I Am Too Pretty For This....

Standing on the porch of an empty and foreclosed house after a government meeting that featured lots of yelling, I am staring at a lockbox that is so covered in cobwebs that I think it might be leftover Halloween decorations. I'm wearing a suit. It's Calvin Klein, people. I don't even like being out here in Calvin Klein. But here I am. Standing on a porch by myself in clear contravention of the boss of me's rules about visiting houses alone. With the time change, it's getting dark quickly.

I feel like I am only kind of breaking the rules since this is actually a visit to a house we are in active negotiations on. I'm only here to make a bulleted list of the upgrades we want that might not be obvious to the person doing the rehab estimate such as new entryway flooring, new cabinets, new bathroom vanity, take down the dated arches in the dining room hallway, etc. I'm still going to be chastised for being out here, but the real problem is this ridiculous spider web. I don't even have a tissue or a branch. And it's getting dark; and there are snoopy neighbors about so I can't stand on this porch forever. I whisper heartfelt regrets to Calvin, tell myself that I am too pretty for this, and work the lockbox through the spiderwebs. What's worse is that I'm wearing a thick tacky lip gloss that reaches out for all airborne debris and plasters it across my mouth. Even though my mouth was nowhere near the door I felt like the entire web was draped on my lips. I am writing this hours later and I am still wiping my mouth.

As I walk into the house, I remember that there is no electricity so if I close and lock the door for security, I'll be standing in the dark. I hate foreclosed houses. I go back to my car for my flashlight, see the work gloves which I foolishly left in the car during the cobweb battle and go back to the house. I switch on the flashlight, close the door, and the place suddenly wreaks of wet carpet. Every room now seems to have been recently occupied by squatters. Why are there branches on the floor in one of the bedrooms? Who left clothes in the bathtub? My bravado is melting away into swirling visions of me and my Calvin suit being tortured to death over long days in this stinking dark house. Ack! I started to walk more quickly and make my rehab declarations out loud in an effort to make some noise and to remember what to write down when I was back in the safety of the car, "New flooring in the downstairs hallway, all new light fixtures, clean up the ceiling in the hot water heater closet, all new interior doors..." .

Back on the porch, I felt more secure but I was faced with the trauma of replacing the webby key in the lockbox. Oh, Muhammad Ali, I am too pretty for this.