This year, amid one house fire, getting badly burned (okay, not by the house fire but by the sun, and because I’d spent two weeks in Crete, so fuck me), my job as a travel expert, my fifth book being released, the expansion of the SRL Learning Center AND losing 40 POUNDS (I cut out the chocolate-covered butter sticks for breakfast), I got my goddam REAL ESTATE LICENSE this year!!!!
Why, you may ask, is a successful author going into real estate? First, who gives a shit what you think! I like to work and I always have. I’ll collect tin cans on the beach in a shopping basket if I want. But if you really want to know, there are actually many reasons I took this path, one of which is the fact that the singular focus of my first book, Bleachy-Haired Honky Bitch; Tales from a Bad Neighborhood, is the search for a home of my own. Some of you may recall that I found that home in a $60,000 crap shack in Capitol View. The day before I closed on it the police found a severed human head in a plastic sack on my street — and I bought it anyway. Good times! That book became a best seller and the film right sold four times. The TV show never got made, but my pay checks from the studios got printed and that’s good enough for me.
My next memoir, Confessions of a Recovering Slut and Other Love Stories, covers my unexpected motherhood and the ensuing panic that, Oh my Gawd! I live in a neighborhood where a bag of heads is no big deal! So I had to continue my search for a home, not just for one of my own, but one that could be a bullet-free haven for my big-eyed baby sprogette. The film rights for that book sold four times as well. (See above.)
My third memoir, Trailer Trashed; My Dubious Attempts at Upward Mobility, is about — you guessed it — my search for a better home. This after I unwisely looked up my address on the GBI sex-offender site and discovered that my townhouse was surrounded on all sides by salivating, child-molesting masturbaters. Lord! Some neighborhoods look nice on the outside, but on the inside are teeming with rabid maggots. (A good real-agent knows that.)
So I finally found my real home. And I write novels now, not memoirs. Partly because my girl is 15 and has started reading chapters from my memoirs and is asking me questions like, “Does uncle Grant really get his colonics at the DeKalb County Car Wash?” and “Does Uncle Lary really have a bunch of taxidermied hobos hidden in his basement?” and “What is a ‘happy accident,’ and why is that my nickname in your book?” And partly because I don’t have the energy to waste in order maintain the maniacal level of hijinks that have proven such fodder for humor in the past. I’d rather take that energy and focus it on more productive things, like a maniacal level of hijinks in the realm of Atlanta real estate that will prove fodder for humor in the future. Get it?
So, yes, I’m a licensed real-estate agent with the Red Robin Group in Grant Park. So if you want me to sell your house — or sell you a house — hurry up and let me know, because Jan and Melissa, my bosses at Red Robin Group, will probably kill me when they see this post and make me take it down.