Confessions of A Naughty Girl

No Dick Repellent Necessary, Thanks

My house-hunting quest continues. And no, I haven't gotten a lot of goodtimes from the boys all that recently, so until that happens, we're talking houses, people.

Tonight, my Wife and I continued my endless quest for a home with our Realtor, Lisa Leslie. (Okay, so she's not Lisa Leslie, but she did definitely have a stint in the WNBA before something unknown happened to make her move to Atlanta and go into real estate, but I like calling her Lisa Leslie, who is the only WNBA person I know, and only thanks to "Love and Basketball", which is one of my favorite, highly-underrated movies of all time.)

The end result of tonight's hunt? We have FOUR frontrunners. Oh yes, one two three FOUR places that I love. Oddly enough, three of them are the exact same floor plan with different units (and one is in a totally different area of Atlanta). I suspect they were built by the same builder, and I suspect that liking all three of them means that I am probably destined to move into one of them.

Househunting is so much fun. Beyond learning about all of the cool stuff in a house (i.e. the water heater, the flooring, the seller's disclosure) - beyond even imagining what it would be like to live in that house every time you set foot in the door - househunting is great because you can snoop through people's shit.

Oh yes, I said it. Snooping through shit is great fun!

You can tell a lot about a person by the home they keep. Leather sofa? Single. Tile backsplash in the kitchen? Good cook. Locked armoir full of Beanie Babies in the master bedroom with a lock on the door and a little dangly pillow that says, "How many frogs must I kiss?" Circus freak.

One of the units we saw tonight is in the perfect neighborhood, in the perfect location, with the perfect little brick exterior, and perfect price range. I had only seen pictures earlier this week, and I was so nervous to see it tonight - the same kind of nervous one feels when you're about to head out on a date with someone that you really liked at the outset...you're so excited, and you have a feeling that this could totally be a life-changer, but you're terrified that you'll be let down somehow.

With the owner still living in this particular unit, we called to make sure she wasn't home. And of course she was, and refused to leave the house while we walked through. Oh yes - she greeted us at the door, forced us to take off our shoes before we even walked into the place (heaven forbid we taint her beige carpeting with our dirty bum feet), and offered to take us on a tour.

Now here's the thing - no one takes me on a tour. Ever. Not even my real estate agent. I need some room to breathe, walk around at my own pace, scope the place out, and snoop.

Anyway, this lady, who had to be in her forties (at least), and had a fake tan that would put Paris to shame, sat in her living room and watches CNN while we poked through the place. Let me tell you how comfortable it was. I couldn't talk to Erica, or my realtor...we had to rely solely on making faces. Heaven forbid we insult anything this woman owns. She did not look like she wanted to be f*cked with. It was so uncomfortable it felt like I had just stuck a tampon up my nostril. That level of discomfort, definitely.

The living room and the dining room checked out okay. The backyard was adorably fenced in and woodsy and cute, although she hadn't really done shit with it. And then we got to the kitchen. And the half bath downstairs. And the upstairs.

All of which, I would gently mention, looked like Laura Ashley had thrown up all over the f*cking house.

And here's the real kicker, guys - in the master bedroom, across from her frilly pink-and-lace bedspread and her hideous Laura Ashley potpourri decor, was a locked wooden armoire filled with....Beanie Babies.

Are. You. Shitting. Me?

Because clearly, the first thing I'd want to protect in the event of burglary was my Beanie Baby collection. I mean, take the plasma tv (she had one, and no, it wasn't nailed to the floor), take the furniture, but DO NOT, under any circumstances, steal the Beanies.

Covering the lock, I might add, was a little pillow dangling that said, "How many frogs must I kiss?"

And then, as if this isn't odd and disturbing enough, when we looked up at the ceiling in the hallway, the one that has the little pull down string for the attic, the pull-down string was black suede string in the shape of a noose. So she could kill anyone that laughed at her Beanie collection, presumably.

Hark! I have uncovered the eighth wonder of the world - one more elusive and rare than the Sphinx in Egypt. Yes kids, while house hunting, I unearthed A Man's Greatest Nightmare.

Let's see here...you're fortyish. You're single. Your house reeks so strongly of cinnamon that I believe my Wife complained of a cinnamon smell in her nostrils long after we left the place. You have pink everything. Lace everything. You have a fuzzy pink toilet seat cover. You have a locked armoire full of Beanie Babies. You have a pull-down on your attic that is a noose. And you wonder why you're still single.

Here, let me take that Dick Repellent out of your hand, dear lady. I'm pretty sure that even without the spray, you've got this one covered.

Let me tell you - this lady's house made my week. Anywhere I go from here, anything I do for the rest of the week - any time I need a good hoot, I'm going to think of those poor little Beanies, suffocating in the cinnamon air.

And yet in spite of all of this, the floor plan is great and the price is nearly right. I may make an offer on the house if she goes low enough. I might be able to knock off a tenner in the thousands department, especially if I make it clear that she can take the Beanies with her. Because I'll need that money for fumigation and wallpaper removal.

posted by KA @ 10:25 PM