Annette Bening, Will You Sell My House Today?

Today we had an open house for which NO ONE showed up because, among other things:

1. There were no signs in the neighborhood pointing to our open house.
2. The open house did not appear to be advertised in the newspaper.
3. The open house was not advertised online.

WTF, my peeps? Is my real estate lady smokin' dope, or does she really not want to sell this house?

I can handle no one showing up if a valiant attempt has been made to attract visitors. But I do not want to run around like a chicken with my head cut off, turning the hut right-side up in preparation for a showing while two little childrenz follow me around undoing my every effort as I complete it for an imaginary open house which has been advertised exactly nowhere.

Yesterday, we had a showing scheduled during the J-dog's naptime, so we packed the kids up in the Ramamobile and drove around our dream 'hood scouting out new listings while the V-meister hummed merrily along to her favorite song on the Grease soundtrack (Why, this car is automatic, it's systematic, it's hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiidromatic, why, it's grease lightning!) and the J-dog caught up with his beauty sleep.

But forty five minutes into our jaunt around the winding and hilly roads where we hope to find the home of our future nestled, the little J-dog woke up and puked a pint of partially digested strawberries into his lap.

"Crap! I told you somebody was going to yorp if you didn't take it easy around those curves, P-Dawg!!!!"

Sadly, it was a situation in which having been right didn't yield quite the feeling of satisfaction one would hope for.

We pulled into the nearest parking lot, where a howling J-dog was wiped down to the best of the P-Dawg's ability and changed into a set of clean clothes (which the ever prepared mutha keeps in the diaper bag at all times in case of just such an emergency).

Then we killed the remaining half hour before we could get back into our house by driving very slowly with the windows down and making as few turns as possible. Once home, we deposited the J-dog straight into the bathtub, and that is when the agent who had scheduled the showing arrived with her clients, half an hour late.

I completely understand how easy it can be to run late for a showing, but I almost burst a blood vessel upon being told that they couldn't get in earlier due to the storm door being locked, BECAUSE I KNOW THIS TO BE A BUNCH OF BULL SHIITAKE MUSHROOMS.

Freakin' storm door was not locked. NOT LOCKED!

Do you know how hard it was for me not to call her on her bluff about that stupid storm door? It took every ounce of self-restraint in me to bite my tongue and place the blame squarely on the V-meister, saying, "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry! My daughter must have turned the lock on our way out!", even though it is impossible to lock our storm door from the inside, Pinocchio!

So either this agent has a serious iron deficiency, or the line is something agents universally say when they are running late and don't want to admit it. Still, I would have appreciated a little honesty after driving my kid to puke all over himself in vain.

Bah. She showed the house while the entire family Rama huddled awkwardly in the bathroom, the V-meister occasionally shooting out into the hallway like a bat out of hell to let us know whether the coast was clear.

You know how they say that moving is one of life's biggest stresses? I hope that they are factoring the house showing part of the process heavily into the equation, because if it gets much harder, I could have a total nervous breakdown.

MamaGeek recently reminded me of that scene in American Beauty where Annette Bening stands, arms akimbo, in front of the patio doors of a house she is trying to sell, affirming, "I will sell this house today! I will sell this house today!" before stripping down to her bra and panties and going on a cleaning spree.

Dude. I need that realtor.

Running From Scissors

Two children went in for professional haircuts yesterday; only one emerged shorn.

J-dog was down with it until he detected the sensation of cold scissor blades on the back of his nubile toddler neck.

No amount of animal crackers, juice, or entreaties to take note of the stellar comportment of the V-meister, who was getting an angled bob in the next throne over, could calm the hysterics.

In a near repeat performance of his Jazzercise child care room escape attempt, the little J-dog tried to nose dive out of my lap and make a run for the exit, but was unsuccessful.

We momentarily diverted him with a Dora DVD, but as soon as his toddler radar detected scissors returning for the kill, the J-dog freaked - screaming, foaming at the mouth, and spitting up animal crackers. I think his head spun around a few times too, but I can't be entirely sure.

Meanwhile, V-meister sat primly in her kiddy haircut throne, flipping her 'do from side to side and occasionally exclaiming, "Oh, I am looking so pretty! This haircut is sooooooo me!"

After a few minutes of this, I put the J-dog's stylist out of her misery, telling her it was OK to stop and that I'd try to finish the job during bath time later on. (And when I say, "I," I mean the P-Dawg).

And thus the J-dog's haircut ended only minutes after it had begun.

I was tempted to deny the little J-dog his craptastic plastic consolation toy (I mean, he didn't even complete the task at hand, which was to NOT WRITHE AND SCREAM for five minutes while watching cartoons, noshing on animal crackers, and enjoying some ambient salon tunes).

Because while I understood that the J-dog was frightened (he's gotten haircuts before, but it seems that his phobia worsens with each attempt), I couldn't help but be slightly irritated that this simple errand could not be accomplished. My blood runs toward the reptilian, what can I say.

In the end, he got a sticker.

"DICKER!", he exclaimed the moment he was free, and proceeded to run laps around the reception area like a man with a death row pardon, while I paid fifteen dollars for the pleasure of letting one hysterical toddler smear boogers, tears, hair, and regurgitated cracker paste all over the front of my shirt.



"Cut this, suckas!"

Seller's Remorse

So our little hut is officially for sale as of today, and when I first pulled up the listing, I got a little choked up.

This does not bode well, I think, for the day in the hopefully not so distant future when we will actually be moving out. I have this mental picture of being torn away from the stoop railing, kicking and screaming "My babies were born here!"

After I pulled myself together and clicked through the photos, I was stunned by the photographer's mad photoshopping skillz.

Our house looks so purdy. The rooms! So bright and cheerful! Either the photographer stood across the street to get the panoramic shot of the living room, or she has one mother of a zoom lens.

Gazing upon the blazing little log that had been photoshopped into our fireplace, I found myself thinking, "We should build a fire in there sometime." Then I saw the picture of our basement "rec room"and mused, "What an awesome rec room! You could totally hang out down there and play games or watch movies!"

In short, I momentarily forgot that, "I hate this effing house" has been my mantra all winter.

It's sad. Now that we've finally fixed the place up, we're ready to get the H-E double hockey sticks out.

Really, I'm the ultimate pessimist when it comes to our prospects of actually finding a buyer in this housing market. Yesterday's headline in the local paper was something to the effect of "Housing Prices Tanking; Some Morons Still Trying to Sell."

Some days I think that our house is a comparatively nice little starter home, well decorated, in good repair, yadda yadda yadda. Then I start looking at the hundred plus listings of houses just like it in the same neighborhood with updated kitchens, more space, and lower asking prices, and I despair. I can't even begin to tell you how many times I've said to the P-Dawg "We are never, ever going to sell this house."

"Who the hell would ever fall for this little hovel?" I say to my friend V, and she counters, "You did."

If you've bought a house or looked at real estate recently, tell me this: could you fall for a house that may not necessarily have every update or feature you are looking for, but is clean, neutrally decorated with no garish 70s wallpaper or fugly shag carpeting, and contains strategically placed smoke and mirrors?

Paging Doctor Shakespeare

Next time I abandon my blog for a week, remind me to leave a post up about something other than radish sandwiches. What if The New Yorker had stumbled upon Rimarama while scouting for staff writers? I would have blown my chance at the big time.

Which brings me to the subject of today's post.

The P-Dawg and I have a longstanding argument about the nature of writing. For almost as long as I have known him, he's talked about the book inside of him, just waiting to be written. The P-Dawg has not yet penned a single word or even determined what the subject matter of his masterpiece will be, but he does know that, when it is unveiled, his tome will quickly propel him to celebrity and millionaire status.

Once, we were sitting in the living room after the kids were in bed and the P-Dawg said to me, "Rimster, get ready to type because I'm going to start dictating my novel."

It's galling.

From time to time, as we're browsing the stacks at Borders on what we both have come to regard as a hot date night, the P-Dawg will casually flip through the latest self-help bestseller and state, "I could have written this."

Rolling my eyeballs heavenward, I always restate my emphatic and indignant claim:

"P-Dawg, you don't even know the half of it! You can't just sit down and write a book. You have to plan! Research! Write, re-write, and write again! And that's not even taking into account all the time you must devote to self-promotion! Writing is hard work! If it were that easy, everyone would be published. Why, I've been polishing my short story for going on ten years now!"

"Rimster, anyone can write a book. You just have to come up with the right idea and apply yourself."

I won't lie - I've entertained the fantasy of being published. A syndicated advice or humor column would be ideal, but neither would I snub a stint on Chicken Soup for the Soul. It's the applying myself part, the sitting down and writing a query letter and then following up with an actual piece, that gets me every time.

You can just imagine my shock and awe, then, when the P-Dawg came home from work the other day and announced that he would be writing a regular medical advice column in a local paper.

"Seriously??? I didn't even know you were applying for this!"

"No application, Rimster. Just a phone call from the paper requesting my services."

"They just called you up and asked you to write a column for them???"

"Yo."

"Wow! That's awesome!" I exclaimed, a few puffs of steam escaping from my ears despite my best efforts to stop them. "I published a small piece about the merits of radish sandwiches and Magic Erasers today."

A week goes by and the P-Dawg goes about his usual business. Then, on Monday morning, as he's rounding at the hospital, he receives a phone call from his office manager.

"Dr. P-Dawg, the paper just called. Your first column is due this afternoon."

Without missing a beat, our budding journalist locates the nearest computer terminal, makes up a medical question willy-nilly, plunks out a high-falootin' answer replete with gobbledygook medical speak, shoots it off ten minutes later, and voila - he's published.

Me, I'm working on a book entitled, Married to Shakespeare - And You Can Too!

It's all about attitude, you see.

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That thing in the oven on my radish post? A play-doh and sticker pie the V-meister made for her imaginary friend's birthday back in August. And not one comment about the appalling state of my oven! You are too polite, dear readers.

Good Housekeeping with Rimarama

No time to blog today, as I am busy, busy, busy, cleaning out my hut. However, I thought I'd take a brief moment to share some good housekeeping tips.

Two things I've been obsessed with lately: radish sandwiches and Magic Erasers.

Don't knock the radish sandwich until you try it. My mom used to make them for me and the brothers Rama in the summers when we'd picnic out in the backyard. Deelish.

The radish sandwich must be made with Wonder bread, butter, and radishes. That's it. But don't try to put whole radishes in between pieces of white bread. You must slice them first.

Next up: Magic Erasers.

I whiled away thirty-four years on this planet without knowledge of their existence, but I am making up for it this week. The Magic Eraser is the cleaning product of the century.

For those of you unfamiliar with this miracle invention, it's a sponge-like eraser, AND IT IS MAGIK.

You wet it, squeeze out excess water, then go to town. I bought myself a starter pack of four of these babies and I burned through them in the space of one morning.

As soon as their superior cleaning powers became apparent, the Erasers and I were inseparable. I used them, one after the other, to wipe down everything and anything that wasn't moving or breathing, and still I yearned for more.

Few household surfaces were spared my radish sandwich fueled Magic Eraser cleaning spree zeal. The P-Dawg had to intervene when I started eyeballing the aluminum siding and his wing tips.

This concludes today's edition of Good Housekeeping with Rimarama.

The Dental Hygienist Makes a Liar Out of Me

The Scene: Afternoon, the dentist's office. Having called in sick for her last two appointments, Rimarama has dragged herself in for her twice yearly cleaning.

Hygienist: "Wow, it's been awhile since we've seen you, Rima!"

Rimarama: "I know! I was sick!" (not really)

Hygienist, stabbing at patient's gums with pick axe: "Oh, I'm sorry! A little tender, there, huh?"

Rimarama: "No problem!" (UR killing me, betch)

Hygienist: "Bit of inflammation around the gums here."

Rimarama: "That's weird! I've been flossing religiously!" (Iz "never" a religionz?)

Hygienist: "Have you been using your electric toothbrush?"

Rimarama: "Yeah! It's great!" (as a toilet scrubber)

Hygienist: "Just make sure you brush for the full two minutes and really get in behind those molars, OK?"

Rimarama: "Absolutely!" (not)

Hygienist: "Well, that about wraps it up for today! Will you be needing a new brush and some floss?"

Rimarama: "Yes!" (no)

Hygienist: "See you in six months!"

Rimarama: "Okey-dokey!" (hell to the no)

Blizzard, Schmizzard

If I see one more snowflake this winter, I'll shoot it.

I'm Just Here for the Party

I was one of the intrepid voters who braved treacherous road conditions and freezing rain to cast my vote in my state's primary yesterday.

My voting location is an elementary school that I drive past multiple times every single day. It's at the intersection of a main road and a cross street that bears the name of the school.

Yesterday, its front lawn was festooned with campaign posters. There were also balloons involved, and a big sign that read, "Rimarama, TURN HERE."

However, it took me seven drive-bys to locate it.

Once there, I ignored the side lot where everyone else in the state had parked and from where a steady stream of dejected Ohioans could be seen shuffling into the polling place. I proceeded to park the Ramamobile in the school bus parking lot, and was positively incensed upon finding that I was unable to gain access to my polling location via the loading dock nearest doors.

I did what any self-respecting and passionate voter would do: I backed up a goodly distance of about ten feet and threw the full weight of my body against the padlocked industrial double doors until they took me away in handcuffs screaming "Let's Put the Hi back in Ohio!"

No, no.

I tried to pick the lock with my Target-issue Swiss Army knife.

OK, OK, OK.

I jimmied the doorknob for about two seconds, then hung my head in resignation and shuffled along the sidewalk through freezing rain and raging winds to the main entrance.

But, friends?

The plight to exercise my democratic rights did not end there.

I followed the person in front of me into a classroom.

"Good morning, young lady! Would you happen to know your ward and precinct?"

"Uh . . . Jimmy Smitts?"

I made my way to my assigned table.

"Will you be voting Democrat or Republican today?"

"I have a question. By voting Democratic today, I am declaring myself a Democrat, right?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"So, does that mean I have to vote Democratic all the way down the ticket forevermore? I mean, is it like a blood pact, where I can never go back to being an Independent and they inscribe my tombstone with a donkey after I bite it?"

(Blank stare from Velma McVoting Volunteer.)

"Here is your voting form, dear. Make sure you completely darken the appropriate oval with black ink and don't cast more than one vote for any candidate. If you make a mistake, be sure to return your ballot and we will provide a new one. DO NOT attempt to correct any mistakes!"

For the sake of my own protection, I handed over the bottle of Wite-Out I had stashed in my purse.

Finally, I sat down at a table and set to the task of casting my votes. There were no butterfly ballots or hanging chads to contend with this time around, and yet I had difficulties.

I was confused by the county coroner's lack of opponents. Same with County Recorder. Was I overlooking someone in the next column over? No, that appears to be a separate race, BUT what if I accidentally vote for two candidates and they throw my ballot out? What if I don't vote for anybody and they throw my ballot out? What if I sit here too long and they throw me out?

I started to sweat under my parka.

Twenty minutes later, I had completed my civic duty and was in the process of an elaborate origami ballot folding technique, when the election volunteer sternly admonished that there was no need to fold up my ballot and won't I just drop it in the ballot box please?

Which I did, but it killed me not to be able to peek inside and make sure the eagle had landed.

Anyway, Hillary better start readying the old Lincoln bedroom for me and the P-Dawg.

Because I'm pretty sure it was my vote that clinched the Ohio race.

It's Like Talking to a Wall

The P-Dawg had elective throat surgery on Friday.

(Who has elective THROAT surgery????)

It is supposed to greatly reduce snoring (awesome) and prevent sleep apnea. According to his surgeon, the P-Dawg is a classic example of someone who, without this cutting edge procedure, would likely end up bald and with a pot belly the size of Texas.

Did you know that people with sleep apnea tend to be overweight because lack of sleep actually produces a hormone of some sort that makes you hungry all the time? I just made up the bald part.

I think the surgeon also said something about Bingo and white socks with black sandals, but by this time I had already slipped him our insurance card and a roll of hundreds. SIGN HIM UP.

The P-Dawg, ever the optimist, was convinced he'd be back in the game in no time at all:

"It's no biggie, Rimster. They just shave off a bit of the soft palate, trim up the old uvula, maybe downsize the tongue by a notch or two. Easy peasy."

It didn't sound quite so innocuous to me.

"Shave off part of the soft palate? What is it, a block of Parmesan?"

But my attention quickly wandered.

"Ooooooooo! You said uvula!!!!!!!!!!!!" Har Har.

Anyway.

Now it's Sunday night and my poor P-Dawg is curled up on the couch, barely able to swallow the dew from the side of his Popsicle.

What's more, he can't talk and this is killing me.

I hope the surgery turns out to be worthwhile, because it sure doesn't look like a whole heck of a lot of fun from where I'm sitting. Please send P-Dawg soothing throat vibes. And don't ever let anyone with a knife near your soft palate. Just sayin'.

In other news, I found out today that the V-meister knows how to count to one hundred, and has for some time.

I heard her talking in her room a good half hour after bedtime and popped in to see what was up.

"Mama, I'm just lying here in my bed, counting to a hundred."

And I was all, "Oh, rilly?"

Because I totally didn't believe her.

But she can, and she did.

It makes me wonder what other skills my children might possess that I know nothing of.

What if the J-Dog is doing quantum physics in his head while playing Legos or launching peas off his high chair tray?

You just never know.