehicle and confuse me with someone younger, or someone else entirely.

Today I’m fast-walking to the gym where a good workout might hold back a few of those falling sands.

Wait . . .  the gym has mirrors. Better leave my glasses at home. What I don’t see will thrill me, not kill me.

Gotta Have Sole

Shannon Kernaghan Gotta-Have-Sole-400 Gotta Have Sole Humor

I associate myself with Vogue magazine like I associate myself with Albert Einstein. If Vogue and Einstein were in one room discussing Prada and Pi, I wouldn’t have much genius to add to either conversation.

But the acceptance that I’m a simple jeans and sneakers consumer doesn’t stop me from buying the occasional Vogue magazine. Why the purchase, when I don’t aspire to wear the uber-fashions and overpriced strips of linen and leather? Because I like the purdy pictures.

While flipping through a recent issue, thick as a phone book, I developed tunnel vision and focused primarily on the pages with shoes.

Many of the styles would be perfect for women with the polymer stance of a Barbie doll. One pair that stand out (pun intended) have immeasurably high heels and are bent in the middle at a severe right angle.

I’m a fairly typical woman. If I slip on a pair of heels, I instantly feel great. Not only am I taller, but I’m thinner. According to the charts, my weight and height are magically the ideal specs for a 21-year-old in perfect health.

Perhaps shoes are being sold solely for closet ornamentation. One fact is obvious: many of the shoes splashed across Vogue’s pages are not designed for long walks.

If I slipped on a pair for a night out, I’d need an air-lift from the parking lot to the restaurant entrance. From there, a host would have to carry me to my table.

But my feet would look divine. And for the few seconds I could totter to a standing position, my legs would look even better. Immobility is a small price to pay.

I smiled after hearing the latest fashion quote: “Your feet are the new face.” For anyone with bunions, corns and a medley of foot or nail fungus, this is one dismal discovery.

The announcer went on to ask, “How far would you go to fit a stunning stiletto? Would you shorten a toe? Inject collagen into your heels? Shave down a bone to achieve the perfect peds?” Eww.

I fret over an impending teeth cleaning at the dentist’s office. The odds that I’ll anesthetize myself to cosmetically alter my tootsies are as likely as me owning that $1,000 pair of Manolos or Louis Vuittons.

Someone in the shoe industry did a survey and discovered that 37% of women would wear high heels, even if their feet were uncomfortable. Those shoe industry moguls must be the same brains behind the term ‘toe cleavage.’

I’m not sure what toe cleavage is, but I hope I don’t have to start buying a bra for that. Worse, would I need ten of them?

If Einstein were alive today, the equation for Pi would need some reformatting: energy (E) equals mass (m) times the speed of light (c) squared . . . as in square-toed pumps and wedge heels are what’s sizzling hot for this fall season!

Wrecked & Reimagined

Shannon Kernaghan Wrecked-400-2 Wrecked & Reimagined Humor

I was recently inspired by on Ohio artist I discovered online. Dave collects thrift shop paintings and alters each one with a Star Wars scene. Instead of space, the backdrop for R2-D2 is a beach; battle grounds for the Rebel Alliance and the Galactic Empire are bucolic country sides.

I wanna try that! On my first attempt to find something suitable to add my own spin, I spotted a small professionally framed piece at my own nearby thrift shop.

For a whopping four dollars, I brought the piece home where I did more examining. On the back, the title – Melbourne High School – and its painter – Kenneth Jack – were written on two small rectangles of hard paper.

After a quick online search, I learned that Kenneth Jack (1924-2006) was an Australian artist who created 100 signed prints of this school, painted in 1953.

Wow! Instead of a piece I could guiltlessly enhance (read: destroy), I snagged a signed print going for $350, and already in a quality frame!

Before removing the paper backing to examine the print, I stared at Jack’s signature and title on those two little rectangles. Then I looked more closely at the online page where I found the original photo.

“Wait a minute,” I said aloud to my husband. “Why does the writing on my frame look exactly like the artist’s handwriting? This can’t be good!”

There it was, or in this case wasn’t – the bottom of the print had been cut off to fit the frame’s mat! Those two rectangles were taken from the chopped section!

Two questions: How could anyone wreck a signed print, especially a ‘professional’ framer? And how did this almost 70-year-old Aussie print end up in a thrift store in Edmonton?

Since the print was pre-wrecked, I added my own mixed media spin of Botticelli celebrating nudes, where 1490s Italy meets 1950s Australia meets 2020 Canadian crow heads.

I present to you ‘CrowBot Jack.’

Beauty – and artistry – is in the eye of the beholder. As well as my first piece of wrecked and reimagined art, it will be my last. You’re welcome.

Current monetary value? Zero. Wacky unknown backstory? Priceless.

                                                              ~

             To see Dave’s reimagined art: https://buff.ly/3eesJNn

audio version song
Sunset Beachz
by
Ofshane

 

Bah Humbug

Shannon Kernaghan Humbug-Insta-web-post Bah Humbug Humor

Coronavirus isn’t the only Grinch to steal Christmas. My brother Timothy, three years older, decided to play Scrooge and deliver the deets on Santa Claus.

Tim chose a quiet moment. We stood together on a street corner in front of our school, waiting for a break in traffic before crossing. With festive glee, Tim updated me on the truth about St. Nick and his Xmas elves.

No need to go “aww” in sympathy because I don’t recall feeling devastated.

Come on, an aging man in a red suit who visits once a year and trades cool gifts for room-temperature milk and a few Dad’s cookies? Even at age six, I sensed some implausibility. Also, I sensed that a lone worker, despite his alleged jolliness, couldn’t possibly slip down a gazillion chimneys during one night of the year.

Anyone that efficient would already be off the North Pole gig and working with Elon Musk at SpaceX.

And after a gazillion glasses of milk with an equal number of sugary cookies, we’d have one lactose-intolerant elder on our hands, complete with hyperglycemia.

As for those tireless flying reindeer, my six-year-old attitude towards anything invisible was generally, “No way, show me!” Due to my cynical roots, I refused to memorize the names of Santa’s reindeer. Donner, Blitzen, Rudolph. That’s all I got.

That cynicism included boycotting the song “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” When forced to sing during our school Christmas extravaganzas, I lip-synced the words. I was a prepubescent forerunner to Mariah Carey and Milli Vanilli.

My early cynicism has company – political correctness is part of this tinsel-draped picture. Retailers shiver, and not from the crisp air or Covid-19 restrictions currently placed on their stores. They’re also nervous to say “Merry Christmas” to consumers like me. Instead, many play it safe and proclaim this phase of candy canes and crèches as the “12 Days of Giving.”

Am I insulting both Christians and abbreviation-phobes alike by writing “Xmas” in my quest for brevity? Suddenly I’m as nervous as my neighborhood retailers.

Regardless of varying beliefs and traditions observed around the globe, I’ve grown to cherish the season. I’m no humbug because I’ll embrace every excuse to make merry with friends and family – when I’m legally allowed to do any embracing. Either way, I plan to reminisce about the year’s adventures and highlights. At least the highlights feel like adventures after a few cups of eggnog. Perhaps it’s the lactose talking.

I plan to cuddle up with my sweetheart to enjoy the movies that represent some of my own festive traditions – A Charlie Brown Christmas, the 1951 version of Christmas Carol and Christmas Vacation with its wacky Griswolds.

Whether you celebrate Christmas, Hanukkah, Human Rights Day, Bodhi Day, Yule or Kwanzaa, deck your halls and let the spirit of the season bring peace and generosity to your hearts and chimneys.

Turns out my darling brother has edged lower on the scale of Xmas Grinches – in 2020, Covid-19 takes the humbug fruitcake.

Hey Tim, can we talk for a minute? There’s something I’d like to share with you about the Easter Bunny. You might want something stronger than eggnog.

Audio version song
Soft Feeling
by
Cheel

Welcome to My Hairy Bubble

Shannon Kernaghan hairy-shan-website Welcome to My Hairy Bubble Humor

The topic of hair leads the list of everyday challenges for humankind. Is there any other body part so regularly fussed over and featured? Note: while writing, I’ve entered a brain bubble called “denial” to pretend that I’m living in a post-COVID universe where all we have time to complain about is our hair. Plus, the re-opening of hair salons in my neighborhood has bolstered me with enough courage to expand on hair, in all of its timeless (and annoying) glory.

Now, on with my bubble: we have either too much or too little of this exasperating dead protein. And wherever hair grows, it’s never quite the right color or texture or length. 

Fashion choices are extensive: you can braid, bleach and back comb; consider a cut, crimp and curl; flip, fluff and feather if ya got it; perm or straighten; and finally, trim and tint ‘til the cows come home. Or, more likely, until you run out of money. Hair care is spendy!

For unwanted hair, you can laser, pluck, shave, sugar, and wax.  Hair is constantly in the process of coming or going. Not long enough? Walk into your salon short and severe; walk out long and luxurious with Lady Godiva extensions.        

At least there’s gender equality in our suffering. Men deal with eyebrows that join to form a uni-brow, five o’clock shadows that arrive before noon, and backs with enough hair to keep a horse warm through winter. Worse, hair sprouts from ears and nostrils yet gives up the follicle ghost where most needed – on top.

If your head is beyond hope, you can fake it with falls and wigs. There’s also instant hair in a spray can for those shy spots, but better hope your date doesn’t decide to run a few fingers through your locks. Spray-on hair is a serious form of false advertising.

More recently there’s a battalion of ‘manscapers’ across the globe who define ‘tidy’ for women and men alike as no pubic hair. None. Now ‘clean’ I can understand, but tidy?!

“Have you done something with your hair?” is a loaded question. If the word order is altered – “WHAT have you done with your hair?” – the observation becomes more insult than compliment. Those critiques should be reserved for concerned parents and brave partners. True friends will love your hair, no matter how badly you destroy it, even when they’re thinking, “Yikes! What size bowl did you use for that hatchet job?”

Mother Nature and her pixie tricks have created an unfair handbook on hair. Where you want it, hair grows skimpier or not at all, and where you don’t want it, it reappears within days. The true winners are manufacturers who sell hair their add and subtract products along with the advertisers who convince you to buy them.

If anyone knows any good jokes, please send them my way. I’d appreciate a detour from hair screaming for a touch-up, eyebrows aching for an arch, legs longing for a shave, and other parts waiting for an eye-watering wax.

Time to slip on a ball cap so I can enjoy this hairy bubble while it lasts.

And stay back! Everything looks better from a safe distance of six feet.

song
Patent Doll
by
Freedom Trail Studio

My Relation to Jaws

Shannon Kernaghan Bait-twit My Relation to Jaws Adventure Covid-19 Family  Steven Spielberg jaws carl gottlieb

“You’re gonna need a bigger boat.” That’s one of my favorite lines from the blockbuster movie Jaws. I’ve borrowed these words several times throughout my life.

I smile when I flip through photos in my copy of The Jaws Log written by Carl Gottlieb. a book based on the making of the movie. Considering the ongoing popularity of Jaws, released to theaters in 1975, I’m not the only fan.

What delights me as much as watching the film again (yes, I own the DVD) is the reminder that creativity has no expiration date. People keep talking and writing about Jaws. Today I read an online article on UPROXX. Writer Mike Ryan interviewed Carl recently about the film’s current relevance.

Wait . . .  a comparison to covid-19? Why not. In Jaws, Amity Island residents were angry that the beach was closed for 24 hours, even though people had died. And despite the lingering threat – much like coronavirus – those same people insisted on returning to the beach and into the water. Read the full story here: https://buff.ly/2YRryMm

Carl is the ideal person to make this comparison – he was hired by director Steven Spielberg as a screenwriter for Jaws, and Carl also played the role of Harry Meadows while working with a cast of brilliant people.

Back to my smiling: Carl Gottlieb is not only a talented screenwriter, actor, director and comedian but he’s also my second cousin. He connects me even more tightly to the delight I experience when I watch this movie again and again.

The Jaws popularity continues. In 2021 a musical will premiere about the challenges of filming this 70s classic. Better yet, the production is created from Carl’s memoir The Jaws Log, the very book I’m enjoying today.

This time top billing won’t go to the great white shark who chased people flailing and screaming out of the water. Limelight shines on the mechanical shark nicknamed Bruce, which is also the name of the musical.

I feel proud to link with this legacy, even if by a thimbleful of blood. Wait . . . I shouldn’t use ‘blood’ when referring to sharks, mechanical or otherwise.

Rock on, Carl! And may our own expiration dates be equally enduring.

Tell Your Friends

The Toilet That “FLUSHED” Our Deal!

Shannon Kernaghan Real-Estate-bees_hive-5 The Toilet That "FLUSHED" Our Deal! How To Real Estate Risk Sales  selling your home how-to home selling strategies

One of the most eye-opening business ventures I ever took was to sell real estate. I met the most interesting people in the most intimate of places – their homes. To them, their homes were castles, even when they were more (ahem) hovel than mansion.

 Here’s an example of the mansion/hovel experience: One evening I went on a house hunt with friends who were looking for their first home. We viewed several properties that I found for them. The last house was one they discovered during a drive so earlier I’d set up an appointment with the listing agent.

After a few steps inside I whispered, “Stop! Let’s put our shoes back on before we go any further – my socks are wet!” This was NOT my friends’ dream home, but the place was such a disaster that curiosity pulled us into every room.

The house reeked of cooking grease and assorted body odors. There must have been a sale on green paint because all walls were covered with a moldy shade (maybe it wasn’t paint!). And talk about dim – no light fixture held more than a 40-watt bulb.

The homeowner was a voracious knitter because our first sight in the living room was a mountain of wool and a rainbow of sweaters draped over every couch and surface. One large lump was either a wool-covered coffee table or a sleeping dog.

The “trophy room” was the kitchen, which the three of us scanned in silence: the stovetop was covered with charred food, black and hardened into volcanic structures. And I’ve never seen so many dirty dishes piled window-high in the sink and across the counters. My friends stifled giggles behind their hands, refusing my eye contact and raised eyebrows.

The homeowner popped her head into the kitchen: “Any questions for me?” she asked.

“No, I think we’re good. But didn’t your agent mention we were coming tonight?” I asked.

She nodded yes, looking perplexed by my question. We had to leave before the giggling turned into full-on hysteria.

See? One person’s castle is another person’s . . . dump.

Beauty is in the eye of the potato?

Every buyer enters your home with critical eyes. While the average homeowner is proud to present a clean, well-maintained property, there are exceptions and I saw plenty of them.

My husband Paul, also an agent, listed a young couple’s home. We anticipated dozens of buyers and browsers to visit our inaugural open house. After setting up our yard signs, we walked inside to find a sink of dirty dishes topped off by a leaking tap. A quick walkthrough yielded a half-eaten pizza on the counter, an unmade bed and several burned out light bulbs in the basement.

The owners headed out the door as the first punctual prospects walked in. “Wait!” I called out. There was no time to ask why they left such a mess, or why they’d filled a bowl with potatoes and placed it as a centerpiece on the dining room table. There was only time to slip on a friendly smile (and hope I’d remembered my deodorant.)

The owners arrived home moments after the open house ended and asked, “How many offers did you write?” We explained that our marketing would be more effective if they tidied up a little more and did a few quick-fix projects. We arrived at least 30 minutes early before subsequent showings and once washed the dishes ourselves.

The home sold, but I wish I’d asked about those potatoes that were still on the table when we presented the offer.

Bury, Don’t Freeze!

A co-worker in our office told us about a home he showed twice to a woman. The woman returned to the basement but this time she opened the freezer, since it was included in the purchase price.

Our agent friend was upstairs with the homeowner. That’s when they heard a loud shriek and the freezer lid slam, followed by hysterical laughter. When they raced downstairs, our friend found out why the woman had shrieked: the freezer was empty except for the twisted frozen bodies of a cat and dog! The owner explained how both of his elderly pets had died during the winter and that he was waiting until spring, to bury them at his cottage when the ground thawed.

There’s only a brief window to make an impression on purchasers – always make it a great one, preferably one with shrieks of joy, not surprise!

The Royal Flush

During another showing, the homeowner had recently renovated his bathroom. The result was beautiful – coordinating tiles and wallpaper, granite countertops and tropical greenery. But. He’d overlooked the toilet during renovations.

That toilet was all our buyer could see. Instead of focusing on the updated décor, he kept flushing and muttering “damned noisy toilet!” That damned noisy toilet resulted in no sale. The owner refused to change it and the purchaser refused to start “mucking around with plumbing,” even if WE paid for the work out of our commission. We’ll always remember the toilet that “flushed” our deal!

Shannon Kernaghan Real-Estate-Bees-400 The Toilet That "FLUSHED" Our Deal! How To Real Estate Risk Sales  selling your home how-to home selling strategies

KFC Meets Feng Shui

“Subject to parent’s approval” was our least favorite clause when writing an offer on a home. Why? Because it’s tough to appease the opinions of several personalities, all with different ages and tastes and varied levels of real estate savvy.

We’d spend countless hours showing the property and writing a contract with the buyer only to cancel the deal because a parent didn’t agree.

Once we sold a home to a couple subject to the man’s father’s approval. The father wasn’t available to view the home until the next day. When the three of them arrived, the father immediately pulled out a small cloth bag from his pocket. Then we followed him to the outside steps where he gave that bag a shake and dumped the contents onto the landing. Chicken bones scattered and created an interesting design.

The older man looked at his son and shook his head. “No good,” he said.

Huh? The purchaser looked at us, shrugged, and said “sorry” before quickly slipping on his leavin’ loafers. My husband wanted to yell out, “Next time we spend an afternoon selling you a home, bring your chicken bones with you!”

Back to the Castle Syndrome

We listed the house of a sweet elderly couple who bought a condo and had to say good-bye to their family home. They loved their castle – they’d raised their children in it and proudly maintained their house and yard through the years.

When Paul and I showed up for their first open house, we were anxious for them to leave so we could welcome keen buyers. Both of them were dressed nicely and I watched him kneel to tie his wife’s shoelaces.

“Aw, cute,” I thought, “helping with her shoes . . . and now they’re ready to go.” Nope. They sat there and looked up at me.

Paul chimed in: “So where are you off to for the next two hours? Looks like a beautiful day to–”

“Going?” he said. “Nowhere. We’re staying here in case you have any questions.”

Gulp. Paul politely explained that it’s always better if homeowners aren’t present during an open house. That way, buyers feel free to voice their concerns and aren’t afraid to insult the nearby owners.

“If people can speak freely,” Paul continued, “we can better overcome their objections and we often get an offer the same day.”

No logical explanation worked. Our sweet old couple didn’t budge from their couch for the next two hours. Spoiler alert: no offers that afternoon.

On another day, a family of new Canadians arrived for a scheduled showing. When the tour was over, our helpful homeowner followed them to the front door. “What do you think of my house?” he asked.

“It’s very nice, but we’re looking for one with a dining room.”

“DINING ROOM! From where you come from you eat on dirt floors and HERE you want a dining room?”

Again, no offer that day.

We did eventually sell their “castle” and everyone was happy. How much did we enjoy working with this old couple? Enough to name our next cats after them!

Don’t Nickel and Dime

After holding our first open house, we generated interest from a motivated family. Besides a wonderful full-price offer, all they asked for were two old kitchen appliances and a carved coat hook in the front hallway.

When our homeowners scanned the offer together, the woman grabbed a pen from my hand, ready to accept. She and her partner were both ecstatic . . . until the woman spotted the coat hook.

“What? Our coat hook? There’s no way I’m gonna part with that!” she announced, slamming down the pen. I looked at Paul and he looked at me. Is this really happening?

Based on her reaction, we assumed this was a pricey antique or a relic passed down over four generations. Nope. It was a tchotchke they picked up for $35 at a garage sale the previous summer.

Paul kept his voice friendly: “Let’s talk about this. You want to risk a counteroffer over . . . [he paused for effect] a $35 ornament?” Paul and I routinely worked much harder on our contracts and negotiated details that were truly significant – price, possession dates, renovations and more.

“But if the purchasers are having a smidgen of second thoughts,” I added, “and we return with a counter offer, you realize they can walk away and get their deposit back, right?”

She stared at us, unmoved.

“Seriously,” I tried again, “this is a great contract. If we lose it, the next offer could be for much less money or with major conditions you can’t accept.” Silence. “Pleeease don’t give them a chance to walk!” Now I sounded screechy!

Eventually we convinced the more level-headed partner to reason with her in the next room. Thirty minutes later we sighed with relief and phoned the buyer’s agent with the good news. Phew!

FYI Our homeowners could have avoided this near-debacle simply by removing their coat hook before the first showing or open house. And don’t assume because an object or piece of equipment is attached to the wall or bolted to floor that buyers won’t ask for it in their offer.

Why open the door – literally – to bungled negotiations or hard feelings?

Shannon Kernaghan Priv-Sale-display-full-e1592324905658 The Toilet That "FLUSHED" Our Deal! How To Real Estate Risk Sales  selling your home how-to home selling strategies

. . . excerpts from How to Sell Your Home Privately

You’re thinking of selling your home privately, but you don’t know how to begin. And you’re scared – to open your door to strangers, make costly mistakes and risk legal issues. If you have the time, energy and motivation, real estate expert Shannon Kernaghan can help you undertake this challenge and save you thousands in commission.

Gathered from years of practical experience, her down-to-earth selling strategies will lead you bravely and painlessly through the process. For the increasing number of homeowners who want to take the plunge and sell privately, this innovative book is an essential tool!

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music credits

Spring Migration by The Great White North Sound Society
Komorebi by Futuremono
Sacred lotus by Patino
Remember September by Freedom Trail Studio
Song of Sadhana by Jesse Gallagher
Dream Lagoon by Chris Haugen

WAY Below Deck

Shannon Kernaghan Captain-Sandy-porthole-portrait-400 WAY Below Deck Adventure  sandy yawn captain sandy yawn below deck

Captain Sandy Yawn is anything but a yawn – she’s a warrior! She’s also the captain of huge yachts that sail the seas of Croatia and Italy to the French Riviera and currently Spain.

My husband and I watch the series Below Deck Mediterranean for many reasons: the stunning views Captain Sandi charters, the azure waters, the exquisite food and frosty cocktails. And we watch it for the combustible relationships between crew members.

We used to live full-time in a 26-foot trailer and learned countless lessons about sharing close quarters. For example, with every year you live together, your RV grows one foot shorter. We intimately understand small space etiquette.

Speaking of intimate, Below Deck serves up crew relationships that bloom and fizzle full speed ahead. Young people live in a microcosm that includes hot temps, long days, hard work and harder drinking on days off. Quick-forming sex-charged relationships often turn flammable. What could be better for entertainment when there are cameras and mics capturing every move and groan!

Paul and I have enjoyed boats of many sizes during day trips and short-term excursions. But the only ‘vessel’ we ever owned was a two-person inflatable with oars. We bought it from a man in Las Vegas. Yes, the word ‘gamble’ is implied when buying pre-owned toys.

We waited until we reached California to inflate our boat for an afternoon of adventure on the Colorado River. Like the cast from Below Deck, we planned to have it all – water, sunshine, mountain views, maybe even romance.

But that river was cold, and its current was strong. As much as we paddled, we never made it to our friend’s campsite upstream. And who could feel romantic when your partner keeps yelling to “Paddle harder! Faster!’ Wait . . . are we going down?’

Yup, we were sinking, thanks to the multiple leaks we never noticed when we filled our inflatable.

“Head to shore!” Paul yelled and I worked to turn to boat.

By the time we dragged our hole-y inflatable onto the sandy bank, more than half the air had leaked. I felt equally deflated. FYI Paul didn’t put the wind in my sails that day; in fact, he didn’t get to put anything in me. While we disposed of the leaky inflatable, we’re still paddling together after decades of togetherness.

Week after week, Captain Sandy makes everything look effortless: she docks her 185-foot yacht into narrow slips with impressive precision; she acts as a cool-headed mediator between crew and guests alike; plus, she takes no shit. “I’m not your friend. Call me CAPTAIN Sandy,” she corrected a new crew member.

Our favorite Captain Sandy rocks it as she docks it – thanks for making the voyage look so easy. Anchors aweigh!

song “Head Candy”
by
William Rosati

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Risky Behavior

Shannon Kernaghan Social-Distance-Please-400 Risky Behavior Adventure Challenges Covid-19 Health Obsesive Behavior  taking risks

The expression of the day is “risky behavior” compliments of Covid-19 warnings on how to avoid transmission: don’t congregate, don’t shake hands and don’t expect coffee shops to touch your refillable cups. From quarantines and closed borders to canceled schools and supply shortages – the daily number of confirmed cases is alarming.

The meaning of risky behavior sure has altered since I was a teenager. As with previous generations, we had the usual collection of risks, but most referred to the perils of running with scissors and the prospect of having sex.

Fast forward to 2020. As the coronavirus sweeps the globe, I’m convinced that life for young people is becoming more restrictive by the hour. 

How easy I used to have it! When I went to a New Year’s Eve party as a teen, I brought along two invaluable things: taxi fare in case I couldn’t find a sober driver and a roll of mints for breath protection. Locking lips at the stroke of midnight was a given. I can’t recall every name or face, yet I do remember the kissing.

With the present-day virus risk, a few breath mints won’t cut it. Today, if people plan to kiss, they’ll need a hazmat suit as if handling radioactive isotopes. Add the caution of “spread the word, not the disease” – forget about sharing drinks or borrowing a friend’s lipstick. And make room, taxi fare (or Uber account): pack a supply of sanitizing gel, rubber gloves and face masks. If I were currently dating, I’d be a nervous wreck. I’d also need a larger purse for all the required items!

How do these findings translate to modern-day youth? If you’re brave enough to venture out on a date with someone you’ve been drooling over, even a brisk glove-covered handshake is going too far. Instead, blow a kiss from at least six feet apart.

Come to think of it, try not to drool. You might be contagious. I hope you two make a compatible duo because you might end up quarantined together.

Yikes! Dating never felt so risky.

audio song 
“Heartbreak”
by
Vibe Tracks

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