about marrying the old hippie in praque

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Even if he didn't mean it, I need to call the realtor tomorrow because I'm allergic to my home. This isn't going to be any fun at all, if we go by Brenda's experience:

Invited a realtor up to look at the money pit on Sunday. "Just to see what our options are," my husband said. Hah! In his dreams. Options. I remember ancient times (like seven months ago) when people whined about too many options. Anyway, the woman shows up at noon on the dot. Badly dyed, oily, red hair pulled back in a tight rubber band, baggy clothes, mid fifties. She looks like the matron at a high security prison or a death camp.

Wasting no time getting down to business, she grabs a seat at the dining room table. "I've been in real estate thirty years," she says. "I owned my company till I got bought out. But I haven't sold a house since June. Never seen it this bad. Nope, never. We've got 220 houses for sale right now. And it's the Stimula package that's really gonna kill us. Because everyone who's taken their homes off the market will be putting them back on again."

I can see my husband turning into the incredible shrinking man as she bullets ahead. "Oh, and you can forget renting," she adds, gleefully, sliding a sheet of paper towards me. "Just take a look at that list." I glance at it, reluctantly, and stop counting at around forty. "Let me tell you a little story. I had this guy and his family. It was back in August. Another corporate transfer. We used to get alot of those. He was custom building his own mini Mac (small McMansion) and needed a place to live till it was finished. I told him to show up down at the Bee (the local paper) at 5 in the morning. So he could be the first person to check out the Classifieds. That's how FEW rentals there were." She's cackling. I swear to God the woman is fucking cackling.

My shoulders are shaking. I can feel the beginnings of crazy, nervous laughter. "But these people," she says, stabbing at the list. "These people are desperate. They went in with 90, 95% financing. Then at the closing, they took another hundred thou for renovating. Now their husbands are out of work. Contracting has totally dried up. Shut down. So has the plumbing business. There's no work for electricians or carpenters, either."

I am offering this woman biscuits, cake, coffee. Anything to make it stop; to shut her mouth. But the bad news just keeps coming, even when she's climbing the stairs. "Wow! I LOVE color, she enthuses.I smile. "You must be a decorator." We're in the room I call Prince. My pride and joy. Deep purple walls, sizzling orange satin bedspread and polka dot pillows. "This is FABULOUS!" she says, stepping into the blue and white striped walled room with fire engine red trimmed windows. I elbow my husband as if to say, "See. It's not so bad, after all. She loves it."

Then the axe drops. "But you'll have to paint the whole place eggshell white or beige," she says. "Maybe sage green." I grimace."This is a classic Cape. People expect traditional. Whew." She's practically wiping her brow. "The husbands would have a heart attack in here."

The irony is, I appreciate her honesty. I do. There's no bullshit. Of course, people can affford to be honest when they have nothing to lose. "But listen," she says, patting my arm as we head downstairs. "It could be worse. You could be trying to sell a place in Westport or New Canaan."

Tomorrow... how we cut her into tiny pieces and buried her in the backyard and other nightmares on Main St..

The good part is property hasn't really lost value here on the coast. The bad part is property hasn't really lost value here on the coast. I wonder if I should email him and ask after the toxicity situation in Prague....

Do you think I can really trick him into believing that was a real proposal? What are the chances he's a solvent socialist gentleman and a hippie? Are you not scouring the planet and your mindscapes for the perfect resolution to this big problem?