After being sick and stuck on the sofa all week–I was sick; he was stuck on the sofa with me, or anyway, he was kind enough to hang around and pretend to be interested in my sofa adventures–we decided to venture out into the world today. Cue drumroll, ’cause it was epic. I actually masked my under eye circles and put on earrings! And clothes!
Our favorite draft house hangout was sold out for the afternoon except for the VERY front rows of the theaters, so we decided on another of our favorite weekend pastimes, open housing. (Front row seats in the latter activity involve less neck pain and eyestrain, you see.) We spent the afternoon touring open houses in our area, contemplating real estate prices, decorating and remodeling options, and the move we keep talking about maybe possibly making sometime in the yet-to-be decided future.
We wandered through some pretty neighborhoods and into one particularly gorgeous house, and upon asking the real estate agent for the list price, we both giggled when she announced the price tag. I may break some rules of social etiquette, but I do know it’s rude to talk about money so I’ve edited that out here and you’re welcome. Anyway, I think it’s not going to offend anyone here when I say the price tag was just a tad outside our price range, by, well, just a smidge. (She quoted it and B said “Yeah, that’s about double what we’re looking for.” Only, he was lying because the price tag was about three times what we’d be in for at this stage of our lives, or the next or the one after that.)
The real estate agent giggled with us–fortunately, not at us, bless her for that–when I asked if there was a servant’s door through which we should quietly excuse ourselves after we heard the price tag. After frolicking through some of the rooms pretending to be fancy, at the curb I made the joke I always make after we tour homes that feature a spiral staircase in the master bedroom or separate his and hers master bathrooms separated by a fancy sitting area, telling B “I’ll take it, please!” He replied by telling me that if the house came with “a Carson” and “a Mrs. Patmore,” then he’d absolutely make an offer.
Dame Maggie Smith, pictured above, is helping me to reveal what I spent a large chunk of my yesterday sofa adventure time doing, by the way. In other TV-watching news, another part of our sofa adventures consisted of rewatching Django, which has resulted in us renaming both our dogs by adding silent Ds to their names. We’re getting a lot of giggles out of that since our dogs are named Gromit and Molly, and even more giggles out of the fact that we’ve also decided to nickname Gromit the Germ after that time he contracted MRSA after a leg operation. (If you were wondering, the D in Germ is also going to be silent. Also if you were wondering, the MRSA was years ago now and he is fully recovered, and it wasn’t very funny at the time. Dgerm, you cost us our master bedroom spiral staircase, with your crazy vet and therapy bills!) But I digress. See what cold medicine does to me, and why it was so good that I finally got out of the house? *twitch twitch*
Anyway, the home-and-a-half on today’s tour doesn’t actually come with any servants, so we had to pass on it. We returned to our own humble home and apologized to the dogs for the fact that we won’t be buying them a dog park with a mansion attached, after all. It’s a good thing they love us unconditionally and aren’t the types to judge us for the fact that mom and dad share a bathroom. Hell, as I typed that last sentence I chuckled because I realized that in the nearly three years we’ve lived in our 3-2 home I’ve never once stooped so low as to even use our guest toilet. Yes, it’s a toilet that requires stooping. Ever seen those little toilets they install in daycares for itty bitty kiddos? We thought it’d be funny to feature one of those in our guest bath just to see how people handle it. Oh, I kid; our guest toilet is regular sized. But I wasn’t lying when I said I’m fancy because I’ve never once had to stoop so low as to use anything other than our master toilet. Ha! Moving on.
Our friend Tony-from-New-York-so-you-have-to-say-it-like-you’re-Italian once told us a story about some friends he stayed with while he was traveling around after exiting the Marine Corps. These particular friends (or was it their relatives?) are a bit more well off, and when one of them witnessed him in their house eating tuna fish out of a can they were shocked by the discovery. First he had to explain to them that yes, tuna fish does in fact come in cans and that no, it was not pet food. We’ve gotten some good mileage out of that story and his supplemental “peasant” jokes since then, which we like to recycle on days like today when we’re feeling out of our league. The story is best told using a snooty but awful British-sounding accent while pretending to wear a monocle. “Oh, you mean the tuna fish comes out of cans? I see. Do all of the peasants eat this way?”
For the record, though, we’re not peasants because my tuna fish comes in steaks or in pouches. Just so we’re clear.
A bit more seriously, I hope I don’t offend with the peasant jokes or any references to how Trogdor’s gonna get you if you eat tuna out of cans. When you find us making peasant jokes we’re just aiming to be pleasantly goofy about the fact that there are some things that exist outside our budget, such as Grecian columns surrounding our bathtub. Okay, technically I could find a way to devote funds to installing said columns around my bathtub, but I think it’d be silly and I’d rather spend my money on pouches of tuna fish.
Author’s Note: I think that when I’ve been taking cold medicine I tend to write as though I’m trying to capture ALL THE THINGS in a single post while my brain ping pongs all over the place. Really though, I just had to find a way to cram in the bit about the silent Ds because I know it will make me laugh when I read it again later. C’mere, Dgromit and Dmolly!