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It’s like Parade of Homes around here. Oh hi, would you like to tour my house for rent? Yes, there IS a pool included, but no, it’s not on my property and look! The water pressure is awesome!

:: turns on shower and smiles like Vanna ::

I think I’m doing the tours all wrong, because ultimately, we end up having the final, “So, what do you think?” conversation in my bedroom, and that feels just a little too creepily intimate, like we’re negotiating some kind of party, and I mean that in the Moonlite BunnyRanch sense. The good news is that it’s looking up, and we have a family super-interested, but they’re not PERFECT-perfect, but no one is, so it’s all just a crapshoot, really. Like, who do I trust enough to pay down my mortgage without peeing on my carpet or skipping town and leaving me holding the bag? The family with the dog and two cats, or the guy with a Harley who offered up that he spent a weekend in jail for getting in a fight with his girlfriend’s ex-husband?

Oh, real estate market. I love you so. Incidentally, I’m leaning towards the family. I like them, and maybe my gut is wrong here, but I hope not. Plus, you know, there’s that whole JAIL thing. (Would you ever offer that during a house interview? EVER? HONESTLY.)

All of this is compounded by the fact that I am eye-searingly busy at work, as per usual lately, but before I even tell you why it seems sort of futile, first, I have to come to some sort of resolution on the parade of farking homes and I haven’t even STARTED on the no-shows, I mean look, if you say you’re coming by to look at the house, please call. I’m there, I’m waiting for you, I’m EXPECTING YOU, for chrissake, and believe it or not, I would like to get on with my life and get out of this house.

Ahem. Honestly, that’s all that’s been going on, and it never ends. If I’m not showing the place to someone, I’m calling someone about a new place or I’m cleaning the paw prints from my slobby, slobby dog who leaks all OVER the place when she drinks (the water gets stuck in her wrinkles. How gross is that?) or I’m doing laundry for Adam’s trip to Vermont this week and OH LORD, there is so much to do, so little time, which is why I’m everywhere but here. In fact, if you need me, I am very likely on Craig’s List, surfing around in vain and trying to make my posting look fresh, despite the fact that I posted it YESTERDAY. And I know Craig’s List hates that, but come ON, it gets buried under piles of ************* ALL CAPS LISTINGS OMG!!! ALL NEW APPLIANCES ************* if you don’t.

Do you know that I actually e-mailed a Realtor through Craig’s List and YELLED at him for his “egregious overuse of caps and asterisks”? I specifically said that to a person. For no other reason than it pissed me off.

And — and this is my favorite part — I threw my back out during a particularly hearty sneeze. A SNEEZE. I SNEEZED TOO HARD, and now my back is completely tweaked and it’s difficult to get out of the car without groaning and holding my lower back like a very pregnant lady, of which I remain only an aspiring one. Also, why is a pregnant woman always a pregnant “lady” to me? Always. I never use lady unless I’m referring to a pregnant one.

I am, however, still making pickles. Because they are a requirement in times of high stress, even if it’s good stress, which it is.

Incidentally, this whole situation is going to be exactly like my wedding in that everything requires plan plan PLANNING OMFG over and over again, like a second job, and then once it’s done — particularly in my case, for reasons I’ll go into later — I will literally have nothing to do, and there will be this giant emptiness that will be filled with nothing but fretting as I worry about whether my tenants are burning our house down with rogue pillar candles.

But in brighter news (oh hell, it’s ALL bright news, really it is, it’s just SHINING, seriously, despite my sardonic tone, it really is), Lost is on this week! LOST LOST LOST LOST LOST. And I can’t wait, for I haven’t watched television in ages and ages, and I’m pretty heartbroken that it’s only eight episodes and also been truncated due to the writer’s strike. Incidentally, am I the only one who remains MYSTIFIED by the fact that Friday Night Lights continues to soldier on? How do they have that many episodes? HOOOOW? And please God, let Tyra and Landry get back together. Thank you, and amen.

And finally, I figured out why, exactly, the whole Trista Sutter-US Magazine thing has me all atwitter. Aside from the fact that it’s Trista, who is inherently annoying (the baby voice! The toolly husband! The fact that she constantly refers to herself as a “girly-girl”!), what really grates my cheese about the whole thing is that she very obviously negotiated this package with US Weekly to not only keep herself in the celebrity spotlight, but for money. She PLANNED the whole thing! I’ll bet she even pitched it to them! “Hey, I’ll sell you my baby weight story if you put me on the cover!” I’m telling you, she did. It SMACKED of that, the whole article, and it really grosses me out. Because you know she used the money to hire another publicist for her handbag company, which is very likely going nowhere, as it very likely only has bags that are printed with giant calla lillies and maybe some hydrangeas.

And with that, I have to go to bed. Adam starts his official first day at a new job tomorrow, and is mandating a 9 p.m. lights out so that we can, for the love of God, wind down by 4 a.m. after the whirlwind that was this weekend. And also, Extreme Makeover: Home Edition is on, and I’m off to grab my semi-regular dose of too-perky Ty Pennington and sob my face off at people who will very likely not be able to afford the taxes on their new home and will be homeless in a few short months.

Happy, happy Monday to you!

*Zero 7

17 comments January 27th, 2008