Sadly, these ARE my monkeys

Queue up the Warren Zevon: Send Lawyers, guns and money. We’re buying a house.

Even Steven King would not be able to do justice to the insanity of the past week which pertains to real estate matters. (Okay, so maybe he could, but work with me here.)

“Not my circus, not my monkeys” is an expression we use to remind ourselves not to get involved in other people’s drama. This is mostly because we have our own drama. Our own soap opera. Our own episode of 24.

As usual, I’ll start in the middle, and go around the circle. So we picked a house, made a deal. Then comes the inspections.


Realtor: “So you want to buy a house?”


Realtor: “Trust me. You can trust me.”
Inspector tells us:”You need a new roof.”
“Hmmmm. Do I want this house, or do I want to run far, far away?”
King of the throne. Which needs a new seat by the way.
Us: “Maybe we should keep renting.”
This is me screaming: “It’s my husband’s decision, not yours!” (to realtor)
Me. Not answering the phone.


No more legal documents! My eyes are burning!

If all goes well, we will be in the new house sometime in September. Then I hope to be back to my regularly scheduled life.






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