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July 12, 2005
Wax on, wax off
I’m sitting in a house that is just about as tidy as a house can be. I should like to twirl around in it from happiness because messy houses make for a crazy, panic-filled, hyperventilating me, however I’m afraid I would bump into something and it would break, thus messing everything up. My husband is worse: he is in charge of “exterior home repairs and processes” and has spent the last three days shop-vac’ing dirt off of our sidewalk. Please note that he is not generally like this, but when there is a deadline and vast sums of money involved, that man really puts eater to weed.
Our house goes on the market in FIVE DAYS. An army of realtors is driving over tomorrow to inspect and appraise and review and critique. Those are my earth-toned bathrooms soaps, do you like them? That is my artfully arranged tableaux of books on decorating. You can tell I have read and studied them all. That is my basket of unmentionables. Please do not touch them or I will gross out.
We also have to have an open house, which around here means every freaking neighbor from a ten-block radius comes over to look at your shit while you are not there. Creepy VonCreepinsticks. This creeps me out to the nth degree, as I know someone who had a jar of pennies stolen from an open house, and I know someone else who’s ex-wife was one of those pill-popper types who go to open houses to steal prescription drugs. We have no pennies, we have no drugs! Buy my house and be off with you then!
Also, as a precaution, please be warned that window salesmen are sleazy beyond belief. I was completely unaware of the old-fashioned hucksterism of the whole “window industry” until we had to replace our windows right after we moved in. Those guys will seduce you with their briefcase samples, their desiccant-filled spacers, and their dollar sign lit flashing eyeballs. But then when you buy their crappy vinyl windows and one of them is discovered to have a huge stress crack not a year later, they treat you like the two-dollar ho you are. They won’t even return your calls! Too bad for them this ho spent her two dollars on gas so she’ll be driving up to their office (I mean “showroom”) wanting breakfast or at least, a cigarette.
My metaphors, they’re better than yours. I’d teach you but I’d have to charge.
Posted by Max at July 12, 2005 01:01 AM