Monday, February 27, 2006

The Tale of Two Bad Children

No one can take the wind out of my sails like Gwendolyn. No one, bar none.

We were at Target yesterday and there was a young man working there who had a skin condition where some pigment was missing from his arms and face. Emma pointed her finger at him and started asking what was wrong with him. I slapped her arm down and hurried away before he could see how rude my children were. I delivered a stern lecture to both of them on how it wasn't nice to point at people no matter what and how it could hurt their feelings and it is a terrible thing to hurt someone's feelings.

I was just gearing up for good long rant, when Gwennie, lying lazily in the grocery cart like the Queen of Sheba on a litter with her arms crossed behind her head, interrupted me.

"He must be moulting" She said casually.

I had no words because I couldn't breathe for laughing. I'm starting to seriously question whether it is possible for me to raise nice children. I'm one of those horrid parents who can't help laughing even when their kids do something dreadful. But I try. Really. I do.

Friday, February 24, 2006

Christianity vs Buddhism

Sometimes I forget Jethro isn't a Christian. This isn't because I forget that he's Asian, it's just that he's a better Christian than most Christians.

I know more hymns than God. Seriously. Perhaps it has something to do with growing up in a cult. So it isn't an odd phenomenon to catch me singing "Bringing In The Sheaves" at random intervals. What was odd, at least to me, was hearing Jethro singing "Shaving My Wife's Cooch" to the same tune while he collected the necessary implements. He had no idea it was a hymn.

Now I'm a fan of South Park. I can tolerate religious slander if it means that I get to watch them skewer metrosexuals ("We're HERE, we're not QUEER, but we're CLOSE, so get USED to it!"). I mean, I haven't beheaded anyone yet. But I'll admit to a slight shock at hearing Jethro singing the word "cooch" in a hymn. I did laugh though.

Wednesday, February 22, 2006

I just realized I haven't discussed my sex life in awhile. I think I've said about all there is to say about it. We have a lot of sex. Sometimes funny things happen that lead up to it or during it or after it. That's about it.

Sometimes I use Jethro's love-root as if it is a microphone. I've sung "Uptown Girl" to it more times than I would probably care to admit. Once in awhile I will do a Carlos Mencia bit. One of these days I will whistle the the theme to Brokeback Mountain. Just to see what happens. Probably a whole lot of nothing, but you never know. I suppose I'm just living out my American Idol fantasies and engaging in foreplay at the same time. See? I can do two things at once.


Gwennie had what is known at her school as an "All About Me" day. It's supposed to build children's self-esteem. I didn't get that impression after watching it.
Basically, the child brings in pictures of him/herself, his/her favorite toy, and fills out a questionaire of their favorite things.

Gwennie brought pictures of herself at Disney World, two pictures of herself playing basketball, her basketball trophy, and her Jar Jar Binks doll upon whose eyes she used to suck when she was a baby. It was unnerving, but I thought that story might make her classmates laugh.

Everything was going fine until she got to Jar Jar. Then some little geek asked her, snottily, "Do you even know who that is?" Gwennie just looked at him as if he were a worm and picked another kid to ask a question.

I didn't say anything, but I was feeling a little irritated until Jethro said, "Don't worry. In a few years all that kid will have is Star Wars."

I felt better. But it's hard to let your kid deal with this stuff on her own when all you want to do is walk around with a light saber decapitating anyone who isn't anything but polite to her.

Monday, February 20, 2006

We had a lovely time with Travis and Brighton at Alexander the Great Greek Restaurant. The only thing that marred it was the traffic. I'd forgotten it was All-Star weekend and Houston was priveledged to host the event and suck worthless celebrity ass all weekend. Poor Brighton and Travis, is all I can say.

I had the most obnoxious Friday. It was so bad that when I tried to blog about it, all that would come out was deep, profound, exorcist-style profanity. But a pleasant weekend puts enough distance for me to see the twisted humor in the situation.

One of our listings is a little lease property. The owner (Californian) is not the easiest client in the world, but she is still a nice lady and has never been rude. However, she likes to do things her own way without taking anyone's advice. She is also indecisive. This translates into feeding her ideas while at the same time making her think she is the one who had them. For instance, and this will be important later, she set the security deposit for $700.00. Usually the security deposit is equal to one month's rent, which, in this case was $875.00. Her reasoning was that the lower price would attract more rentors to the property. If I had been the one going over the lease, I would have said to just keep it at $875.00. But for some reason, stepfather didn't push the issue.

Anyway, it's a cute house, we haven't had it on the market too long, and we expected it to rent out fairly quickly, so it was no surprise when a young man called me about it.

He was pleasant enough on the phone and seemed to really like the home. He asked me to send him a rental application, which I did along with the required Information About Brokerage Services, which basically explains what the real estate agents' roles are in the transaction.

This gave him some consternation as he thought he was going to have to pay our fee. I explained to him that we were the Owner's agent and she would be paying our fee which was the equivalent of the security deposit. In retrospect, I should have told him that the fee was the equivalent of one month's rent, but I wasn't aware at the time that the security deposit was lower. It didn't matter though, because he wasn't the one responsible for paying it regardless. He asked if he needed his own agent, and I said that would be fine, but the terms of the lease were pretty straightforward. (I had no interest in bringing another realtor into the transaction after I had done all the work, but if he wanted one, there is nothing I could or would do to stop him). I asked if he had any more questions about the fees, and he said no. Not five minutes later, I got a call from his father asking me to explain about the fees again.

This should have been a bright red flag with a singing asshole on it. Any man, 18+ who need their daddy to call and figure things out for them is a wuss and is not to be trusted. In my opinion.

He didn't fax in the offer, but did continue to pester me throughout the day to explain things to him. The next day, we received another offer. His came in a short time later. He had decided to use his own agent. Both offers listed the security deposit as $700.00 and that is when I became aware that they security deposits was not the same amount as one month's rent. No matter.

The first offer to come in was from three young men. Stereotypically, they're not the best tenants in the world, but they all seemed to have stable jobs and they wanted to move in on the first of March. Daddy's Boy was a better bet since he was older, had been employed longer, and had kids. The only problem was that he wanted to move on the first of April.

After discussing it many times with the indecisive CA woman, and subtly pointing out that her thought that an older father of two was probably more stable than three young bachelors, she said that she would lease to him on the first of April, even though she would lose a whole month's rent, if he paid $875.00 for the security deposit instead of $700.00, a difference of $175.00.

I called Daddy's Boy's realtor and told her we had in another offer and these were the terms under which her client could lease the property. She said she would talk to her client, and not five minutes later, I got a call from him damning me up and down for trying to get him to pay the realtors' fees. *Sigh* I hung up the phone on him just as he was gearing up for a good rant. I don't get paid to listen to a Daddy's Boy bust a nut-let.

So if you have managed to read this far, let me ask you. Is it just me or are men becoming more feminized? And if so, is this really a good thing?

Granted I can be a little tomboyish, but I should not be more manly than men. Really.

Thursday, February 16, 2006

An Interesting Weekend Part II (Abreviated)/Current Events In The Lives of Jethro and Zelda

Last Sunday, we took Gwennie and Emma to see Dora's Pirate Adventure. So stupid, I can't even believe it. They loved it, though, and I was kept somewhat entertained by Boots the Monkey's camel toe. Well, that's what happens when you put a grown man into a skin-tight monkey suit and make him dance and squat and sing. Jethro was looking at Dora's boobs. And that's what happens when you visit a strip club the night before.


Jethro took me out for Greek food on Valentine's Day. I have to say it was a step up from the lobster tails. The restaurant is incredible. The decor isn't anything special, but the food will make you weep it's so good. I had sea bass with shrimp and boulliabase and Jethro had a lamb shank.

The owner of the restaurant looks like Hugh Hefner. He's cute. Brighton would adore him. Part of their schtick is belly-dancers. They get these girls to come in and belly-dance while this amazing mandolin player plays. Come to think of it, Brighton and Travis must come with us to this place. They would love it. Once the mandolin player gets going good, everyone gets up and dances. Group mediterranean dancing is not to be missed if you ever get the chance to participate. It is so cool.

I noticed a table of two Greek couples. The ladies were older and not particularly attractive. Not ugly, just ordinary older women. When one of the belly dancers swung by, one of the ladies watched, smiling for a few minutes. She put a dollar in her skirt and patted her on the fanny as she danced away. It wasn't a lewd gesture or anything, it was like a friendly aunt giving you a pat on the tush. I came to the conclusion that that is how I would like to be when I'm old. This lady seemed so content that she didn't waste a second jealously shooing the girl away from her table. She wasn't botoxed or liposucked or made-up like used-up whore. She just looked pleasant and was completely at ease without feeling like she had to look good enough shake her ageing behind right along with the younger gal. That is how I want to be. Granted not for a few years yet, but I don't want to get botox and liposuction, and dress inappropriately. I want to age gracefully and confidently and not fight it.

I suppose it was an odd goal to set on Valentine's Day, but I felt better when I left that restaurant than I have in months. It's kind of difficult to explain.

Monday, February 13, 2006

An Interesting Weekend Part I

I got a call from a friend of mine Saturday morning. She was looking for a classy strip club to go with her husband, and naturally she called me. Since I'm actually not too familiar with the strip clubs in Houston, preferring the anonymity of going out of town, I consulted Jethro who, bless his dear little lecherous heart, has his finger on the pulse so to speak.

Jethro gave a couple of recommendations, and Jill found a place that was letting couples in free for Valentine's Day weekend. I'd been drinking a little before we got there and then I had a Long Island along with several sips of Jethro's scotch. I was pretty hammered. The titties all started to blen together, and due to Houston's silly 3 foot rule, the nipples were all glowing with liquid latex.

So I started playing with matches because I do stupid shit like that when I'm hammered. I think the budget for this particular strip club must have gone to the gaudy chandeliers on the ceiling which gave the whole place the effect of the Haunted Mansion at Disney World, because when I lit the match, part of the burning head flew off and stuck to my finger while it was on fire. It hurt pretty badly, but fortunately I play guitar so my fingers are fairly calloused. Still, it wasn't pleasant and I stuck my finger in my Long Island iced tea for awhile. Finally, I decided I should wash it off, so I went to the bathroom where several strippers were blowing coke or something in the stalls.

As I was tenderly bathing my finger, the strippers would walk past giving me odd looks. It took me a bit to realize how peculiar I must have looked standing there delicately washing one digit. But oh, the irony of being in a strip club, surrounded by throngs of duck-footed losers, and have the naked women, titties jiggling, thongs flashing, looking at me funny. And I probably looked even funnier with my finger covered in creamy burn ointment a few minutes later.

We left the club and went to our friends' bar they've just opened. The high point of my evening was waving my finger at a friend of ours, all covered in white shit, and telling him I'd just been to a tittie bar. I can't remember how he took it, but I sure did enjoy saying it. I was drunk.

Friday, February 10, 2006

Bit o' This, Bit o' That. You Didn't Really Think I Was Going Anywhere?

I got a frantic call from Trashman (whom I love more with each passing second) last night asking if I was really quitting blogging. The answer is "hell no." Why would I quit something that saps my energy and creative powers and keeps me from accomplishing anything remotely useful? If I were a conspiracy theorist, I'd say it was all a plot by the commies to slow down production.

Actually, blogging keeps me sane. It forces me to sit down, organize my thoughts, and develop my arguments. And where else do I have that I can chronicle the Gwennie and Emma funnies? I'm wretched at keeping up their baby books.

So no, I'm not quitting. Although if I were trying to change the world, I might. But I'm not. I'm simply chronicling my thoughts on various current events and life situations.

So on with the mundanity!


I have discovered that clothes are more damaging to my self esteem than nudity. If I'm standing in front of the mirror completely stark, I'm thinking, "Great ass, horrid thighs, rib cage seems really out there, breathtaking tits, could stand to lose a few, but not too bad overall. I'm kind of digging my long hair. It makes me look less dykish even if I do look exactly like my uncles did in the 70s."

If I'm standing in front of the mirror fully clothed, I'm thinking, "You look like you are about to go dumpster diving. And you could probably stand to dress it up. You never know when you'll run into a homeless dude with vomit on his shoes."

I get so depressed watching anything regarding fashion. That ennervating program, "What Not To Wear" is enough to send me out for dark chocolate and bacon.

I just have a body type that is difficult to clothe. I've come to accept that, so I put a whole lot more effort into Other Things. I'm just really happy I'm no longer in the phase where it actually meant something to me, although fortunately, that was during the grunge period, and I was extremely fashionable. I had a plaid shirt collection to rival any lumberjack.


We went fishing last Saturday with our friends Benton and Shauna. Benton, Shauna and Jethro caught some nice sand trout. Gwennie cast her whole fishing pole into the water, which upset Emma so much that she gave her own fishing pole to Gwennie, saying through her tears, "I want my sister to have a fishing pole." Sometimes you just want to buy that kid a pony.

Gwennie was hysterical though. She was completely shocked, but she didn't cry. She said, "What am I going to do? That fishing pole was very special and I know we can't afford another one."

I teach them well don't I? So well that they each got a new fishing pole. Gwennie because she lost hers, and Emma because she was so sweet about it. But these float, so it wasn't just to spoil them.

As for me, I wasn't in the mood to hold a fishing pole, so I just drank and fucked with some jellyfish with a kite string and a turkey neck. I had a good time except for having to use a port-o-let which I utterly befouled in my panic of snakes lurking in the gloom below.

Have a great weekend y'all. See you on the other side and if you have time, check out Jethro's blog. He found some absolutely gut-busting parodies of "Brokeback Mountain." "Brokeback to the Future" was my favorite.

Wednesday, February 08, 2006

Christianity vs Islam

If you haven't read the interview with Ayaan Hirsi Ali, please do. I've written about her before. Learn her name and remember her. She was about to be hot shit right before 9/11 because of her courageous stance on women's rights in the face of death threats from the psycho Imams. But after 9/11 the media ignored her. She is in under 24 hour armed guard because of the Muslim fatwas calling for her death. Her friend and the creator of a film critical of Islam's treatment of women, Theo van Gogh, (great nephew of Vincent van Gogh) was brutally murdered on the streets of Holland by an Islamonut.

Her words are too important to miss, and I strongly recommend that anyone who wishes to call themselves informed as to the issues at stake, read it over several times.


And that's it. I'm closing my blogs. I mean, why bother anymore? Clearly wordplay is not the way to get things done.

The NY Times, in a story about the cartoons which have caused so much unrest, has inexplicably decided in lieu of publishing the actual cartoons, to publish the seven years old rendering of the Virgin Mary in elephant dung. Explain how artwork insulting to Catholics (who never rioted by the way) is in any way relevant in any form to the barbarian hordes on the Arab Street?

And these are the disclaimers CNN has put out in every little puff piece on the Muslim violence.

"CNN has chosen to not show the cartoons in respect for Islam."

(not religion, mind you, just Islam)

and the even smarmier:

"CNN is not showing the negative caricatures of the likeness of Prophet Mohammed because the network believes its role is to cover the events surrounding the publication of the cartoons while not unnecessarily adding fuel to the controversy itself."

Where is the respect for Christians who allow them to post whatever degrading, humiliating caricature or insult of their religion without fear of violent reprisal?

So that's it. I am not going to get my point across way using my words like a big girl. The Powers That Be have made that abundantly clear. The best way to get media respect is to threaten their pampered, worthless lives.

But it just goes to show you how stupidly adolescent our media is. It's always been their policy to report the gratuitous insults of Christians in particular, wrapping themselves in the Constitution (and smearing dung on it), and then closing their eyes, plugging their ears and screaming "fascist" and "freedom hater" at anyone who dared to suggest that perhaps there was no good reason to be broadcasting religious insults. The best part of freedom of speech (for them) was pushing the boundaries - not for any particular reason, but just because they could. It was new territory, and the consequences were minimal. And the more they could shock and appall the Christian establishment, the more points they got.

But it's easy to be brave in the face of a benign religion that forbids murder. It requires no strength of character to assert your freedom speech in the face of peaceful, elderly women with rosaries.

But look at them when the going got tough. They caved like great big, gaping pussies. So much for the first amendment.

Is it that deep down, despite all of the insulting and boundary pushing, the media believes Christianity is superior? Is that why Christians are held to a higher standard? If I were a Muslim I'd feel insulted. Hey that was funny. Who ever heard of a Muslim feeling insulted?

On a slightly more personal note, I really can't take seriously anyone insulting my religion or my God. It's like a pomeranian vs. a St. Bernard. When you come down to it, my God was nailed naked to a cross like a slab of meat, in the hot sun until he died, most likely covered in his own excrement. There really isn't a whole lot of insult to add. Yet despite all of that, I am only required to love him. No vengeance, no beheadings, no violence.

(Hat tips for the media information to Michelle Malkin and Jim Geraghty at TKS)

Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Here's Hoping The Rest Of Europe Will Stop Felating The Islamonuts And Start Cultivating The Growth Of Their Testiculars

**Update: France/Chirac caved (no surprise), but the Danes are holding firm. Their prime minister said he cannot apologize for the actions of an independent newspaper. But the funniest part of the latter article was the statement, written in all seriousness: "Hundreds of university students, including women, marched peacefully [emphasis mine] through the capital, chanting "Death to the Danish! Death to Americans!"

Folks, I couldn't make this shit up if I tried.


I posted an interview with Aayan Hirsi Ali on Payasita. If you have to ignore this rant to read it, please do. Her words are invaluable and she will not be long for this earth if the frothing psychos have their way.

But it's like watching a South Park episode, isn't it? They are parodies of themselves. They have become the caricatures.

And whoever thought the Danes would be the first continental Europeans to grow a pair (if you can call getting burnt out of your embassies over a few cartoons 'growing a pair'). I'm not mocking them or I would have to mock our own government who ignored the threat of islamo-terrorism for 30 years. And come to think of it...

But I am enthusiastically supporting the patronage of Danish products in retaliation for the Muslim boycott.

The saddest thing is that the caricatures are pretty benign. I've seen Christ mocked in ways that would have brought down nuclear Armageddon if he'd been a Muslim. I guess the difference is that Christ never told anyone to commit murder, or riot, or burn down buildings in his name. Yes, I know it's been done, so spare me the moral relativity. Jesus never said to do it. Same as the deities of every other major religion except the one currently at war with all of them.

Is there anyone Muslims won't kill? Just curious.

But seriously. Look at the little girls who were beheaded. LOOK AT THEM. Schoolgirls on their way home. Full-grown Muslim men cut the heads off little girls. And these knuckle-dragging primates are moronic enough to riot over a few cartoons? Is it genetic?

I've heard the theory (excuse) for the violence is that the cartoons portray Muslims as terrorists. I beg their fucking pardon, but it's the Muslims who are portraying Muslims as terrorists. I mean really. "How dare you call us terrorists, you Jew-loving-infidel-pig/whores-may-your-heads-be-cut-off-and-Allah-be-praised. Let's burn some shit up and shoot some people so everyone knows we're not terrorists."

It would be funny if that was the intent of the hordes, but it isn't. They want to intimidate the rest of the world into keeping their mouths shut and accepting their intolerant religion without fear of criticism or accountability. That is the nature of terrorism. It's what the Muslim governments have done to their own people for centuries now, and that is how they have stayed in power.

But those who defend, excuse, mitigate, and justify this savagery are simply too cowardly to stand up to tyranny. And I have less respect for them than I do the slavering mob.

A Clean Joke (Don't Anyone Faint)

I have a headache. I'm working on a Payasita post regarding the Muslim riots over cartoons, but I haven't been able to finish. So I'm posting a nice little joke someone sent me in lieu of anything remotely intelligent. Ignore the little mastercard plug at the end. For some weird reason, probably having to do with the World Bank, I feel obligated to print it.


Jack's Hangover (Don't worry, narc. This isn't about you).

Jack wakes up with a huge hangover after attending his company's Christmas Party. Jack is not normally a drinker, but the drinks didn't taste like alcohol at all. He didn't even remember how he got home from the party.

As bad as he was feeling, he wondered if he did something wrong. Jack had to force himself to open his eyes! , and the first thing he sees is a couple of aspirins next to a glass of water on the side table. And, next to them, a single red rose!

Jack sits up and sees his clothing in front of him, all clean and pressed. He looks around the room and see that it is in perfect order, spotlessly clean.
So is the rest of the house.

He takes the aspirins, cringes when he sees a huge black eye staring back at him in the bathroom mirror. Then he notices a note hanging on the corner of the mirror written in red with little hearts on it and a kiss mark from his wife in lipstick!:

"Honey, breakfast is on the stove, I left early to go get groceries to make you your favorite dinner tonight. I love you, darling!

Love, Joan"

He stumbles to the kitchen and sure enough, there is hot breakfast, steaming hot coffee and the morning newspaper. His son is also at the table, eating.

Jack asks, "Son... what happened last night?"

"Well, you came home after 3 A.M., drunk and out of your mind. You fell over the coffee table and broke it, and then you puked in the hallway, and got that black eye when you ran into the door."

Confused he asked his son, "So, why is everything in such perfect order, so clean, I have a rose, and breakfast is on the table waiting for me?"

His son replies, "Oh THAT!....Mom dragged you to the bedroom, and when she tried to take your pants off, you screamed, "Leave me alone, lady, I'm married!"

Broken Coffee Table ........... $39.99
Hot Breakfast ...................... $ 4.20
Two Aspirins ....................... $ 0.38
Saying the right thing, at the right time................


Friday, February 03, 2006

Ben Franklin

I bought the girls a tape of the history of Benjamin Franklin. It is one I used to listen to when I was little and even though it is simplistic and there are major gaps, it is still interesting. What I found most interesting is that Ben Franklin was a proponent of Intelligent Design in a reverse sense.

Most of America were Christians whose concept of God was the fire and brimstone Punisher of the transgressions of man. But Ben Franklin's Intelligent Design (and that isn't what he called it) theory was not meant to prove the existence of God, but to prove the equality of man. His concept of the Creator was not of a random, capricious God, but of one who set the Great Laws of biology and physics in motion. His theory was that these laws should be what governs man and not the capricious will of a monarch. That they were ordained by a Higher Power - a "Majestic Intellect" - I think were his words - that was not chaotic and vengeful, but structured and benign. I believe this is what directed his allegiance to ideas of Liberty and the equality of man.

Now anyone who has read anything of Ben Franklin knows he was a character, not a humorless, one-dimensional, souless academic, in spite of his fascination with the order of the Universe. Anyone who proposes the turkey as our national bird simply can't be.

I was about 7 or 8 the last time I heard listened to that tape, but there are lines in there from Mr. Franklin that have shaped my political opinion to this day.

There is really no point to this other than to remark on a remarkable man who was considered the grandfather of our country and who would have celebrated his tri-centennial birthday on January 17th.

Wednesday, February 01, 2006

How I Learned To Stop Worrying And Love Real Estate Agents

I swear I should devote a blog entirely to the inanity and stupidity of realtors. Truly they are the dumbest beasts to ever roam the planet, and their foibles and gaffes and professional missteps are the stuff of real comedy.

Case in point. I had just walked into the office, and the phone was ringing angrily. I can tell the difference in phone rings. Shut up. I can. I apprehensively answered it and was greeted by a high-pitched, aggressive female voice demanding to speak to Stepfather.

"He's not here," I said politely. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Are you his assistant?" The voice commanded a reply.

"Yes," I replied hesitantly, wishing I had the balls to say, "No, I am his transvestite luvuh."

"Good. Maybe you will be able to help me. Your listing on Old Fart* is a atrocious. The weeds are 10 feet high, it's infested with mosquitoes, and it's bringing down the value of all the other homes in the subdivision. My homeowners are up in arms. They and their neighbors are going to the homeowners' association with a petition."

Oh no, not a petition! I had images of villagers with lanterns and pitchforks and medieval torture devices.

"You need to take care of this. Stepfather needs to take care of this. It's your responsibility. You're an unprofessional office and this has gone on too long."

"I'll let him know, ma'am." I said politely, but firmly.

"But I'm on a rant and I need you to yell at me to confirm my right to be an utter bitch at 8:30 am."

"I'll let him know, ma'am." I said, just slightly less politely and just a little more firmly.

"But I must humiliate myself further by being such an unbelievable twat that I am now literally walking inside out."

"I'LL LET HIM KNOW, MA'AM. THAT IS THE BEST I CAN DO RIGHT NOW." I bellowed frantically, grabbing for the post-it notes and cyanide.

"Thank you," she said snottily.

Now before you take Beastly Bertha's word for anything, you must know that we'd had the listing for less than a week. The seller is most definitely an asshole and the property is in pretty bad condition. But we can't afford to go around doing everyone's lawn maintenance for them. The best we can do is hope someone can see past the weeds to the beauty within.

But there is no guarantee this home will sell, and if it is going into foreclosure, there is no good reason to spend our money on lawn care, as it will take far more than that to sell this home quickly.

Now I would love it if all our clients were happy little Harry Homeowners and kept their yards nice and such, but it just doesn't always happen. The only reason we take these listings is because you never know who is going to buy them. We had a 2 bedroom, 0 bathroom property on an acre in the middle of deliverance country. The owner wanted 65K for it and wouldn't go a cent lower. It was such an outrageous price for a falling down shack, that I would tell agents who called not to waste their time. Lo and behold, some crazy artist fell in love with both the house and the outhouse and paid full price for it. So you just never know.

But for some menopausal hysteric to demand that I take care of a property is ludicrous. I'm not stupid. I've told the homeowner that the house will not sell at his asking price if the yard is not taken care of. The homeowner (who is a broke real estate investor and a genuine asshole in his own right) absolutely will not pay to have it done. He claims to be on intimate terms with the president of the homeowners association (yeah) and if someone wants it done, they can do it themselves.

That's hardly the line I want to deliver to a foaming psychotic, but that is the situation and the box it came in.

Now for the sake of full disclosure. I am going to be a realtor. I am in the middle of my classes which I should be working on as we speak. And I don't pretend for a second I'm going to be the Great White Redeemer of real estate agents. I'm just as insane. And I love it. Oh sure. I fought it for years, keeping to myself and growling at the insincerity of the whole business. But now I join in happily, secure in my mediocrity and entirely content with The Show.

I could stop to analyze it and I'm sure it comes down to the fact that I'm married to a doctor and I have a blog, but I think I'd prefer to think of it as insanity. It's more romantic.

*There is a street called Old Fort on which the house mentioned is NOT located. But it's a funny street name because so many people, myself included, have accidentally referred to it as Old Fart, which was just too good to keep to myself.