Monday, November 22, 2010

Suburbs of Our Discontent

This weekend we finally decided to take our house off the market after nine months of waiting for that "special buyer." I'd had it with the cleaning and the shining and the neatening and the decluttering— and all for what? For someone to waltz in to my home and tell me that my house is old and musty (well, for them to tell their realtor to tell my realtor that my house is old and musty, which p.s. it isn't. Okay, it's old, but for Christ's sake it says right there in the ad that it's an 1824 antique so get your head out of your ass and do your research before making me scrub my kitchen floor and put away all my family photos.)

The moment I decided to pull the house was just like the moment back in 1994 when I decided—after a string of moronic dating experiences—that I was done with looking for Mr. Right because I was done wasting my time worrying about whether or not some guy thought I was a "good buy" or was "old and musty" or "needed a better kitchen." You get my point. It was the best time of my life.

So take that, you "I don't want to live on a busy street" real estate buyer pretenders. You can't have my house even if you beg me for it.

p.s. I met my husband three weeks later. Which means people are going to go nuts for this place any day now. Just watch.

p.p.s. This post has nothing to do with Shakespeare....Athough I did go see Henry IV, Parts 1 and 2 yesterday because I had time to. Because I didn't have to clean my house for anyone.

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