The First Thing We'd Do is Take Out the Manatee

Selling a house sucks. About three to four times a week my phone rings and the caller ID informs me that it's our real estate agent. I groan, turn the ringer off so it doesn't wake the Bean, and then make a game day decision on whether or not I want to answer the phone. Answering this call means cleaning, making the bed, stashing the unfolded laundry somewhere, wiping down the bathroom, replacing the non-childproof decor, and then wrangling the Bean until the potential buyers parade through our condo, ask lame questions, and then depart--leaving me wondering if they are going to offer or not. It's honestly all done in vain. Yesterday when we decided to have our agent show the condo because we conveniently would be "out," I said to Ben, "Let's just leave the place a total mess with a sign on the fridge that says, 'We know you jackers aren't going to buy it so we didn't clean it.'"

Searching for a house also sucks. At first it's exciting--especially when it means ditching condo living. You begin to imagine the cute neighborhood, the yard, a potential puppy, the solitude of your own home, block parties, avoiding getting called to the Primary as a new ward member, etc. Then it turns out that Small Town, USA is geographically and monetarily out of reach. And that the neighborhood might be cute but the neighbors could potentially be weird. Or that they might have...oh I don't know...a MANATEE for a mailbox!


Honestly, what the hell? Why must people white-trashify fairly decent neighborhoods? I don't care if this is a relic from an ancient art collection. It is inappropriate for any neighborhood with homes on a permanent foundation.

After looking at the home for sale next to the Manatee Home (the one with the nice brick mail box to the left of the eyesore), we made a pact to execute a drive by rubbing out of the manatee about two weeks prior to moving in. Manatee be warned!