House hunting: less fun than I remembered, but still fun, somehow

The thing about working for yourself is, you have you for a boss. Me, in my case, is a real softie. “You look tired,” Me will say, “You’ve worked for a good 20 minutes. Time for a lie-down.”

“But these deadlines—“

“Oh, you. Deadlines can wait. You come first! Also don’t forget the dessert I got you for after lunch. My god, you are a treasure.”

Also you start to get weird. Case in point, the above. I talk to myself constantly, and I talk to my pets and I talk to Scott when he’s not obviously working but that’s rare, and then I talk to my emails. “I don’t care about YOU,” I’ll say as I delete another marketing email. Today I got an email from my gynecologist with the title “We miss you!” and I grumbled, “You miss my VAGINA,” and this cracked me up so much I grabbed my phone to call my friend Abby and tell her about it. Then I put my phone down because she is a busy professional. (Also we’d already talked this morning.) And how would that conversation go?

“Abby, hey Abby, guess what.”

“[Deep sigh]I’m kind of busy—”

“I got an email from my OB/GYN that was like ‘we miss you’ and I said to it, I mean I said out loud, ‘You miss my vagina.’”

“I’m in a literal courtroom right now.”

“‘You miss my vagina.’ Good, right?”

So instead of bothering my friends I bother you with these lil’ joke-em-ups. Miss my vagina! Come on, I’m fun.

CHANGING THE SUBJECT

I am convinced we’ll never find a house. Nothing exists in our price range, or ever will. Every listing is either way too much pricey or is a bargain but the description reads, “Enjoy ‘bungalow’ living in 600 square feet of pure coziness. Bring your imagination and your tool kit. Be prepared to get SWEPT AWAY, because this baby is in a flood zone!” In the rare cases a house is in our price range, the description reads like this: “Move-in ready, this perfectly sized home is ALREADY PENDING! PSYCH! Get the fuck outta here, nerd.” And that’s just hurtful.

So we’re already adjusting our expectations, which includes the distinct possibility that we might have to buy a place that has (shudder) only one bathroom. This is how we currently live, and I am not a fan. I don’t like to be rushed through my nightly ablutions! Scott doesn’t like to be rushed through his morning constitutional! But the houses we seem to gravitate toward are old and charming and for some reason those all are single-bathroomed. I guess back in the early 20th century, people learned to hold it in. They had a little something called self-control. Anyway, this leads to text conversations between me and Scott like this.

Speaking of writing on walls, why do so many homeowners feel called to inscribe a heartfelt message about God and family above their mantelpieces? Why must their kitchens remind us that life is short, and therefore we should first eat dessert? I also have sentiments, but you don’t see me stenciling my walls about them!

SOCIAL MEDIA IS A SCOURGE

HAIR, THE MUSICAL, IS CRIMINALLY UNDERRATED

CANDY CORN IS GOOD ACTUALLY, BUT IT HAS TO BE BRACH’S

Meanwhile, I’ve been collecting unnerving photos from house listings. Like this one from one of the houses atop the burial ground I mentioned last week. Tell me this house isn’t haunted. Oh, sure, this person JUST HAPPENS to have a crucifix and a dream catcher over their bed. FOR KICKS.

I also spotted a two-headed cat.

CHILLS.