There’s always something to howl about.

Mother Nature is not a MILF

Now the hard part—fabricating an essay that somehow pertains to real estate and ties in with the above catchy title; one that popped into my head while hydroplaning through a stop sign in a downpour earlier this month.  At the next red light I quickly texted the lofty thought to myself  expecting to come up with an accompanying  point (and several hundred additional words) once I made it safely back to my desk—my writing desk that is. Not my selling desk. I have a separate hard, cluttered surface for each, you see.

More accurately, what I’ve set up are creative stations for each side of my brain;  right brain/writing desk,  left brain/selling desk.  And it’s not hard to tell when I’m performing the wrong  creative duty at the wrong desk, either; I basically suck at whichever task is at hand, I’m always running  behind schedule, and I don’t make any money.  Anyway, that  Mother Nature idea was almost three weeks ago.

So tonight  I was reading  Jeff Brown’s latest post (and most of the 100 or so comments that were bound to ensue) when finally, the ideal segue hit me.  Transparency!  Why not try and give that clear concept a whack myself since, as hard as I tried to think of a comment to insert, I had nothing intelligent to add to Mr Brown’s already lengthy thread.  Perhaps  instead, I could unveil a few secrets of my own that the BawldGuy might feel are nobody’s fiscal business.  Actually, I  agree with him (and his grandparents) on this one but I happen to be sitting at my selling desk  in boxer shorts now so…. down they come.  Ah transparency.

* In 2006 I earned more income selling real estate than the combined government salaries of the Vice President of the United States and a typical  City of Chicago Streets and Sanitation worker on the ‘no show’ payroll.

* Last year, according to the cover of Parade Magazine, I basically matched dollar for dollar with the average preschool teaching assistant in Youngstown, Ohio (Fail perhaps, but not quite Perish).

* So far this selling season, I’m keeping  signing bonus pace with the two lowest paid relief pitchers on the Cubs roster who have but one Save between them.  That’s only one Save more than me and I don’t even play baseball. Still, it beats the hell out of  singing Barney songs to kindergarteners and cleaning up spilt milk…in Ohio.

* I’m yet to directly make a nickel writing anything in any year, sing-along session, or administration.

* Sometimes I imagine a cute saying or vivid scene,  edit  the content  for profanity and blue imagery,  QWERTY it into the Notes page of my iPhone then blog about it later, generally at my writing desk. I try very hard to keep at least an element of truth in these sorts of writings. If  the piece winds up getting  too far out there then I just stuff  it full of keywords and hyperlinks and post it on Active Rain instead.

* Other times,  the event actually does unfold before my very eyes which immediately hurls me into  multi-talkxting  mode (simultaneously talking with one person, texting another, and drinking a caffeinated beverage while operating a motor vehicle). This is always about the time I accidently drop my iPhone in one puddle or another.

* The rest of the time I just wait for Saturday evening to arrive and, if I haven’t dozed off in a corner somewhere,  log onto my Bloodhound WordPress account and try to slip  a semi-polished post past a couple of  the sleeping big dogs before midnight.  If I’ve had enough coffee throughout the week, it generally writes itself.

This morning  in the shower a new title popped into my head.  The New York Nicks:  a story of two cooks, both named Nicholas, who work at a Greek restaurant during the day and play in a Staten Island garage band at night.  How I’ll ever find a way to make that notion somehow  pertain to real estate, I haven’t a clue. But then again,  Mother Nature is not a MILF took since May 12th to end up here.