The girls are off school this week, so unfortunately we have to parent more than the usual minimum wage work ethic. We’re at the beach, getting the condo, that I convinced Real Estate Dad we should buy, ready for the summer rentals.
The entire process of buying the condo was quite a saga. For anyone who doesn’t have my blog posts memorized, this was the property purchase where the listing agent went all Sybil-menopausal at the closing table because her commission was wrong. We sat there with our jaws on the floor, as she told anyone who would listen, how she gets 100% of her commission. We patiently waited for her to realize we didn’t have keys to the condo she just sold us. We waited in vain. She was too busy lamenting the woes of her commission check to give a rat’s tiny ass about anyone else. I really hate other Realtors® for giving us a bad name. I also hate having to put that stupid R in the circle, but if I don’t, the NAR will email me tomorrow saying that I’m improperly using their trademark. No, I’m not kidding.
The post script to the condo story is that at Christmas, I went to visit clients at the SW Waterfront with a little holiday gift and they asked me how my year had been. They knew from Facebook that I was in the path of the Logan Circle murder a few minutes prior to when the jogger was murdered last fall, and that it was about enough for me to pack everyone up and get out of dodge. I told them we had just bought a condo in Rehoboth, and that having an escape plan made me feel better. They said, “Oh our neighbors just sold a condo in Rehoboth. They don’t live here full time, they come down on weekends from Frederick.”
I said, “Their names don’t happen to be….” and sure enough, my clients live next door to the people who sold their condo to us in Rehoboth. It was even wilder for my clients since they already had all sorts of coincidental connections with their neighbors. DC and Rehoboth are both small towns it appears.
The other post script to the story is that anyone who has an Airbnb or rental property has to be insane. I’m convinced of it. I have pulled pillow after pillow out of the closets here, and they are all stained, half with blood, half with mysterious fluids. I suppose I’m a believer in my mother’s standard of cleaning: It’s not enough bleach until your hands crack.
Anyway, this week is shaping up to have some real interesting conversations with the girls. I’m not sure if these exchanges happen all the time or if maybe I should listen more.
M, to Real Estate Dad: Your dad was our best best Papou.
Real Estate Dad: You never met him. He died before you were born.
M: I know, but he was our best best Papou.
Me: Uh….how can he be better than the Papou you have that’s ALIVE?
My dad is gonna be pissed. I suppose that’s a repercussion of grandparenting solely via FaceTime.
Last night I forgot the Golden Rule with the girls – control the amount of sugar they ingest. They went off the rails crazy. Real Estate Dad and I finally had enough, so we told them they were being annoying and we were going to lock them up in the condo and go out for a drink.
M: You can’t leave us alone.
Me: Why not?
M: Someone could take us. You are parents, you should know that.
Real Estate Dad: No one is going to take you, all you have to do is act like you’re acting now and they will leave.
Me: Or they will take you but they will bring you back in a few minutes.
M: YOU CAN’T LEAVE US ALONE.
M starts to cry.
Me: Oh yeah we can!
Real Estate Dad: You better start behaving.
M, still crying: “NO DON’T LEAVE US!”
Me: Please, have we ever left you alone?
Chubs: You left me home alone.
Me: Well, err, I ONLY DID THAT ONCE AND I DIDN’T KNOW YOU WERE IN THE HOUSE!
Man. That was over a year ago and she’s still holding a grudge.
At least the corgis are having a good time.