We've kicked around the idea of moving back to our home state, more specifically, the southwest section of Missouri, where I grew up and where Jan and I attended college.
To help us get a better handle on what housing is available in that area, I enlisted the help of a local realtor in that region. Susan knows in general terms what we are looking for, and every week, she faithfully sends pictures and details of current listings that she believes may interest us.
Some of the listings that she sends are so right on-spot, that I wish we were retiring tomorrow so we could make an immediate offer. Others are so off-the-mark dreadful, that I wonder if she was ever listening to us at all.
Perfect or dreadful, she always talks each property up in language that only a realtor could believe, or at least state with a straight face.
This morning she sent me a listing for a "show home" that needed just a touch of attention (her words) because it had been unoccupied for several months. As usual, she sent a set of 12 photos, highlighting the houses strong points, both inside and outside.
This is a picture of the kitchen:
What? That cabinet on the left? Why a few nails and some duct tape and no one will ever notice that it broke off and fell on the counter.
And then there is the room cobbled into the attic, that she described as a "man cave":
I had to look at the picture for several minutes before I could figure out what that protuberance was hanging from the ceiling. But then I realized that the builder had been clever enough to provide an upside down replica of the Great Pyramid of Giza. No man cave would be complete without one.
And try as I might, I was unable to determine with any certainty what hallucinogens the owner might have consumed just before he or she picked out the carpet.
In a way, I'm relieved that we do have a couple of years before we have to start taking this shit seriously.
I'm going to need at least that long to build up an adequate supply of my own hallucinogens to tackle this thing head on.