Real Estate Ranting & Relative Clauses

It is 10:29 p.m. and I have yet to be successful at even one photo upload to Flickr. My current elevated level of anger cannot possibly be healthy. Especially when combined with my ire about the phrase, “buyer’s market” as applied to the current real estate situation. At present we are facing the following options:

1. A box
2. A dump
3. A bad neighborhood
4. A bad school district
5. A 45-minute commute

If one more person tells me, “This is a great time to buy!” then I really might spit right in his/her face. What in the world does that mean when you cannot even get a decent 3/2 house for less than a quarter of a million (in a good neighborhood zoned for a good school district)? Does that mean “great time to buy” for members of the Tennessee Titans football team? Or for Shania Twain’s backup singers? Because it certainly doesn’t apply to Completely Normal Everyday Working (sorta) People like us. I will never understand life. We shoulda just moved across the globe to an easy life where we were all set to live in a studio apartment in a GINORMOUS metropolis in which we would’ve had ZERO language skills and only one income.

So, in keeping with my positive theme here, I think I’ll post some recent Goosequotes:

• "I didn’t tee-tee in the bathtub on purpose. It was a ask-a-dent.”
• “Let’s listen to ‘Rock Sand!’” (he means the song by The Police that is listed as “Roxanne” on the album cover)
• “It’s the one that’s round.”

Now that last one may not seem interesting to you, but au contraire! (my new officemate is French … he teaches gee-ah-gwa-FEE … better known as geography). Anyway, that third quote, my dear readers, is quite a linguistic accomplishment. It is a Restrictive Relative Clause!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It’s my beacon of light in a dark, dark world.

I just heard a strange buzz. I’m sure it’s another waspinthehouse. We found a nest in the laundry room and even though I watched Brian annihilate every single one of them with my friend Foaming Wasp & Hornet Spray, I’m positive that they’re not all gone. Positive, as in the opposite of negative.

And to think, there are brown recluse spiders crawling all over this house and I’m worried about the stupid wasps. Our garden is officially dead because every time I go out there to water it, I end up nearly getting committed because of my behavior. Bell peppers: dead. Sunflowers: scorched. Tomatoes: eaten by insects, scorched, and dead. It just gets worse. Don’t even ask about the turnip greens. They’ve been gone since late June. Incinerated by the sun baking that wasp poison onto their leaves. It’s about like me in high school, lying out in the sun on a sheet of aluminum foil on top of my (black) trampoline while slathered in a mixture of baby oil and iodine. Healthy!

So, in Goosenews, there is the following:

The Discovery of The Wizard of Oz.


He is especially interested in the metaphysical differences between the Good Witch of the North and the Wicked Witch of the West, a.k.a., “that green-face girl.” Usually his viewings go something like this:

Him: “I don’t wanna see that green-face girl. I like that other one.”

Me: “You mean, Glenda the Good Witch?”

Him: “Yeah. And why’s she good?”

Me: “Because she’s not bad.”

Him: “And why’s she not bad?”

Me: “Because she doesn’t do yucky things.”

Him: “And why does she not do yucky things?”

I think you get the picture.

Additionally, there’s been an infatuation with the wearing of polar fleece dinosaur mittens (“work gloves”) while carrying around discarded blocks of wood (“chips”).


Today he wore them to Office Max along with his new green sunglasses, which came in the party-treat bag from Lawson’s 3rd birthday party, and an American flag Polo shirt.

Oh yes, there’s another topic: The recent birthday party of our friend Ernie’s grandson, Lawson. They had a blow-up jumpy thing (not rented … Lawson’s daddy got it for $20 at a garage sale down the street) and a real, live fire truck with firemen who actually got the hose out and sprayed the yard. But did he see even a minute of jumping or water spraying? No, indeed not. He spent the entire time riding and/or guarding a preschool-sized four-wheeler and shoving birthday candles into his face. Yes, you read that right. Candles. It started with licking the icing, but it didn’t stop until several bites of wax were ingested.

In case y’all don’t recognize the genre of this writing, it’s called 20th century stream-of-consciousness. You know, like Faulkner. Like Quentin Compson ranting and raving about his crazy family in The Sound and the Fury.



One last obsession to point out is the Refusal to Remove the Large Stopped Watch, permanently dead at 10:21. He'll even tell you that it's 10:21 if you ask.

Finally, he started his new Big Boy School yesterday with rave reviews. Didn't even look twice when I left. We were the first to arrive (imagine that! no one else was there at 7:01 a.m.) and the first thing out of his mouth was, "Where are the new friends?" Luckily, a few other insane people send their kids to this school for the extended early care hours (7-9 a.m.).

I need to stop.

Wish us luck this weekend as we waste more time looking at dumpy boxes in scary areas of town where government officials are expected to any-day-now come in and take over the school on account of their NCLB test scores.

G'night.