Crushed

Guess who has a sold sign in front of their house.














Hint: It's not me.

I'm awesome...

...or maybe just an anal retentive fu-reak. Could go either way.

I am meticulous about my checkbook. If I don't balance to the penny I will scrutinize the ledger until I find the culprit. I can't let it go until I figure it out.

A few days ago I pulled up my online ledger to check it against my hard copy version and the online account said I had over two hundred more dollars than I had written down. Always one to look a gift horse in the mouth, I immediately assumed it was a mistake on the bank's part. There was no way I had more money than I thought.

I finally figured it out today. I wrote the March gas bill down twice (yes, our gas bill is over two hundred dollars, and that's with the "levelized payment plan" thingy).

The sad part is that I was way too excited about it. Not because I now have an extra two hundred dollars to pay the bills, but because I finally figured out what went wonky.

Is this exciting for you to read about? Certainly not.

But it made my freakin' day.

One time I hated my neighbors

Last week at the grocery store, I ran into our old neighbors. Unfortunately, it wasn't with the car.

When we bought our current house, these people had only lived in it for 4 months. Through their realtor we found out that the husband (Chuck) had had some heart problems and his doctor told him, "No stairs, no mowing the lawn, and no fast food." So they had to move to avoid two out of the three.

We took full advantage of this information by only paying two thousand dollars more than they paid for it. I know they took a bath on the transaction. I felt a little guilty for practically ripping off an sick old dude and his wife, but all's fair in love and real estate.

About six months after we moved into our house, we got new neighbors next door. I was outside, playing with the dogs when I saw an older couple waving at me from across the fence.

"Remember us?!" a witchy haired crone hollered, a sack of greasy fast food in her claw.

"Uh...."

"It's us! Chuck and Cindy! We sold you your house!"

I was instantly bewildered. The house next door, except for less square footage and one less bathroom, is an exact replica of our house. The not-so-secret information their former real estate agent played in my head. Why would they buy a two story house with a big yard? Why, when they had almost the same thing less than a year ago? Why?

I was wasting time wondering about these issues when there would be a whole host of others to contemplate in the years to come.

For instance, why would they rip out a perfectly good fence, tear up the grass next to the driveway, then fill it in with gravel?

Answer: So they could pull their truck up that extra 10 feet to the back door. I think they were afraid the Wendys, McDonalds, or Hardees they ate almost every day would get cold if they had to carry it too far. Also, I don't think they wanted to get any inadvertent exercise.

Answer #2: So their beautiful golden-white Labrador wouldn't have the joy of romping in a big back yard, but would instead be locked up in an 8x8 pen. Wouldn't want the dog to get any inadvertent exercise either.

I didn't get why they even had a dog. I never saw him play with it. Cindy was afraid of it, so he never never got to come in the house. I know not all dogs are spoiled rotten like ours are, but they never brought him inside. They had a perfectly good garage that they didn't even use. They could have put the dog in there when the weather was bad (ie; the ice storm that poor dog endured one winter). Sure, he had a makeshift plywood doghouse inside his pen (giving him even less room to exercise), but it killed me to see him laying on top of it everyday lonely and bored.

So bored in fact, that he barked incessantly. At first, Chuck would yell out the kitchen window to tell his dog to shut up. Over time, that apparently took too much effort as he eventually hooked up an intercom system, pointing the speaker out the upstairs bedroom window to yell at the dog.

Oh, and the dog wasn't neutered either. When I asked Chuck one day if he was planning on showing the dog or breeding him, Chuck looked confused. I pointed out that his dog wasn't "fixed" and I wondered if he was a show dog or was he planning on starting a puppy mill. He got pretty defensive. I started anonymously calling Animal Control about the barking.

I tried to be somewhat friendly with them, but when he casually referred to the renters across the street as "Ni***r Whores", I washed my hands of them. The bumper sticker on his truck of Calvin pissing on the word "France" pretty much sealed the deal of my immense hostility toward them.

I was so damn happy when they finally sold their house and moved. They said they were moving to Las Vegas, and all I could picture was that sweet dog dying of heat stroke in their backyard.

But they didn't move to Vegas. They moved across town. And now I'll probably run into them all the time. Last week "broke the seal" so to speak.

I was nice to them. No sense in being a bitch just for the hell of it. I save that for my husband.

They were pretty excited to see me and the girls.

"Chuuuu-uuuck! Come see your kids!"

Excuse me? "Your" kids?! I know she was trying to friendly and her statement was sort of a "Oh we think you guys are great/your kids are great/we care about you" kind of thing, but it made my blood boil. I didn't like her familiar tone.

"I don't like you!" I wanted to scream across the grocery store, "I think you're a couple of racist, lazy animal abusing fucks! I hate you I hate you I hate you!"

But I didn't. I mentioned that we were in the process of selling the house, and Cindy nodded, "I know! I saw the sign!" (if it's not apparent by now, Cindy yells everything).

Then, without thinking I asked the million dollar question, "Wanna' buy it?"

We shared an uncomfortable chuckle, after which Chuck rolled away in the handicap grocery cart contraption, basket filled with pizza rolls, sausage and whole milk.

Allllll by myself....

I was feeling kinda' Britney this week, but I'm all better now.

My mom got my husband season tickets for the Chicago Fire for Xmas. Their opener is tonight, so he took the kids up to Grandma and Grandpa's to get a head start on Easter, and I get the whole house to myself until tomorrow morning (when I will join them). The silence is deafening, and I'm loving every minute of it.

Normally I would take this time to catch up on housework, but that's already been taken care of considering we had a rush of looky-loos over the past few days. I literally have nothing I have to do. I get to do whatever I damn well please. No one to answer to, get a sippy cup for, or who's butt to wipe. I can put something away and it isn't laying all over the floor 2 seconds after I turn around. I can make a phone call and not have to do a thousand other things at the same time. I can run around yelling "fuck" and "cocksucker" with abandon.

Oh, sweet freedom!

So the question is, do I go out and get a pedicure before or after some internet porn?

Write a letter you'll never send

Dear M.B.,

When I worked with you I found you to be clueless at best, but mostly an annoying twit. Your holier-than-thou attitude grated on my nerves every day that I had to work near you. As much as I tried to avoid conversation with you, tight quarters demanded our interaction.

When you vehemently explained to me that no Jewish people went to work in the Twin Towers on 9/11 because they were "tipped off" to the attacks, I didn't stab you in the eye with a fork like I wanted to, but instead gently explained to you that your information was wrong. I know you still didn't believe me.

When you told me that you and your husband took the door off your sixteen year old son's bedroom, I didn't ask you how he was supposed to masturbate in private. Instead I bit my tongue because I wouldn't want to extend anything resembling an invitation for you to share your parenting tips with me.

When I saw you after I quit that job and you accused me of "jumping ship" after our boss revealed she had cancer, I let it go--though I shouldn't have seeing how you did the exact same thing a few weeks later. By the way, my leaving didn't kill her. The three packs a day for 40 years did.

I have never and will never tell you all of this because I can be what they call in the business a "grown up". Just know that every time I drive past your church, or "Hall" as you guys call it, I transmit silent 'fuck you' vibes your way.

I kind of feel sorry for you in that your religion prohibits voting. At the same time, one less fundie at the polling station bodes well for me.

When the magical JW spaceship comes down to take you and yours to Planet Watchtower, I'll be here on Earth dancing around in my underwear stuffing birthday cake into my mouth, handing out rainbow flags and free abortions.

Cheers,
Chaylene

Woof

My dogs are either lazy or have a heightened sense of self-importance. I think it's both.

They think they deserve a "treat" (read: doggy biscuit) for simply mustering up the gumption to sit by my feet when I go out on the back porch to smoke.

What they lack in work ethic though, they more than make up for in cuteness (and bad breath).

I won't lie. I just wanted to post some pictures of my dogs.

One time I was a giant crybaby

My house still hasn't sold, and the beginnings of panic are starting to set in.

I'm starting to see more and more SOLD signs around town and I can't help buy wonder why mine hasn't. I truly think we have done everything within our power (and budget) to make this home more than marketable. Aside from picking it up and putting it on a quieter street, there is nothing more to be done.

At Saturday's open house, a couple showed up and seemed to really like it. My real estate agent said the wife was "in love with the kitchen" and that they told her they had been checking the house out on the realty website. It's a good sign, but a even better sign would say "SOLD" and be parked on my front lawn.

I keep getting positive feedback from friends and even other realtors, and that does tend to boost morale, but it still doesn't change the fact that we haven't gotten a single offer in the 8 weeks we've been on the market.

I'm trying not to let this whole process completely take over my life, but that's hard to do when you are as compulsive and controlling as I am.

I want to start shopping for window treatments and paint and the washer and dryer we'll need in the new house. I want to start planting some flowers and playing in our new back yard. I want to pull into my new driveway and use the automatic garage door opener (never had one of those before!).

Do we need to advertise more? Do we need to offer more incentives? What are we not doing that we should be?

Any and all advice, back patting and handholding will be accepted.