We are closing on our new house in less than a week. Of course I’m ready to leave the Hut that we are currently living in. My morning routine is to get up, feed the kids, smack the crap out of my head on the bathroom door as I sit for my morning glory, trip over two dogs that are laying in the only hallway, and then punt a cat that has mistaken that I somehow care that they are unhappy with the final art poo piece they have displayed in the kitchen. And that, my friends, is a run on sentence.
Like I’ve said before, the house we are buying is a foreclosed house. I have gone way past any issues that I have about forcing another family out. The neighborhood seems to have several nosy neighbors so I have been able to piece up a pretty good history of it.
The house hasn’t been lived in for two years according to the two senior walkers that I met the other day. There had been a nasty divorce, the police were called and it caused quite the uproar. The house was then foreclosed on but the man broke back into the home and continued to live there until he was evicted.
I begin to wonder how these two neighbors knew all this. Were they just observing or do they camp out on the front lawn? Either way, since the house hasn’t been lived in for 2 years, I felt much better about not screwing anyone over. Well, no one except the termites. They gotta go.
It was an interesting process buying this house. Everyone told me it would be and that we would get a good deal. I suppose we did get a pretty good deal but if the truth be told, I’m not all that happy. If we had more time I would have probably pulled out.
The real estate agent that we had to deal with was a complete and total douche bag. This brings up a philosophical question that maybe my readers will comment on. Can a female be a douche bag? You know I have never thought about it before today and I don’t know. But this is the time of equality. If a woman can become president, then certainty they can become douche bags.
My hats off to you real estate lady, the first female douche bag of your generation.
Every real estate agent I had ever met has always been super nice. So nice that you are sure that they are faking it and really secretly hate you. But when you are fixing to drop a load of cash, this is exactly what you want. You want someone to pander to you. You want them to agree with everything you say. You want that sycophant to be lapping up every little witty morsel you throw your way.
“Of course sir, what a witty and insightful comment. Here, have some panties thrown at you.”
That’s what your want and by god that is what you should get. When you spend more money than Peru’s gross domestic product, you want your ass kissed. After all, you know that they are about to bank on what you are plunking down, so pucker up.
If you don’t get that then I suppose its ok. But when the level of attitude drops even further, then you have a real problem. Ms. Real Estate douche bag turned out to be just a rude and unprofessional bitch. I think my wife is finally going to forgo her no hitting policy that she has lived her life by and back slap this chick.
By the way, if she does, I’m so going to have me some sex. Chick fight is a total turn-on.
It started out as little things, such as her not returning phone calls or emails. It then progressed into real estate lady sending pretty shitty emails. They were usually filled with what we could and could not do and how fast we must do them. My general attitude was fuck you, I’m the one spending the cash here and last time I checked, you weren’t Ms. Whitaker my fifth grade English teacher and the women I have ever feared.
That woman was terrifying but hey, I still know that you don’t end a sentence with a preposition on fear of public humiliation. Terrifying.
It then progressed from there. The real estate lady got pissed because our agent wrote a contract when it was clear that only she could write the contract. Then there were demands. She didn’t return our calls for 4 days and when she did she put deadlines on her demands.
This kind of stuff really pissed me off. The question that I had to ask myself was do I hate this lady more or do I hate the Hut I am currently living in? I was pondering this question when I noticed that ants were apparently having a house party in my kitchen, complete with little ant strippers and underage ant drinking. I can’t have that around my children.
Besides, I have my real estate agent to buffer me from uber-bitch. Our agent is the kind that you want. We have looked at over 100 houses, Hossmom is hard to please. Our agent hasn’t bitched or moaned at all and even brings cheese on our trips. I love cheese.
Luckily this is almost over and we close on the 12th. My wife is planning a shock and awe campaign of revenge once this is all over by a series of letters and phone calls. I wish her the best of luck. Meanwhile I will be moving heavy stuff and not caring. That’s the kind of supportive husband that I am.
And for you Ms. Whitaker, who taught me true fear:
I will end a sentence any god damn way I want to.
Except when I’m sure you will read it, then I will use proper grammar. You still terrify me.