Bananas Never Survive a Roadtrip

Today is Real Estate Dad’s birthday. I thought about not saying anything until 10 minutes to midnight like he did to me last year, but I decided not to. I mean, I don’t want anyone to think I hold a grudge or anything. Besides, he looked so good when he got ready for a meeting today that I just had to hug him.

This week was the elementary school’s book fair. EEEEEEE I love book fairs! I used to love getting those flimsy little newspaper magazines from the Scholastic Book peoples. Clifford, Miffy, Hello Cat You Need a Hat - all the good classics still exist in our house today came from that book newspaper.

I know. You want to know why I still have books from 40 years ago. Even if you didn’t want to know, I’m telling you anyway. My parents? They don’t throw anything away. Like, at all. To this day, every phone call that comes FROM their house or any visit TO their house inevitably carries with it, some version of “I was cleaning out some closets and I found (insert piece of garbage) do you want me to save it for you?” My answer is always no, but that doesn’t stop them from dumping it on me when I visit. Now when I’m saying goodbye to them at the end of a visit, I keep my hands in my pockets so they can’t hand me anything.

This hoarding thing isn’t new. The aroma of my entire childhood is eau de rotting bananas. Every time we left on a vacation there would be the last-minute-grab of things that wouldn’t keep until we got home. We all know that bananas are really bad travel companions. That didn’t stop my parents from trying. We would leave our house, get on 95 south and in 20 minutes the banana rot could overpower the burning smell of the Bronx, circa 1979.

 The gorgeous landscape of the Bronx in the late 1970’s

The gorgeous landscape of the Bronx in the late 1970’s

Now that we got that whole “descended from hoarders” piece out of the way, let’s move on to the book fair. I volunteered for a shift every day because I’m a book nerd. I love reading. I miss reading. I don’t get to do it as much as I would like to because, houses need to get sold, kids need to be raised, corgis have to be walked, other corgis have to be rescued, our house needs to be cleaned, yadda yadda yadda.

I have to say I did pretty well in my customer service role. Good thing the last day was indeed the last day because I started to crash. I didn’t even shower for my last shift and I didn’t bother to change out oOffspring T-Shirt. The one with the smoking skeleton head.

Ugh…..of course some kid said something to me. OF COURSE. In front of his dad too, who didn’t look like he was anyone who would appreciate the Offspring.

“Why is that skeleton smoking? That doesn’t even make sense. Why would he have a cigarette in his mouth?”

I could not ring that book up fast enough to get Chatty Charlie the hell out of there.

Then the security guard, who was milling around with friends, wandered over to the book fair and tapped a parent on the shoulder to say, “You didn’t sign in.” This shit again.

The point of signing in is so that they have your face on camera. I get that. But the school was a complete melee. For anyone to have any sort of false sense of security that the guard is going to be able to stop a real threat is comical. I should be nice because last week she appeared to give one tenth of one shit about my grandmother’s ring that Chubs defiantly brought to school and promptly lost. But she could be playing me.

The piece de la resistance was a Harry Potter Cookbook. This thing sold out like hotcakes and there was one left which a teacher had added to their wishlist pile. Someone wanted to buy it and it was late. Since no one had bought the book for said teacher, the book fair lead was going to let her buy it.

So, picture this. We have a line that’s got about 10 people in it, and a woman flipping through a cookbook trying to decide if she wanted to buy it. I have everything else rung up and ran her card and was waiting to see if she wanted this cookbook. I see the line getting antsy and I asked her to just step over so I could grab the next person. She clearly got mad and said “Never mind, I’ll just buy it on Amazon.” Yowsers. I didn’t think it was wrong to ask her to step aside to look at the book, and if she wanted it we could have rung her up real fast but yeesh. She said something about not having enough time to look through it and yelled the Amazon dig again.

Lady, you don’t have to threaten me with Amazon. I’m a full on Ama-whore. There ain’t nothing Amazon is selling that I ain’t buying. Like where would you ever be able to get something like this? (Don’t forget to read the comments - that’s where the gold is.)


 Yes, but does it have a thermometer?

Yes, but does it have a thermometer?

Things That Happen When I Stay Up Late To Read a Book

A small bug crawling up the wall. What is that? A tick?

Closer inspection confirms that it is probably not a tick. But, I’m still not convinced. It has some weird long thing that comes out of it’s head. It’s tiny though.

Squash. Flush. Move on.

Oh. There’s his friend. Must be looking for him. Okay friend, I’ll show you where your buddy went.

Squash. Flush. Move on.

Jesus, is that another one? Good lord. Squash. Drop in toilet. Pee on top of it for good measure while silently praying it doesn’t craw up the side of the bowl and bite my girl parts. Having a penis would come in really handy right now. Not just for aim, but for visibility and for maintaining a distance from the enemy.

Urinate. Flush. Move on.

Check girl parts. Confirm they are weevil-free.

Return to couch.

Feel very itchy.

Text Real Estate Dad, who is upstairs asleep, to alert him to this man-job he will need to attend to in the morning.

Back to book. Cannot concentrate. Realize that Real Estate Dad’s answer in the morning will be “Well the exterminator just came yesterday, so next month when he comes we can tell him.”

Urgency. Not Real Estate Dad’s forte. Further evidenced by the fact that a) he stopped for coffee when I was waiting for him to quickly walk Sammy so we could go to the hospital because my cervix was crowning with Chubs’s head roaring through and b) he never once broke into a run for any of the events during the morning from hell where I went from “Am I in labor?” while in my nice warm bed to laying in an ambulance with a huge firefighter squeezing my hand, to “Who wants to hold her first” in a hospital half way across the city in a span of 70 minutes.

Reality hits. I need to handle this bug thing myself. Google black bug with long head and body with two shell-like parts. Choose images and begin scrolling.

After seeing every kind of tick, beetle and bedbug, I spy one that might be our new resident. The grain weevil. Okay. Let’s see what the grain weevil’s story is.

Grain weevil likes grain. Go figure. Enjoys rice and cereals. Especially fond of bird seeds.

Thinks to self: Like the bag of bird seed sitting by the front door? The bag I’d been trying to get rid of for a year when someone (that’s you, sleeping Real Estate Dad) went and bought another giant ba? All so the girls could feed the birds. I hate birds.

I realize my hatred of birds flies in the face of me being a lover and rescuer of animals. (Flies in the face - see what I did there?) But, birds are absolutely not a topic of love in my diary. They fly around, dropping a turd whenever and wherever the hell they feel, whether that be in my freshly keratined hair, on a woman’s bridal gown, or in a news reporter’s mouth - like an old man at a nursing home who sharts and laughs because someone else has to clean it up. Birds wake everyone up at 4 a.m., singing like those obnoxious ROTC’s in college, trying to make sure the rest of us are also awake and miserable while they sing their way through morning bootcamp. I’d love to be able to pick off those Mockingbirds who divebomb me, the kids and the dogs when we are only trying to leave our house. No one cares about your stupid nest and your eggs you ugly birds! There. I hate birds. I said it. I do not want to encourage them to hang around our house. AT ALL.

When the girls put seed out for the birds, the birds aren’t even grateful. They hover around, squawking at each other like the nail techs at the salon, make a damned mess, leaving shit all over our porch and spew seeds and shells all over the patio. And do they even clean up any of the edible seeds? No. They’re too good to eat seeds from the ground. They only want them from the feeder. The corgis, trying to be helpful, run out there like it’s an all-you-can-eat buffet to inhale the seeds all over the ground. Then for the next 3 days, the corgi firing squad is in high demand by capital punishment states, because of their ability to shoot bird seed straight out of their asses.

It’s 2 a.m. I cautiously walked over to the bucket of bird seed in the bag by the front door and opened it up. I grabbed the cup in there and scooped up some seed. I waited for all the little kernels to fall into place and for the seeds to stop moving so I could determine if there were any bugs in the bag.

And then, it was like an Alfred Hitchcock movie. The seeds never stopped moving because there were weevils everywhere!

Vom vom vom. I unlocked our door faster than I would have if Ed McMahon was standing out there with a Publisher’s Clearing House check in one hand and a basket full of corgi puppies in the other. I ran outside in my pajamas in the pouring rain and threw that bag of nasty on the street.

I went inside and upstairs to report to Real Estate Dad what happened. He asked where the bag of seeds was now. I told him I threw it at the edge of the sidewalk in front of our house.

You’re welcome, Glover Park. Blame the house with the flamingos outside. It was us.

 

Bathtubs Suck & Other Home Renovation Advice From Someone Who Doesn't Give a Rat's Arse

In the spring of 2017, we finally got to the bathroom renovation. Our 1932 Glover Park House still had the original deco style bathroom which was pretty cool looking, but not functional for our lives. And, it seemed that it could never be clean enough. (For me anyway - the child of a woman who has a bottle of clorox in every room.)

 The only shelf is that tile on the radiator?!?

The only shelf is that tile on the radiator?!?

Being that I personally find bathtubs disgusting, dirty, ugly, and a back-breaker to clean, and that reglazing it actually didn’t work, we planned to rip the old tub out. The fact that that 85 years of asses had sat in that tub was enough to put me over the edge. No way would the girls ever be able to bathe in there without a Haz-Mat suit.

 85 Years of Asses, cleaned their cracks right here ^^^^^

85 Years of Asses, cleaned their cracks right here ^^^^^

The problem was what to replace it with since it was somewhat of a non-standard length. Every tub option was just as ugly as the next.

Then, unrelated to our renovation, I would tour houses with clients and get misty eyed at the gorgeous showers. I wondered, “Why the hell do we need a tub?” So I did what any confident, smart woman does - I posed the question on Facebook.

The bath-lovers were rabid. They came out en masse. So rabid they were in defending their love of lounging in a pool of filthy bathwater (albeit, their own f that the few friends who supported a no-tub house were scared to comment. They resorted to texts. (Jeez people, the political fighting is bad enough but BATHTUBS?)

Anyway, I’m not sure why I asked for opinions but after hearing, “I’d never buy a house without a bathtub” and “Families with little kids will never buy your house” several dozen times, I said, “Miguel? Rip that shit out. We’re getting a shower.”

Then I got to pick out tile and fixtures for this amazing bathroom that I love. It’s so fresh and so clean clean. I rationalized it with: We have Stoddert Elementary - people are dying to get in this neighborhood, lack of a tub won’t stop them. Yup. I made that decision with emotion and backed it up with logic. Just like someone shopping for a home would.

Now the bathroom looks like this.

 That’s the Speakman Anystream Showerhead. I FLOVE it. We stayed at a Hilton in Connecticut with these showerheads. I’m a fan.

That’s the Speakman Anystream Showerhead. I FLOVE it. We stayed at a Hilton in Connecticut with these showerheads. I’m a fan.

 A closer look a the tile - one wall in charcoal glass and the other in ceramic with a criss cross design.

A closer look a the tile - one wall in charcoal glass and the other in ceramic with a criss cross design.

 Added shelves to the right which made a HUGE difference for us.

Added shelves to the right which made a HUGE difference for us.

Why am I telling you all this? Well, yesterday morning I woke up to the news that Houzz put out their 2018 bathroom trends. And part of the trend they cite from this year? A full 34% of people have ripped out their tubs in favor of a shower. I’m a trending statistic!

Well well well. There’s nothing I love more than vindication. Well, vindication and watching the dirty shower water go down the drain instead of surrounding me.

The story ends here that the girls love taking showers. They love drawing faces in the condensation on the glass, and I love the fact that they don’t get bladder infections from sitting in the water like they were prone to. This was a win all around.




Follow the Leader

Halloween in Glover Park is pretty amazing. (Shut up, I know it’s November 6th.)

This year we were at the head of the neighborhood parade again. This isn’t a coveted position. It just means you got to the lineup late and last, so when the entire gang of people turn around to head out, you’re suddenly at the front.

The first year we lived here we were at the head of the parade. M was little and Chubs was just a few months old so we decided to take a short cut back to our house. And everyone followed us, because, hey, parade! When we went up the steps to our house the rest of the parade (the entire neighborhood) ended up milling around the front of our house. Follow the leader doesn’t work if the leader is an idiot.

This year we made it to the Manor House! It did not disappoint.

 M at the famous Manor House.

M at the famous Manor House.

The entire neighborhood of Glover Park explodes in costumed children and candy for Halloween. They know how to do it right here. After an hour of trick-or-treating, my children decided they would rather pass out the candy. For M this actually meant passing out the candy. For Chubs this meant eating the candy. Real Estate Dad and I were thinking to just let the littles gorge themselves and they would get sick of the candy. No such luck. M and Chubs got to a point of complete insanity where they just couldn’t calm down and shut their engines off. It drove me temporarily insane. The wine helped.

Then, because I’m a glutton for punishment, we went to Hershey Park for the weekend. Actually we went because it was a central location for the board of East Coast Corgi Rescue to meet in person! It was so nice to be in the same room (with 6 corgis and Ziggy the terrier) while we planned out the future of the rescue. I still cannot believe I started the rescue from my chair two years ago in the middle of the night one night and it’s exploded to be so huge and so amazing.

I went up to Hershey early Saturday morning with the dogs and we had our meeting during the day. Then Real Estate Dad came up with the girls later in the day. What I had grossly miscalculated was the end result of my not being home during the packing process. Typically I pack the girls clothes and then give them each a bag and say you can fill it with toys, books, whatever, but it has to zip closed.

Chubs is a hoarder.

Real Estate Dad is a sucker.

Chubs pretty much brought everything she owns and some things she doesn’t with her for the weekend. And she unpacked it all into the hotel drawers.

 This is what happens when you take your eyes off Homeless Helga

This is what happens when you take your eyes off Homeless Helga

There was more trick or treating at Hershey. The girls again got so out of hand, it was misery in the hotel room. I took them out to the hall and said “Let’s play follow the leader” because I’m clearly so good at it for the Glover Park Parade. I did probably a dozen laps through the halls of the hotel and the lobby doing all kinds of stupid stuff to wear them out. The only one who got worn out was me. I did hit my 10,000 steps though. I went back to the room huffing and puffing and told Real Estate Dad to get out there and wear them out.

He was back in a few minutes. They were still bouncing off the walls.

This is the nicest time of year workload-wise, for me. The real estate market slows as it get closer to the holidays. It’s a good time to plan for next year and a good time to do more things with the kids.

Summer Nanny (who is now year-round-nanny) told me that when she was picking the girls up from school, someone in M’s class said, “That’s your nanny? Are her tattoos real or fake?” When M said they were real, she said, “My mom says only people in prison have tattoos.”

Here we are, Summer Nanny and I, ready for the slammer.

 Inmates #1 & #2

Inmates #1 & #2


Class Mom on Crack

The real estate market has come to a skidding halt. There. I said it.

Summers and Holidays are always slow times, but come September and January, all the agents out there prep themselves for the return of the market. We never quite know what it will bring. Will it pick up where it left off before the vacation season? Or will it swerve a bit and throw all of us off from what we expected.

We did have a ton of rain in the end of the summer. Then we did have a weird and oddly warm September and early October. Then interest rates did rise. But all these are just excuses. You can’t just pin the blame for a sluggish market on one factor. Here’s what it is - we replayed 2003 - 2006 again. Rates dipped unbelievably low, people dove into the market, and lots of future demand was pulled to present day. The people with houses to sell had already locked in low interest rates. They had no incentive to sell. Many of those people moved on up and chose to rent their current abode, building the beginning of their real estate portfolio.

I’ve still been busy, but it’s slowing now in time for the holidays and I plan to catch up on my corgi rescue and school obligations. In fact, I went on a field trip with Chubs!!

(Note to my other snarkies, Mouse-Mom was supposed to be a chaperone but she didn’t come because her kid was sick. Sort of like when she got us all sent to the trailer classrooms then stopped sending her kid to school because she was allegedly sick. Probably from the trailers, you dumb ass.)

(Yes, I realize I am going to hell.)

(I will see many of you there.)

 Here we are on the bus to hell! Oh wait. This is the field trip I chaperoned.

Here we are on the bus to hell! Oh wait. This is the field trip I chaperoned.

I sent my parents and brothers a picture of this momentous occasion. They were all shocked I could even find the bus since I refused to ride it when I went to school. I am sorry but there is NO REASON for a bus to pick you up almost an hour before school when the school is 7 minutes away.

I also wo-manned the Costume Shop at the School’s Fall Festival. As one of the Pre-K moms, I was on an email chain a few weeks ago where we learned of a delicious surprise. The Pre-K class is responsible for the costume fundraiser. Pre-K has to collect costumes from the school and sell them at the Fall Festival to raise money. I winced as the Lead Class Mom replied, “Well, we don’t want to break tradition…” while the other Class Mom and I huddled behind her and cried our pain.

My mom used to help a lot in the schools. I don’t know how she did it. Oh wait. She didn’t work more than full time and run an animal rescue. Right.

 Here’s me at the Costume Shop.

Here’s me at the Costume Shop.

 And here’s where my husband lost all respect for me.

And here’s where my husband lost all respect for me.

After I class-mommed it at the field trip and the costume shop, I had to staff-appreciation it. I found this cool crafty idea for Principal’s Appreciation Month.

Each student would make a petal and each class would assemble their petals into a flower. I would have 19 flowers I could put in a flower pot for the Principals. Thankfully, the former Staff Appreciation Chair slapped me hard and said “Just do one per class, it will be so much easier” and thankfully she was right. I’ll be phoning this staff thing in by June, I’m sure.

Unfortunately I had no idea that teachers can’t follow instructions and I only got 13 of the 19 petals back. Oh well.

As I was walking out the door to go affix them to the Principal’s door, Real Estate Dad said to me, “Remember when you used to be fun and now they know you by name at Michael’s Crafts Stores?”

Ugh. Like a knife in the side, Real Estate Dad. I won’t soon forget that. I will be punishing him today by taking him to a corgi costume party in Annapolis.

A Photo Menagerie of one of the Worst Weeks This Year

The last two weeks have been mostly exhausting for a variety of reasons. Murders in DC seem to be hitting closer to home, and suddenly not feeling safe in the city is weighing on my mind. The corgi rescue has been pretty demanding as well. We’ve had to start saying no to some surrenders. I miss when life was simpler, and just real estate and kids. Of course, this is payback I’m sure, for all those years in my 20’s when I was underemployed and bored all the time.

Instead of lamenting all the woes, a menagerie of pictures would tell a better story.

There was the Dachtoberfest event, where the corgis were special guests.

 Who got da treats?

Who got da treats?


And then there was a Million Corgi March. My Piper made the news! Of course, with this tongue, how could she not…

 Derrrrrrp. Her tongue flies like a state flag.

Derrrrrrp. Her tongue flies like a state flag.

Unfortunately Piper wasn’t a fan of the marching part. We had to eject Chubs from her stroller to let Piper hitch a ride. Also unfortunately, this was a fun corgi event, and people took it to extremes on Instagram, harassing the hosts for not taking a political stand.

People, get a life.

Then we had a day off, thanks I guess to Christopher Columbus and his massacre of the Native Americans. The girls and I went out for some fun.

IMG_7139.JPG

Then several bad things happened.

Chubs got sick. (Not from that cake.)

Chub’s teacher’s husband was murdered in a carjacking in DC.

An adopter with extensive humane society experience adopted one of our skittish nippy little corgis and then decided to euthanize her on Day 4. For growling when the adopter tried to put the harness on her. When the harness had been on for 10 straight weeks prior and the adopter was told not to take it off of her because she has neck issues thanks to someone who thought a choke collar was a good idea.

I flipped my lid. This is a GOOD DOG. She just doesn’t like to be startled. That’s all. Once you know that, and that she doesn’t like excessive petting or cuddling, you can co-habitate peacefully. She’s more like….a cat.

Anyway, to prevent said adopter from euthanizing, I had to put poor Chubs with a horrible cold/strep, into the car and drive all day to get the dog.

 Here I am, worst mother ever, going to save a dog while my kid tries to fight her cold, in last year’s Halloween Costume.

Here I am, worst mother ever, going to save a dog while my kid tries to fight her cold, in last year’s Halloween Costume.

We weren’t the only ones having a bad week. When I walked the girls to school on Friday, the crossing guard was in a full on standoff with a car that refused to heed her instructions to stop. She stood in the middle of the intersection staring him down. It was really impressive.

 #StupidUber

#StupidUber

Then we left town for the weekend. It was a welcome break to get out of dodge for a while.

There we were, on the Rehoboth Beach Boardwalk, letting the girls eat ice cream before calling it a night. Along came a pack of nuns out of nowhere. They were quite enamored with the girls. Probably because they don’t have to live with them.


 I told them they have no idea what little devils the two small blondes are.

I told them they have no idea what little devils the two small blondes are.

M started coughing and trying to convince us it was her turn to stay home from school with a cold. I said, “Sounds like maybe you caught Chubs’s cold.”

To which Chubs said, “NOOOO, BECAUSE I STILL HAVE MY COLD!”

Can’t argue with her there.

Where the Realtor Becomes the Client

I’m over this rain. It’s making everyone act like idiots. Today my work-wife and I were almost impaled by an umbrella some doofus was swinging around like Fred Astaire

This Real Estate Family was at the beach this past weekend because we had to finish off one of my crazy ideas from earlier in the summer. Flashback to June, as we are driving out to Rehoboth for our first beach weekend of the season. As soon as we started crossing bridges I said, "I'm in the mood to buy a house."

"Where?" Real Estate Dad asked. My parents had this condo in Florida when we were little and some of my best memories are sitting there at night, watching bad-Florida-cable and listening to the ocean. I said I'd be open to anywhere as long as we can hear the ocean.

We talked through coastal towns up and down the coast, ruling out places which were fated to be underwater in the next few decades or places that were too far to visit regular. Rehoboth for the win! Which isn’t bad news at all, three of us love it there. The other one of us loves Ocean City but we ain’t reliving your youth of trashy girlfriends and fleabag hotels, Real Estate Dad. So, the girls won this one.

The next morning we were looking at condos.

By noon we were writing a contract on a place which was so gross (to me) and in which I channeled my mother by saying, "This place is disgusting - It needs to be gutted." Real Estate Dad thought it was in good condition He’s either right and I’m a spoiled little brat, or he’s comparing it to his old Ocean City haunts.

Even though the place was on the market for a month and a half (a death sentence in DC,) there were somehow multiple offers. This apparently never happens in Delaware. They called for highest and best. Real Estate Dad and our agent suggested going to asking price. Pshaw. You people must be new here. You think I'm rolling over that quickly? I had a strategy, honed from working in this city of crazy. After I explained what I wanted to do, our agent said, "Wow, you are teaching me things, we never do this here." Real Estate Dad didn't want to lose the place.

Him: What if they have cash? It looks better if we offer full price.

Me: What if? Maybe they offered $100K less than we did.

Him: The sellers see the escalation though. They can just counteroffer a the max.

Me: That's not going to happen. They have to show the front page of the other contract. The escalation has to do its job otherwise the whole thing is bullshit.

We waited the rest of the day for a response. I wasn't mad. I wasn't on edge. I'd done this wait with clients before and while I know it's impossible to wait for a response from the seller, I also know that the more you contact them, the more desperate you seem. Real Estate Dad kept asking if I heard anything and I was like, Come on man, we gotta play it cool.

In the end, the sellers accepted our offer when the other offer capped out. We paid less than asking, we didn't waive the inspection, and we kept our financing contingency.

Throughout the entire negotiation and loan underwriting process, we were sort of astonished at how freaking slow people are. “Welllllp, this is lower slower Delaware.” Get it. Lower Slower Delaware. LSD. They even put it on bumper stickers.

It took 3 months to get this thing underwritten because we had to go through 3 different lenders. Each one would come back saying that the condo operates like a hotel and they couldn’t do the loan, whatever the hell that meant. Finally the loan was done and we went to closing.

Our agent was there and so was the listing agent. I liked her because she was playing with the girls. Then I stopped liking her real quick. I can turn on a dime like that.

Papers were signed, and everyone said “Congratulations!” Then we asked for the keys. Everyone looked at each other like, “Do you have the keys? I don’t have the keys.”

The attorney left the room and when he came back he foolishly handed the listing agent her commission check, first. And this my friends, is where the day took a dive.

Listing Agent: “This isn’t right.”

The lawyer sort of whispers. Then there’s math. Then there’s discussion about how she’s “capped out” at her company and she should be paid 100%.

The lawyer looks at us and says we don’t have to stay. We said we were waiting for keys to the house on which we just purchased. But we continued to watch this agent make a spectacle of herself. I texted our agent who was sitting right next to me and said, “Is she serious? I would never do this at the settlement table in front of clients.”

If she had a modicum of self-awareness she would have realized we were all shifting and whispering and she should have waited until we all left. But nope, she kept going.

She got on her phone. Lawyer said he will try to call to find the keys which was nice of him considering this isn’t his job. We thought she was calling to figure out who had the keys.

Nope. She’s calling her company to complain about how her commission check is wrong. Then she looks up as if we are going to agree or actually give a shit. She says, “I’ve maxed out at my company, I get 100% of my commissions.” Real Estate Dad is looking at her without a shred of sympathy and she still doesn’t get it. I mean, I’m sorry but if you’re doing so well that you maxed out your commissions at your multi-level marketing of a brokerage, then you really shouldn’t be hounding everyone for payment at the table. I’d like to think you can wait a couple days like the rest of us do.

We finally learned our keys were at an office across Rehoboth and we had to go fetch them ourselves. When we walked outside I said to Real Estate Dad, “This is why people hate us. This woman is why people hate Real Estate Agents.”

Four is the New 17

School continues to provide a never-ending source of frustration and entertainment.

M’s bestie told her mama that a girl in their class said that she doesn’t like Hillary Clinton because certain types of people give her money.

(This is why my parents spoke Greek at home, so we wouldn’t go running our mouth about what they think of the world.)

This is what gold is made of, people.

In other news, this note that came home in Chub’s Folder.

School 2.jpg

Stupidity knows no bounds. It really doesn’t matter if your 4 year old has homework or not, it’s not going to make them smarter in the long run. Maybe people believe that their kid is Harvard-bound if they start homework shortly after they are ejected from the womb but, seriously?

My child can’t even remember to wipe her butt after she uses the bathroom and she’s supposed to do homework now?

This is the note I’m sending back:

School 1.jpg

The Pre-K Teachers will expect nothing less of me. The last time I spoke with them, they said the Mouse-Mom said “I am being z’attacked by zee people for zee mice!” (It’s my best attempt at a French accent.) (She’s not even French, I don’t know why I did that.)

Not “people.” Me. That was me attacking you, because you were being an idiot. Just like the parent who asked for homework.

It’s gonna be a long year.

DCPS Will Land Me in an Early Grave

Things I don't have time for: another school committee.

Things this idiot just volunteered for: another school committee.

When I heard the history of said committee, I felt like I couldn't not help. I shared my interpretation of how DC Public Schools work (or rather, don't work) with a parent of older children.  They congratulated me on figuring it out quickly, as most people never realize the clusterf*ck that is DC Public Schools. 

There will be more to come from me on this as I learn that the powers that be just don't care. I don't mean at the school level - I'm talking the downtown "OSSE" level.

Speaking of not caring, the Pre-K class is still in the West Wing, aka the trailer park. They were supposed to be there 2 weeks. We're now in week 3. My most recent outrage came as a result of learning that the parent who started all this "I saw mouse poop" drama and demanded the students be relocated - her kid hasn't been at school for a week. So, uh, thanks for getting all our kids sent to this stupid ass trailer while your kid stays home. In what is not a trailer, I assume. . Traps have been set all over the place and not a creature has been caught, not even a mouse. Yes. You read that correctly. Not. One. Mouse.

And now a storm is a-coming. So, I'll be keeping Chubs home for most of this week because I'm not playing this game. I saw the Wizard of Oz. I know what happens to trailers in natural disasters. I'll put Chubs to work. She can help me write an offer for my client, who is too smart to pay list priced for yet another overpriced listing.

The rain this week is killing real estate. I have a pretty cool studio listing that has gotten very little traffic because while people will house hunt in the snow and ice, they won't do it in the rain. It's sort of interesting but it's how I got my house in Glover Park. We were coming off of 10 straight days of rain several years back. I was 8 months pregnant with Chubs and had no desire to look at this house as I was convinced it was underpriced and would sell in a bidding war. But it didn't. Thanks rain! We got a good house and a good deal for all parties.

And for the file marked "Awesome Things Other Real Estate Agents Have Said to Me," this week we have this gem. I called a listing agent to ask a couple basic questions and was met with a string of "I don't know's." Finally he said, "Clearly I know NOTHING about this listing, you seem to know more than I do."

Yeah. That's our industry, people. There it is. Blech.