The Festive Season

The Challenge of the Holiday Season.... Cooking and Decorating. Starting with Halloween.....Ever wonder about Candy Corn? Invented in 1880 by George Renninger and still so popular that October 30th is National Candy Corn Day. I have another name for candy corn - Scary.

It looks like harmless corn kernels, but when I see candy corn I see fangs. The Horrors of Halloween when a candy corn belly ache sent me to bed early only to suffer through the night with candy corn nightmares...... Vampires with candy corn Fangs!
Bats circling the room with candy corn fangs!

Fall days blow by like the leaves off trees, and suddenly it's November, and Thanksgiving, a great week, full of preparations, cooking and fun. The holiday traditions begin with the battle of the oven timer. A trying time, for there is always the fear that whatever I am cooking is going to burn. At the moment the timer goes off, I'm likely to be searching for something I swore I would never take out again, like a porcelain turkey, in a box somewhere - in the garage? or in the basement? You can get your family used to burnt cookies but that's not really what anyone wants to be remembered for.

Oh Christmas Tree.....freshly cut, a breath of fresh air in the livingroom .....better to use a step ladder, not a chair, to get that angel on the tippy-top of the tree........or you may have more than a fallin' angel.

Someday I may be just as content to simply decorate the bookshelves on either side of a warm fireplace, read a book, enjoy a delicious cookie from a local bakery, but all the excitement that comes with the holidays is too much to pass up. This year, I'll look for the turkey before I turn on the oven. Happy Halloween!

Photo Bloopers

Just when you think there's nothing worse than trying to get information on a home for sale that has only one exterior photo...you see some that may be better off without additional photos. If you've ever tried it, you know it's not that easy to take great photos of a home for sale. It's hard to get the light right. Just a little clutter looks like a lot when you photograph it. Even if you have the loveliest tile in a sparkling new half bath, how do you get more than a corner of the bathroom?

Even though they may not help sell the house, some are quite amusing and I've been collecting some for a blog. Did these poor sellers ever look online at what their agent posted? Upon further research I found there are sites and blogs dedicated to bad real estate photos. Yes, really!

So just for a giggle...

Dumpsters!

Wasn't there an empty corner in this room?

This is for a piece of vacant land.

Taken while falling down the stairs?

Note the ankle bracelet on this guy. Does home confinement mean he conveys with the house?

Bathrooms are tough, but closing the lid really helps.

Got any you'd like to add?

The contrarian

I have been in the real estate business for almost 20 years. I first got started in the early 90's when the economy was extremely difficult and it could take years to sell a house or more! At that time in the State of RI all accounts in the credit unions were frozen and people could not get access to their funds, period. Nothing happened in this state for almost 2 years. Although the current situation is certainly not positive we can at least get what ever money we have when we want it. Additionally, mortage rates are still very attractive, 30 year fixed rate mortgages are under 6%. That is incredible. I know it is hard to believe but there are still mortgage companies and financial instiutions out there that want to loan money!

We also have sellers who are very realisitic for the first time in over a decade. Realistic doesn't necesarily mean that it is given away but it is priced where it should be and is a good value. We also still have some people who have money. I know we never hear anything but panic but I tried to get a hotel at Disney World for a small vacation in the Spring and they are all booked solid! If things are so bad where are these people coming from and how do they make any money seeing that we are all on the verge of financial ruin, or that is what the media would like us to believe!

One of my biggest harbringers of a turn around is that every media outlet, loud talk show host on the varous cable financial stations and morning show host is telling us not to buy real estate. When the Today show tells you not to buy that is the best signal ever to start looking. When they tell you it is time to buy it is too late and the market has already moved significantly and you are overpaying, why, because the savy buyer was out when everyone else was told to run away and started the momentum! It is time to stop listening to all the so called experts and take it for what it is, there is value out there now and it is a great time, if your finances permit, to look for the dream house!

Gadget-Quest

My Mom. Irene Marie, was a woman who loved her family, loved cooking and loved kitchen gadgets. She passed her DNA on to me and my daughter Jennifer, and my granddaughters, Mia and Lina, and I can prove it.

In the 50s and 60s, there were things you could order by mail. Let’s just say, Kellogg’s of Battle Creek. I had those little frog men with the baking soda you put in the feet that made them swim. Sometimes they worked, and sometimes they did not. You had to mail away for them with box tops. That was the primitive beginning. Then came telephone ordering and, finally, internet.

I remember my Mom ordered a Ronco Salad Shooter – this thing sliced and diced carrots, cucumbers, you name it, and literally shot them into a salad bowl. One after another, no waiting, no muss, no fuss. Quick and easy. The whole family sitting around the dinner table, enjoying a big salad together. The only problem was, it was cheap plastic, it clogged, jammed and gummed up like nobodys business and was a complete waste of money and worst of all, made my Mom cry with frustration. I remember Mom flinging it into the trash with a few choice words. And my Mom almost never uttered a cross word.

I have also, over the course of my life, ordered and bought a few ‘must have’ kitchen gadgets and some exercise equipment made for suckers like me. Some have worked out nicely, some have been a bust.

Here are a few of the things I was sure would make my life better – an apple corer and slicer, the Ove Glove so I could handle red hot pans or plunge my hands into boiling water, no problem (what was I thinking?), and the strawberry de-stemmer, so small and tedious it is not worth the effort. I bet you have one of these, too - the exercise ball from TJ Maxx that sat in my closet and took up space until I deflated it and threw it out after a year, the Pilates machine from QVC, the Ped-o-meter from EMS that even they did not know how to use, the blood pressure monitor that declared me dead, and the Pilates rubber bands that seemed like such a sure thing.


And here a some my daughter Jen has fallen victim to – the Pancake puffer “add some pizzazz to every meal!’ (this one even Mia and Lina thought a sure winner – inject the pancake balls full of jam and goodies, except in reality, no one would eat them), the Jesus-face branding iron for toast ( I am not making this up), the onion peeling goggles (these seem to work – they really do reduce the tears, Jen says), the snowman kit ( in retrospect, this was probably not a necessity), the mini shredder for lemon zest and garlic, etc, the café frother and the aero latte. I, too, fell victim to these and have used them one time only.


How about the French fry cutter, the clay garlic baker, the butter keeper, the voice recorder for easy grocery shopping. Bread, milk, eggs. Except that unless you stop it after each word, you are in the same spot of forgetfulness as before. Better to use a written list! Trust me on this one.

I’m sure we all have our list of useless gadgets we have fallen victim to. We are seduced by the idea of a better life, more family time, a warmer and richer life experience. , I guess it does not matter except for a few wasted dollars, and that it endears us to our families, and they to us, for trying to make our lives better and more fun. In the end, we are really all good enough just as we are. No improvements necessary and no money back guarantees. : -)

A life in crime

Abandoned houses have long exerted a peculiar fascination over me. When I was three, we moved from our house in Brooklyn to a quiet suburban neighborhood which had a “haunted house” located diagonally across the street from us. If I stood at our front door, it was one of the first things I saw, and I never contemplated it without a shudder. As a derelict building, it was a classic of its kind – crumbling red brick, broken windows, graffiti, overgrown lawn, an obligatory “For Sale” sign, the works. The place was of course a magnet for every beer-drinking, cigarette-smoking, making-out teenager within a 10 block radius. At night you’d see the flickering yellow lights of matches being struck or flashlight beams bouncing dementedly around., a sight that did not inspire confidence in my three year old mind. And sometimes there were…sounds…voices. Who knew what was going on in there?

Gentle reader, you must know where I’m going with this…One day, a couple of my friends organized an expeditionary break-in. Filled with fear and trembling, but in the grips of an irresistible compulsion, I followed them in. Next thing I knew, I was running out screaming my head off like a victim in a horror movie. What transpired in between I have no idea; where that memory should be is a total black-out. Was I transported to the mother ship? Is that when the probe got implanted in my brain?

Could be.

But the experience – whatever it actually was – failed to break me. Five years later, me and my friend Eileen Jones were gleefully breaking into an abandoned carriage house. First we had to grapple our way hand over hand up the twisty ropes of ivy totally obscuring the facade, and then we had to squeeze ourselves in between the long pointy shards of broken glass of an open second story window. It was tough getting in there, let me tell you. Ivy Cottage, we called it. Off-limits, is what my mother called it. Too bad for her, I grew up. Or at least grew more careful.

Because once you get a taste of that B&E frisson, it’s hard to give it up. Just like how for some people, smoking that first joint plunges them directly into the ravages of heroin addiction, or an innocent sip of their Dad’s beer is the irrevocable step #1 leading them straight into the heart of the worst kind of Bowery-bum type alcoholism, some of us should NEVER be allowed to get that first taste. Because it didn’t stop with Ivy Cottage. Next it was Horman’s Castle on Howard Avenue. The Staten Island Monastery, also on Howard Avenue. The old Gramatan Hotel in Bronxville. An abandoned factory in White Plains. The University of Miami’s Experimental Agriculture Lab.

Now I’m a realtor and I can enter abandoned buildings at will, without having to worry about being arrested. Other people actually unlock the doors for me, hand me keys, give me the lockbox codes. Do they understand who they’re dealing with? Evidently not. So lots has changed. But one thing hasn’t. Every unopened door still holds out a promise for me, a mystery that dangles just out of reach. It’s like getting the answer to a question you didn’t even know you had. For a second, opening that door feels like it has the potential to change everything. It’s huge, that moment when your hand is on the knob and you feel the door push open. Because anything could lie on the other side. Anything.

Veni, Vidi, Vici

I had the luxury of studying Latin for three years. It was a wonderful experience, very
rich and deep. I loved reading and translating the Illyiad and the Odyssey. It lead to discussions about the Roman and Greek gods and mythology. And is still an unparalleled primer for vocabulary.


Bits of Latin knowledge still pop up here and there – I was at the Wickford Town Beach last summer and a Mom said to her tot, “Come on, Romulus, get in the car!” OK. This is great, I thought. Remus was not too far behind, I’m sure. I gave her a wink. She either thought I was a psycho or she knew I was on board with her thought process.
And translating is really fun – All roads lead to Rome, Ecce Homo, all of Oedipus Rex.

Does anyone else ever lament. Wafna! Wafna! That’s the chorus in the Greek tragedy, Carmina Burana. And in Oedipus Rex. Also, a ballet, I think, I saw at PPAC. Where do you go for a support group of Latin groupies like me????

Do kids still study Latin? I know my own children were not offered Latin as an option. If it is not offered in schools, I wonder why not? It is the most wonderful learning tool ever. If I have a say as to what my tax dollars are spent on, let it be more studies of the ancient Romance languages and the antiquities.

Some would say that Latin is a ‘dead’ language. I disagree! All the Romance languages have their roots in those lovely Latin words. And the gods and goddesses who are so well-represented and involved in the literature still have messages and morals for us to take to heart today.


Everything uttered in Latin takes on a serious and somber tone, even pithy sayings and put-downs. Ipso facto. Nullo modo. Raptus regaliter.

It is funny and sad at the same time to me that this well-known Latin phrase (veni, vidi, vici) that Julius Caesar supposedly sent as a message to his Senate about his latest conquest, is now the website for video game aficionados!

And, if there is an adult group of Latin lovers out there, or people who read and discuss mythology, please let me know. I love Latin. And I am not talking about Salsa dancing. (although that is fun, too!)

PS. Buy the books, Silly Latin or Latin for All Occasions by Henry Beard. If you like words and language, you’ll love these books.

10 Signs of Fall in Newport

In addition to the crisp, clear weather and a bit of foliage, there are more things that signal the end of summer and the beginning of a new season in Newport.

1. Less boats and more empty docks and moorings every day

2. The festival/concert tent at the Newport Yachting Center disappears and the Ice Skating Rink returns

3. PARKING! – no more sticker parking and no more meters

4. the lifeguard stands at the beach disappear

5. the roses have a second (third or fourth if you have the right kind) bloom that surprises even those who enjoy it every year

6. the summer college kids are replaced with school year college students

7. visitors who arrive on the cruise ships enjoy our scenery and history with less crowded streets and shops

8. the big yachts are at Newport Shipyard preparing for their sail south

9. the cannons at the 3 yacht clubs, which signal the flags going up at 8am and down at sunset, go silent

10. ??? any suggestions for #10?

Sheep may safely graze

Reality is in short supply these days, and nowhere is that more true than in Newport, a town that makes it’s living by celebrating - and selling - its own history. Or versions of it. From Queen Anne Square (a fiction from top to bottom) to the beautiful but unfortunately reproduction 4500 square foot “colonial” McMansions to the quaintly cobblestoned “wharf” areas (a Timberland store is in keeping with the historical record of the wharves? I think not), the lies are so deftly intertwined with the truths that it sometimes seems like I live in some kind of Truman Show of the collective mind. What’s real? What isn’t? Even us townies can’t always tell.

Take for example Queen Anne Square, that bucolic & totally quintessential New England town green. There’s the perfect whitewashed steepled church…there’s the grassy commons…there’s the ring of centuries old houses and shops surrounding it. Can’t you just see the flock of sheep crossing it, bells sonorously a-twinkle? It’s all so perfect. So post-cardish. So exactly what you’d expect to find. And so totally fake.

Historically, Newport never had a commons or a town green – in fact, that was pretty much the whole point of the place. Towns in the Massachusetts Bay Colony had town greens featuring a church at one end because they were theocracies in which every facet of life was dictated by or organized around the Congregational Church. In contrast, Newport – and the rest of Rhode Island – was founded by renegades & exiles from that Puritan society, dissenters who opposed those autocratic beliefs with their very lives, who hacked their way down here through an Indian-filled wilderness all the way from Boston in order to institute their very radical, very utopian, “lively experiment”. Their goal was to found a community that was NOT organized around a single church, but in which worshippers of ALL faiths were welcome. Puritans. Jews. Quakers. Baptists. It’s the one single moment in this state’s history of which we can all feel unreservedly proud. No single church would be allowed to dominate in Rhode Island. The point of Newport was that there wasn’t a town green.

Except of course now there is. Queen Anne’s Square appeared about 40 years ago under the aegis of an urban redevelopment plan. The area in front of Trinity Church was bulldozed of dozens of old buildings, buildings consisting of exactly the kind of real “historical reality” that we’re all so sanctimonious about these days, and in its place, voila! An insta-green was created. And as if that weren’t enough to confuse everybody, this Disneyesque stage set was ringed with authentic 18th century buildings, a reinforcing of the false by means of exploiting the true, and then the whole illusion was cemented into place – rather brilliantly, actually - by branding the result of these efforts “Queen Anne’s Square”, a name of which effectively conjures up misty, vaguely Shakesperean images, of simple English folk wearing big white ruffs, wimples, leather helmets, big-buckled shoes. Sheep on the green.

But let’s not get too down on the enterprise. The entire construction reveals a lot more about the values of the 20th century than it does about the 18th. So I say, let’s keep it around. We’ve actually managed to create an artifact of ourselves for future generations, if they can only manage to sort through all the conflicting messages and layers of meaning - and if we can only manage to resist the temptation to tweak the truth just a little more.

Home Sweet Home

The life of a realtor is a busy one. My calendar is filled up with showings, client appointments, meeting appraisers, inspectors, the fire department, pick up a radon test. Office duty. A buyer’s parents are in town, can we show them the house? Can you meet me so I can measure for my furniture? My client would appreciate it if I could meet the furnace maintenance guy. Can I find a landscaper who can come do some work right away? Lots of things you would never even think of.


But every once in awhile, I look at my calendar, and there is a blank day. Open and all mine. This is so very rare. Even though people think the real estate market is quiet right now, it is exactly the opposite for most of us. Every deal takes more time, and people are understandably more anxious, so there are more steps involved to get to the final closing.


Today was one of those open days for me! I could work in the garden, finally, and get it cleaned up and ready for winter. My family is away – some at a lake house in Maine with friends, some in California. My friends have gone off on a weekend junket. I was pleased to have the luxury of an open day, all to myself.


Don’t get me wrong – I am so very grateful for being busy and having opportunities to work and make a living. But we all need some down time and today was going to be my day at home.

Then the phone calls start to come – a buyer who was coming in on Sunday wants to come today. Of course, I said ‘Yes.’ I must! It is my responsibility and I do want to sell this house. Then another – my out of state seller wants to know if I can meet her sister and give her the house keys so she can do some painting. ‘Sure thing’! Then I am blessed to get another offer on another property – go to the office, pick it up, meet with my seller.

All in all, I consider myself very lucky to be so busy, I must say. Thank you very much.

So when my day is finally done, I will come back to my sweet home and maybe read a book after finally getting some time in the garden. And then it will be time to make some snacks for my friends so we can watch the game together.


I sincerely hope that my clients and customers will all find much happiness in their homes, too. That’s what it’s all about!

The Enchanted Guest House

When I was a precocious little girl growing up, in rural Connecticut, we had a guest house in our back yard called, “The Mimi House”. It was lovingly named after my paternal grandmother Mary. On summer days I would dash out of my house, wide eyed with my curly hair streaming wildly behind me, equipped with a highly overactive imagination and head straight for that spot. Not even a woodpecker, which was always enthusiastically pecking away at the bent weathered electrical pole, right outside of the guest house, could daunt me. There was nothing about this small resilient structure that did not utterly fascinate me, from the old crank out windows, to the open out window over the head of the bed which fastened to the exterior eaves and, last but not least, the built in bureau with all of its hidden treasures. Upon entering I would drink in the slightly woody, musty and fabric aroma while looking around to see which adventure I could conjure up that day. I would seat myself at the diminutive antique desk pretending to make earth shaking decisions while being hailed as an influential world leader, as I gazed out the window overlooking the fields and orchard.

At the head of the bed there was a shelf with a menagerie of exquisite little china animals which were all lined up perfectly by their respective types in different sizes, from large to small. Who had staged them? I never discovered who that person was, and no one else seemed to remember either. Those charming animals came to life for me and I was endlessly fascinated by them. I would rearrange them, always being very careful to restore the creatures, to their original positions. There were horses, bears, dogs, cats and pigs. That is when I developed my life long penchant for pigs.

Some days, my friend, Kathy, and I would excitedly and reverently pull open the bureau's bin. We were in awe of the wealth of elegant evening gowns which my beautiful sweet mother had worn many years earlier on her transatlantic ocean liner crossing to Europe. At that time it was in vogue to wear a different gown to dinner each evening. My friend and I would sashay up and down the Bocci Court, which was adjacent to the guest house, wearing our daily choices of gowns which were awkwardly trailing behind us on the grass. Believing that we were actually on the promenade deck of the ship and in the formal dining room, we felt the thrills which my Mom must have experienced. What a tremendous joy and delight it was for both of us. That was when children at play still subsisted on imagination.

One hot sultry summer’s evening my older sister, Bonnie, brought her new tape recorder out to the, “Mimi House”. It was the size of a small suitcase! For the first time in my young life, sitting in this cherished haven, I heard my actual voice. Wow, how totally shocking to discover that the voice which I heard inside of me was not the one that everyone else heard, what a revelation!

As the story goes, when the guest house’s namesake, Mary, was sleeping in the guest house one evening, years before I was born, my maternal great grandfather Julius paid her a late night visit. He sat at the end of the bed and regaled her with family tales, which she very happily related the next morning to shocked relatives. He had actually passed away five years previously!

The treasured thoughts of that little guest house have remained with me, enriching me as a person with all of those happy memories. It is the imagination and enjoyment of these little things in life which shape us into the human beings who we are today.

I will always be eternally grateful for my chance to experience the enchanted guest house!

The Enchanted Guest House

The Enchanted Guest House

When I was a precocious little girl growing up, in rural Connecticut, we had a guest house in our back yard called, “The Mimi House”. It was lovingly named after my paternal grandmother Mary. On summer days I would dash out of my house, wide eyed with my curly hair streaming wildly behind me, equipped with a highly overactive imagination and head straight for that spot. Not even a woodpecker, which was always enthusiastically pecking away at the bent weathered electric pole, right outside of the guest house, could daunt me. There was nothing about this small resilient structure that did not utterly fascinate me, from the old crank out windows, to the open out window over the head of the bed which fastened to the exterior eaves, and, last but not least, the built in bureau with all of its hidden treasures. Upon entering I would drink in the slightly woody, musty and fabric aroma while looking around to see which adventure I could conjure up that day. I would seat myself at the diminutive antique desk pretending to make earth shaking decisions while being hailed as an influential world leader, as I gazed out the window overlooking the fields and orchard.

At the head of the bed there was a shelf with a menagerie of exquisite little china animals which were all lined up perfectly by their respective types in different sizes, from large to small. Who had staged them? I never discovered who that person was, and no one else seemed to remember either. Those charming animals came to life for me and I was endlessly fascinated by them. I would rearrange them, always being very careful to restore the creatures, to their original positions. There were horses, bears, dogs, cats and pigs. That is when I developed my life long penchant for pigs.

Some days, my friend, Kathy, and I would excitedly and respectfully pull open the bureau bin. We were in awe of the wealth of elegant evening gowns which my beautiful sweet mother had worn many years earlier on her transatlantic ocean liner crossing to Europe. At that time it was in vogue to wear a different gown to dinner each evening. My friend and I would sashay up and down the Bocci Court, which was adjacent to the guest house, wearing our daily choice of gowns which were awkwardly dragging behind us on the grass. Believing that we were actually on the promenade deck of the ship and in the formal dining room, we felt the thrills which my Mom must have experienced. What a tremendous joy and delight it was for both of us. That was when children at play still subsisted on imagination.


One hot sultry summer’s evening my older sister, Bonnie, brought her new tape recorder out to the, “Mimi House”. It was the size of a small suitcase! For the first time in my young life, sitting in this cherished haven, I heard my actual voice! Wow, how totally shocking to discover that the voice which I heard inside of me was not the one that everyone else heard! What a revelation!

As the story goes, when the guest house’s namesake, Mary, was sleeping in the guest house one evening, years before I was born, my maternal great grandfather, Julius, paid her a late night visit. He sat at the end of the bed and regaled her with family tales, which she very happily related the next morning to shocked relatives. He had actually passed away five years previously!

The treasured thoughts of that little guest house have remained with me, enriching me as a person with all of those happy memories. It is the imagination and enjoyment of these little things in life which shape us into the human beings who we are today.

I will always be eternally grateful for my chance to experience the enchanted guest house!

The grammar of money

That $700 billion dollar bailout… the first question everyone wants to know is, “will it work?” Actually, that’s probably really only the second or third question. For just about all of us, the number #1 question is, “what should I do with MY money?” At least that’s the question that’s been on my mind these days. To all of you who’ve been asking the same thing, I have only one suggestion to make: Spend it. And hurry. What are you waiting for?

I went out and bought a ruby ring last week. Heck, why not? My 401K lost $6000 in a single day last week – what am I hanging on to the money for? Six thousand dollars. I could have gone to Europe, gotten a face lift, put a flat screen TV in every room of my house, bought Manolos & Jimmy Choos & Louis Vuitton handbags. I could have gotten a dozen Botox treatments. I could have put down the money on a BMW, like all the rest of you realtors are driving, and scrapped the whole dinged-up Toyota Echo aesthetic. But no. I had to “save” it. I had to “invest” it. I thought I could make my money “work” for me. The mistake was mine. I believed that money could act like a verb. It can’t. Money is a noun, and nouns are what it does best. Real estate. Jewels. Cars. Vacations. Treat it like a concept & it’ll act like a concept, shifting ephemerally with every breeze. Treat it like the material object that it is, and it’ll reward you with other material objects. Concrete things. Solid, tangible pieces of actual reality. It’s simple, really.

So go out and buy that big house. Test drive that brand-new car. Speak to me, Harry Winston. Because I’ve learned my lesson, and learned it the good old-fashioned hard way. You CAN’T take it with you. And what a relief, at long last to finally be able to stop trying.