Not as neat as I think I am

Turns out, having your condo on the market isn't all that fun. I mean, all right, one one hand, it can be quite exciting. QUITE. We have had three official offers, and with each I flew into a fit of glee and immediately began to plan which weekend we'd move into our new home (which, no, we have not purchased, nor even found yet), how soon I'd be able to lay in my hammock and sip homemade sangria during my very own backyard barbecue.

But for one reason or another, those offers fell through, which made me very mad at people I have never met. "Perfect stranger," I wondered, "How on god's green earth do you not want to give us $399K for this incredibly cool one-bedroom condo? Did you not gaze upon its beauty? Did you not understand its fabulousness? DID YOU NOT SEE THE BAR DIRECTLY ACROSS THE STREET?!? C'MON!!!!"

But this isn't even the worst part. The worst part is living with staging. "Staging" is one of many new words I have learned during this real-estate adventure, and like lots of those words, "staging" now scares the hell out of me. Here's how it began: To prepare to go on the market, we had to cart out a bunch of our personal stuff. Like 20 boxes of books, a bunch of junk from our closets, any object on any countertop, and even our kitchen table set and two bookcases. Make the place look roomier. Next, our agent came over with shopping bags full of things like pillows and rugs, colored vases, and a bowl filled with plastic limes. For two hours she blazed around our place like the tasmanian devil, straightening this, moving that, tucking away this, tilting that. Then the staging people came in and gave us a ridiculously impractical glass-top kitchen table, plus a "bistro set" on the patio. Then the cleaning team came in and scrubbed floorboards, appliances, countertops, everything. They made my kitchen sink look exactly the way I would imagine kitchen sinks in heaven. Pristine, white, sparkly, divine. When I came home from work that night, I was flabbergasted at how perfect everything looked.

And my husband, my mother, or anybody else who ever lived with me, they all know this is the part of the story where euphoria overloads my circuits to the point that I actually pass out. You see, I am a bit of a "neat freak." (By the way, I loathe that term, though not as much as I loathe "anal retentive.") If I seem sensitive about this characterization, it's because I don't really see what the big deal is about hanging your blue shirts next to your other blue shirts, or using a towel to dry the inside of the bathroom sink. OK? I really don't. I like things neat, I like them tidy, I like them straightened out. So upon walking into a clutter-free house, where everything is just so, where every last corner is spic and span, waves of absolute joy washed over me.

Now, two weeks later? Oh dear god, make it stop. I mean, we basically have to keep the place perfect at all times, because you never know when an agent will want to bring over a client. Two weeks ago I would have told you this is my lifelong dream to end all lifelong dreams. But no! The pressure, it's too much! Apparently, I have a deep desire to stack piles of papers everywhere! Evidently, I enjoy cluttering the bathroom counter with makeup brushes and hair products! It appears I'm fond of leaving tennis shoes in the foyer, bras draped over the desk chair, and magazines on the back of the toilet! I NEVER KNEW! Nope, I never did, not until my ability to make a mess was taken from me. This discovery has rocked me to my very core. Everything has changed. I feel like I don't even know who I am anymore.

P.S. I'm pretty sure I can blame my husband for this. This is the same man who taught me that if you don't feel like folding clothes, just pop them back into the dryer. That a scrumptious dinner for two can be found at Taco Bell for under $7. That of course it's not silly to cook up a New York strip steak at midnight. BAD. INFLUENCE.

Your not going to believe this

Yesterday I began packing. No, we haven't the faintest idea where we'll move or when we'll move there, but our agent wants us to haul away our personal, messy junk and enjoy a "spartan" lifestyle while our condo is on the market.

Everything was going fine until I accidentally wrote "CD's" on one of the boxes, in big, black Sharpie letters. I sat back and stared. CD's? c-d-APOSTROPHE-s? I don't think so, Jake! I was so mad at myself. You see, it all started when I accidentally made the "s" uppercase, and so in a flash, I went ahead and added an apostrophe, to make it look like a plural word instead of C-D-S. But then I realized that makes me about as numbskulled as the bad spellers and grammarians I mock all the time! I considered tearing the box lid off and starting over, but then I realized a better course of action would be to write "CD's" on two more boxes. Because if you are going to be wrong, be wrong so boldly that it makes others wonder if they are wrong.

Won't you be my neighbor?

Yesterday Sal and I found a house we adored. It was the first place that seemed to have almost everything we were looking for, and at a great price. We loved it so much, in fact, that we returned last night to check out the neighborhood after dark. The moment we get out of the car we hear this ear-blasting holler from across the street. "CAN I HELP YOU???"

Um ... no? We turned around and saw this woman with long stringy hair standing in her yard glaring at us. I responded that we were just looking and had been at the house earlier with our agent. But she seemed agitated, and we wanted to show her we were harmless, so we crossed the street to introduce ourselves.

First thing we notice is, she's wearing this tattered old George Strait/Coors Light T-shirt. (Now, to me, that's a plus, but Sal not so impressed.) I think she felt bad for yelling, because she tried to make us feel better by pointing out that she was just protecting the house. Because a few nights ago, she caught some people trying to break in. "They were MEX-icans," she said with a sneer that told me she hadn't paid much attention to my husband's ethnic background.

Then she went on to tell us all sorts of delightful things. Like how the house down the way had been broken into twice last year. And how she "gets sunstroke really easily," so that's why she works in her yard at night, and, you know, keeps an eye on things. Oh, and she loves animals. All animals. She "makes sure everyone has a home," and has helped raise lots of wildlife, including cats, dogs, owls, monkeys and ocelots! Oh, except four of her pets died last year. You know, because of the cancer in the water.

So, the block busybody is also a racist, ocelot-loving vampire. And she still finds time to be in charge of the Neighborhood Watch! Seriously, how soon can we move in?