I've decided that selling a house is something like being pregnant. You do everything that you're supposed to do to get the process underway, and then, for the next eon or two, you try to pretend that your life is nearly normal while your brain is on overload, your bank account empties of its own accord, and your body protests (quietly, more like a wallowy sigh now and again) about the amount of ice cream you are shovelling every evening.

Apparently, the housing market in Halifax went all soft as soon as we put the sign on the lawn. Every second house in the west end is for sale. We listed the house with a real estate agent after we tried to sell it privately for a month. Open house? Don't bother. All you get are middle-aged girlfriends out for a lark. I can picture it, they go to Chapters, browse for single guys and new mags, have a Starbucks, then they head out for the city-wide tour of other peoples' bedrooms and basements. Shoot me if I come to the point where that's a fun day.

As Barbara Frum used to say, "are you bitter?"

No, just weary of wiping, straightening, fluffing, and clearing the decks every day for potential buyers. We've had lots of people through the house. We came home the other night after a double showing and just like Mumma Bear, I was appalled to note that someone had Sat On My Bed. A big butt dent, right there on my side of the bed. I wouldn't mind if they'd sat down to write out a cheque, but really.

I just gave the guys next door a case of beer in return for the removal of the pirate flag flying from their porch. I felt bad about asking them, but if it helps, so be it.

So that's mostly what life is about these days, but there is other stuff going on. We bought a car, another Volvo wagon. Randy has an affinity for Volvo wagons. Like Nancy Dawson, they're heavily built and will carry a lot of stuff, they don't cave in if you bump into something, and with a good tailwind, they're pretty peppy. Too bad this one also came with a defective alternator that committed suicide just outside of New Minas (an hour from home, on the way to Yarmouth), and for good measure, fried the battery on the way out. We spent a night in a motel, cheering ourselves up with wine and a TV overdose, and paid a thousand bucks the next day to spring the car from the Canadian Tire. Bugger.bugger.bugger.

The rest of the trip to Yarmouth was uneventful. As we drove down the hill outside Digby and I got a good look at the beautiful blue-green ocean for the first time in weeks, I had a "that's what I've been missing!" reaction that surprised even me. Pulled in to Randy's mum's place in Digby and she was glad to see her old son after such a long separation. Randy hasn't been off the boat since we left in '05. He cooked Digby scallops to celebrate. You know you're in Nova Scotia when the guy at the fish counter offers you a raw scallop to taste for freshness. I told him I wasn't that kind of girl.

We had a good poke around my sister's place in Port Maitland, where we'll be staying for the rest of the summer should Duncan Street ever sell (Oh ye of little faith, take that back!), and it's a nifty old house, and a 10 minute walk from one of the most beautiful beaches in the province. Randy found a home-made table saw in the barn. We spent the rest of the weekend in Weymouth with Auntie Mary and Dad and cousins David and Joseph and Marianna, and a guest appearance by our Weymouth friend Judy. Marshmallow roasting, boating up the Sissaboo River, skipping rocks, going to Frenchy's, losing at cribbage (Dad was on a roll for a change) -- it was just was the doctor ordered. Speaking of guest appearances, the sun even came out. (My, I sound cranky!)

Today, Randy did a guest appearance at Anna's school as Captain Crusty Greybeard. Anna's running a Pirate Camp this week, and the Captain quizzed the kids on boat bits and terms and then signed them all up as crew on the Pukin' Parrot. Lots of fun. Anna told the kids that a real pirate was coming to visit, and I think she'd been threatening them all with keel-hauling and walking the plank, cause 4-year-old Clare came down the hall with her hands over her eyes, saying "I can't look!!! I can't look!!" Capt Greybeard turned out to be fairly mild-mannered. I think they were hoping for grog and a bit of the lash....

See below for pirate photos.