The accidental realtor on “the search for purpose continues..."

I’ve heard the term, “mid-life crisis” used on more than one occasion, and it usually follows some mention of a man in his mid to late forties, a convertible, a perm, a sudden gym membership, whispers of an affair, and an impending divorce.

Far be it from me to be judgmental, “mid-life crisis” is not a term I reserve only to the male species. Over the years, I’ve seen a number of females make drastic life changes after they hit 40, and often this involves an obsession with the preservation of youth, an unforeseen fall from child rearing and domestic bliss, followed by a complete wardrobe overhaul from mom jeans to mini-skirts, and finally, the disintegration of the marriage. 

What does being a real estate agent have to do with “mid-life crisis”? Simple - it all boils down to men and women and their innate need for purpose. For me, the move from writer to realtor was never on my bucket list. In fact, it took a job lay off for me to spend a few months wandering aimlessly through want ads, trendy coffee shops, and the self-help aisle at the local box bookstore. I had worn many hats in my 40 plus years - from 80’s aerobics instructor to the secretarial pool, cubicle world, to wife, mother, writer, and now - now what?

I always thought I would be found dead in my late nineties, hunched over my keyboard, writing yet another humorous column for my local newspaper. But it was not meant to be. The universe had other plans for me, and all I had to do was figure out where to start.

A conversation laden with self-pity, shared with a dear friend miraculously shone light at the "end of my career" tunnel. "Why don't you just go back to school and become a real estate agent like I did?” This from the mother of four sons - two over the age of 16 and two under the age of 6?

“Well heck! If she could do it, why can’t I?” Within minutes I was enrolled in real estate school.

That was three years ago, and I have never looked back.

Do I miss my “old world” of  Italian over-mothering, volunteering for every school function and field trip, all while meeting deadlines as the village newspaper reporter - you bet I do. But I  love my “new world”  real estate has created for me - flexible hours, meeting many new and interesting people, forever learning, this thing called “networking”, and the sound of  my metal sign frame piercing into the lawn of a new listing, and don’t even get me started on the thrill of flipping over the For Sale sign to the SOLD side. I lay awake at night, not mulling over complicated closings, or failed home inpsections, but rather, on which outfit I will don the next day. Looking professional and polished has never been more exciting, and as far as the suits, shoes, purses and accessories are concerned, after spending too many lonely days and nights hanging out in drawers and on cushioned hangers, the collection is finally living out it's purpose, hence, silencing husband once and all. The days of "who on earth needs that many outfits?" are a distant memory, as I strut passed him in the hallway, in a vintage Chanel suit and Ferragamo classic black stiletto pumps.

Yes to every season there is a purpose, and to every suit and shoe, an occasion.

Italian immigrants and the "investment income property" - what a brilliant concept!!

Almost 50 years ago, my Italian immigrant father purchased his first home in Ottawa. The address: 79 Bayswater Avenue. The selling price:  $7,500. It was a 2-storey semi-detached century old house, and a wonderful place to call home for the next two decades.  In those days, immigrants had the right idea: purchase a house that can accommodate not one, but two families. Live on one level and rent the other. A brilliant concept then, and a brilliant concept today. Back then, the idea was born more out of necessity rather than choice. The rental income helped pay the mortgage, taxes, or other expenses.

Like most Italians of that era, my parents would never dream of any form of frivolous spending. Salaries were a pittance, jobs long and laborious, and sacrificing wants in the name of needs was a daily part of life. Paying off that mortgage was the top priority. Credit cards were non-existent, as were home equity lines of credit, student loans, and “don’t pay a cent” events, as well as all the other enticing vices that have catapulted our generation into a society of educated, employed adults riddled with debt.

I recall a story that my father once told me, about his first work experience in Canada. The year was 1959, and like the majority of immigrants at the time, he found work on a construction site. The pay: $1.65 a week. The work: grueling long days, lack of proper outdoor wear, and the commute meant either bus, or walk, at times, two hours each way. His first day on the job a strange horn went off as noon was approaching. A small truck pulled up to the site and a group of workers began to form a line. There was an exchange of coins, and they walked away with strange glass bottles with a dark liquid inside.  My father asked a co-worker what that was all about. He instructed my father to just watch them for a moment. He did. As they cracked upon their bottles of ice cold Coca-Cola, my father was astonished. “Those men have really made it in this country,” he told his co-worker. “They must be earning quite a good salary to be able to afford to buy a drink from the canteen.”  His co-worker’s reply: “if we work hard enough, maybe in six months to a year, we’ll be able to afford one too.”

I often ask myself, “what did I learn from that story?” The answer is as simple as I am: I learned that I am an absolute idiot when it comes to spending, saving, and sacrificing. I even typed those in the wrong order – it should read – sacrificing, saving, and eventually, spending. What did I do with my first pay cheque? Well I suppose I did one half of what my father wanted me to do – I walked straight to the Royal Bank on Somerset and Merton Street. He had hopes that I would deposit the whole thing and immediately begin earning interest. I, on the other hand, cashed it and hopped on the number 2 bus to Rideau Street and headed straight into Aldo’s for a new pair of shoes!

Fast forward a few decades, and I have yet to break that cycle of earning and spending, with little saving in between. I do not live in a duplex or semi-detached home that could produce rental income. I do not own a second or third property that could produce rental income. I do, however, own a vast collection of Italian leather shoes and purses that may very well never produce any income! My father shouts at himself, particularly around the family dinner table, “where did I go wrong?” My sisters and I assure him that he did a fine job and raised three lovely daughters, who adore him, but just happen to have a penchant for nice things.

His reply is always the same: “But what about “a duplexy or nu bellu bungalow” to rent? Our answer is always the same: “who wants espresso and biscotti?” And then quietly make plans to stop in at Winner’s, HomeSense, and Starbuck’s on our drive home.

From spandex to suits...the life of a real estate agent

Four score and twenty years ago, this 80's aerobics instructor asked herself, "Now that the '80's are over, and the spandex doesn't quite fit, what am I going to do with my life?"



What ensued was one big fat Italian wedding followed by a young brood of three who made it their personal mission to hang off of their "Italian Ma" for the next 20 years. Once again, the burning question: "Now that the 80's and 90's are over, what am I going to do with my life?"
What ensued was a new found career as a community news reporter, columnist, and author. Once again, the burning question: "Now that first decade of the new milennium is over, what am I going to do with my life?"
What ensued was the advice of a wise friend, "go into real estate. You're a people-person, and have a fabulous wardrobe, you'll be perfect!" Yes, a realtor is exactly what I was going to reinvent myself as. So back to school I went. Six courses and nerve-wracking exams later, my license in tow, and I was ready to take on the world.
"How challenging can it be to get listings, show homes, hold open houses, market myself, fit in a life, and squeeze in three more courses and exams to complete the mandatory 24 month articling period?" I asked myself.
What ensued was this blog, "The Accidental Realtor" - a place where I can share the daily struggles, highs, lows, laughter and tears, as I struggle to divide my time and my sanity between building this new career, adult children who refuse to leave the nest, aging Italian parents who do not drive or speak English, and Nonna -  my 84 year old Italian mother-in-law who lives with me!
And still, the burning question, "Now that I have all of these people living in my house, and I'm trying to build a successful career, how am I going to juggle my life?"
Stay tuned...