I'm not selling my house.
I mean I am NEVER, ever selling my house. I just had an appraiser and his assistant wander through the place for a half hour and I don't need to feel that kind of disdain ever again.
They might have actually felt some disdain. Most of it was mine.***
It didn't help that when they stood in the kitchen and asked what sort of improvements we've made on the house I answered, "well, we added the front porch and that cupboard doors of banana stickers behind you," and they didn't laugh. If I had a camera, I'd take a picture of our doors of stickers. Those decorations took a lot of time and effort and bananas, thank you.
So two people looking down their noses at our house was more than enough. I don't love this place -- not like my mother who loved our old house so much she always declared they'd have to carry her out feet first. But selling this place would be too, too mortifying.
The appraisal isn't for a sale, thank god. It's for a loan for middle kid's college time, which is fast approaching, by all that is holy. We will get a loan and the mortgage we had (which was almost paid up) will vanish and now we'll pay mortgage into our 80s.
This is why you don't want to have kids. It's the only reason I've come across, actually. So I don't think it actually works as a reason not to have chickens of your own. It's just money--and snoooty people trooping through your house.
OH, and wtf? I have to fax the loan types our taxes for the last FIVE years? Refinancing is serious business these days. Sheesh. There were so many pages of faxes to send, I realized it would be cheaper to buy a fax machine then to pay Mr. Staples to send 'em. So we're ending up with a loan, a new fax machine (only $20) and inferiority complex about our house with its banana sticker cupboard.
In reading time, I listened to Libba Bray's three YA books. Magic, girls' school, etc. It was pretty good but it won't stick with me. There was much picking of flowers and watching them turn into butterflies.
To sum it all up, I'm boring as hell. I better go spend time with people who are more interesting, ie the characters in this book Bonnie and I are writing. I promised a guy I'd write a review of his book. (remember how I said I wouldn't do that any more?) That'll come later.
***I never notice what sort of cluttered crapfest we live in until strangers show up. Especially strangers who are here specifically to look at the crapfest.