Sunday, March 1, 2009


Well, apparently the house is reading this blog -- and it's pissed off.

Yesterday I staged the house for a 1 o'clock appointment, turned on all the lights, primped, preened and arranged. I even postponed eating lunch so my tincture of cloves and spices would waft through the air rather than greasy hamburger. About 2 o'clock I got a call from our realtor saying, "Please go let them in, they can't get the door open." Fine. It sticks sometimes.

Not fine. The house would have none of it. Nope, the door wouldn't budge. It was pouring rain, the wind was pounding me with a 35 degree wind chill. Sopping wet, hungry and shivering, I peered like a Charles Dickens moppet into my beautiful, toasty warm house, that "respite, a sanctuary from whatever is buffeting the four walls."

What the heck?

An hour later, our realtor picked the lock on the back door, just as the house lookers came back by. Soon thereafter I returned, still wet, freezing and a little contrite.

Nice house. Nice house.

In the meantime, we spoke to someone at the wine shop about an interesting wine bar venture. More on that later.

Nice house.

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