My House Is a Whore

Our house is now officially for sale. There is a big, whorish sign out front, inviting every crazy axe murderer with a lock pick set and a hunting knife to wander in and check out my jewelry box and my boobs. The wood floor has been hand polished. (No, seriously, it has. The King did it.) It now has the slickness of the Staples Center floor during the Ice Capades. I had lots of fun sliding on it in my socks last night, until I got a big-assed splinter in my foot and the King had to pull it out. Even the doorknobs have been polished. Love for sale, baby, and we're open for business.

Selling the house feels like a high-school popularity contest, like running for Homecoming Queen or something. What if no one comes to look at my house? What if everyone laughs at us and says we're ugly? What if some other girl shows up in the exact same dress, ala Brenda and Kelly from 90210? I might cry.

We worked for about 37 hours cleaning the house and making it perfect for potential buyers. Our realtor spent three minutes pounding a wooden stake into the front yard and hanging his sign off it. For that, he gets 3% of the selling price, or about $10,000. If this is high school, then he's the football player who convinced me that buying me a three-dollar carnation corsage meant he got to feel up my tits.

Plus, to add insult to injury, this whole letting-people-come-wander-all-up-in-my-shit thing means that I have to put on pants! On the WEEKEND! By eight a.m.! PANTS! And the King specified that they must be clean pants! How can he expect me to do that? Weekends are when I bust out my ratty sweats and don't bother to put on underwear for two days. I don't know why the King doesn't like that--I say, "Hey baby, these sweats don't have any zippers or buttons. That makes it easier for you to get in them, and I know you want to get with this, baby," while rubbing myself lasciviously. To which he says, "You have egg on your shirt." Oh.