Have you ever been in one of those places that really, profoundly sucks, and you hate it, and it’s hands down miserable to be there…. and it draaaaaags out foreeeeever…. and it is sucking your will to live…. and you don’t want it to end badly…. but eventually, you just reach a point that whatever the end is going to be, good or bad, you just need it to arrive already? That’s what has happened. Also, if I may digress for just a moment here, I have recently learned that it is no longer acceptable (as of like, ten years ago) to use double spaces between typed sentences anymore. From what I understand that is a now archaic practice that was only in place for the sake of typesetting and typewriters. Now, with the new-fangled computerin’, a single space between sentences is correct and people who cling to the old, busted way of typing are now becoming the butts of nerdy ridicule on places like Jezebel.com. And while I do enjoy me some Jezebel and Slate both, and being a lover of the written word do not want to be all gauche, I just don’t think I can do it. I… I can’t. It just doesn’t feel right. In MY day we learned how to type on typewriters. When I went off to college, I took with me an electric typewriter. And an Apple Classic IIe. That had Lemonade Stand on it. And used floppy discs. Literally. So people are just going to have to forgive me. What was I talking about?
Yes. Blessed resolution. My house, as you may know, was sent into foreclosure with an auction date of May 4. Now my brother suggested that I throw a big party and hand everyone a sledge hammer and invite them to trash the joint. Which was a very tempting idea. However, Virgo that I am, I couldn’t bear the mess. And after all, this house and I are not breaking up because the spark is gone. We are lovers being forced apart by The Man, who will no doubt be very, very sorry one day in an as-yet undetermined but certainly unpleasant way. So I don’t want to see the house get hurt. I just want to see it happy. With someone who can look past the outer shell to its inner beauty and treat it well. As I did. I just need a moment here.
I’m okay. I have to be, what other option do I have? I tried the staying in bed until 3 in the afternoon and not taking any phone calls or showering thing. But that only lasted for a weekend. I couldn’t stand not being productive in some way. Or being clean. Again, Virgo. Which leaves me with only one choice: accepting the inevitable and determining to go back to being a happy person. For the most part. So the house is now in short sale, which is kind of a step above foreclosure. If foreclosure is death, short sale is like a serious maiming. Like Mr. Rochester after the fire. Only Jane doesn’t come back and make him happy again for seven years. I think that’s how long it stays on your credit report. Anyway, I got an offer from the first showing and now we just have to wait and see if Mr. Potter at the bank accepts it. The offer is pitifully low and frankly insulting to the house. I suspect the house will extract some kind of revenge for this slight from the new owners, its rebound family. I like to think it will use them callously until it starts to feel better about me, then send me maybe one tentative text one day, maybe forward a joke to my email. Poke me on Facebook. Shyly wondering if I, too, have moved on. But I won’t have. I just know it. I will never love another house like I love this one because it was my first. And I’m only slightly kidding about that.
By the way, I will say this about selling a house. It feels very weird and invasive to have people come into your home and take a tour of it while you’re not there. Now I know how the aristocrats in Britain feel about opening their palatial family seats to tourists. Like them, I too had to hide my priceless jewelry and personal photos to protect myself. Now if I can just do something about the paparazzi lurking in my front yard.
Despite the devastation of losing my house and moving back into the apartment complex where I lived before buying it (to add insult to injury; it just knew I’d come crawling back), it is a relief to finally have some resolution to the whole mess. I am very grateful to the realtor who is helping me through it and dealing with the banks on my behalf. Honestly at this point my eyes glaze over at the mention of the words Wells Fargo, mortgage, foreclosure, short sale and day job, so anything that helps me avoid discussing any of these topics makes me well up with tears of gratitude. The house must go. And I must go. On. To other things. I feel like I’ve been dead for about two years and the cryogenics lab just got around to thrusting that syringe of adrenaline in my heart. (that’s how they do it, right?) Still really sad and irritated when I think about the details of my soon to be ex-house, and my ex-job, but I’m genuinely trying to just stop doing that. Sweating the deets, that is. I mean, this means I can go anywhere now, do anything, right? Now that I no longer have that pesky stability weighing me down! Now that I don’t have to sit around knowing exactly how I’m going to pay my bills every month! Stupid security. Who needs it?? Not me! I watch this video every damn day, and that’s all I need, is this video.
And that’s the only thing I need is *this*. I don’t need this or this. Just this ashtray… And this paddle game. The ashtray and the paddle game and that’s all I need… And this remote control. The ashtray, the paddle game, and the remote control, and that’s all I need… And these matches. The ashtray, and these matches, and the remote control, and the paddle ball… And this lamp. The ashtray, this paddle game, and the remote control, and the lamp, and that’s all I need. And that’s *all* I need too. I don’t need one other thing, not one… I need this. The paddle game and the chair, and the remote control, and the matches for sure. Well what are you looking at? What do you think I’m some kind of a jerk or something!? And this. That’s all I need.
Also, one last thing, about that video? I have done several of those things: waded in the deep end at the beach, auditioned, taken care of business, run head first into a wolf in the woods (don’t ask). However. Even if I were smoking hot with the body of a triathlete, I could never, ever cross a room and stick my tongue down a guy’s throat. I can’t really even tell a guy when I like him. Do women… I mean, are people doing that now? Crossing rooms and kissing strangers? Maybe it was a bet. Have the courage to win bets.





