I assume this is true both philosophically true as well as applying to the massive buttocks pictured below.
Yes, I am selling my house and moving to a smaller place down in the world famous gay neighborhood, the Castro. Why? I love my house here, being located in this canyon means it is amazingly quiet and peaceful for being in the very center of San Francisco, but I need the money. Apparently, since R Man and I bought it 21 years ago, it has become worth a buttload of money. That is a real estate technical term. If I were to access that buttload, I would return to my previous status of Wealthy Widow. I’m not wild about being a widow, but if you have to be one, wealthy is definitely the way to go.
First, some muscle pussy, cause this is a really long post and you need something to get you through it.
I met with a couple of realtors, the first was Ruth, whom I kept calling Julie and who turned out to be a Mean Girl. She has been dismissed from our lives. Let us speak of her no more. The second, Wendy, was much more to my liking, a lesbian of a certain age, who was much more complimentary to my house and decorating (tip to realtors wooing potential clients: do not diss a gay man’s decor) but the selling point was the first thing. She came in, we walked up to the dining room so I could show her the garden before it got dark and she said “What a beautiful ceanothus.” Sold. The ceanothus is this big shrub right in the middle of my garden that this time of year is covered in purple flowers. I think this particular one is the best I’ve ever seen, it is my pride and joy, and she knew what it was. We had a long very interesting talk, without her realizing she had already won.
So, she’s with Sotheby’s. Oh my dear, oh yes. They’re going to produce a booklet about the house, the samples of which she showed me were the most expensive looking printed material I’ve ever seen outside of a good book store. And a VIDEO. Not just a video, but one shot with a drone for aerial views. I am not making this up. When it’s online I’ll post the link.
The plan both proposed was for a stager to redo the house. Wendy was much more delicate about urging it, but apparently when asking for the buttload of money I want, staging is a must. I had already known I would have to repaint. My stairwell and upstairs hall are painted black. Counting on someone to dig the black hall seemed like a long shot. How many Goth kids are in the real estate market these days? So the stagers will handle all the painting and repairing a barely functional shower that has been the bane of Diane von Austinburg’s visits for years. They will use their own furniture, thus I’m moving before I sell the place. Life is so complicated.
The big problem, as usual, is Saki. I have to get him and the eau de kitty out. So we’re going to move out, rent some place for the time it takes to fix up the house, show it, sell it and then find a new one to buy. Did I mention that point? I’m buying a small place down in the Castro, hopefully for a great deal less than what I sell this one for. I am actually OK with the moving out part, I do not want to be dodging the realtor showing the house and it is the only way to get rid of the cat smell.
Once I resigned myself to selling the house, the first thing I thought of was holding an estate sale. Imagine the thrill of not just going to one but being the ruler of it. I have invited Diane von Austinburg to act as co-ruler, I’d love it. She is considering it. Think of the thrill of watching people fight over the crap she and I have dragged back from various thrifting adventures over the years. I cannot wait. And I am serious about unloading. Everything must go. I’m keeping my bed, and few other bits and pieces, but aside from that, it is all on. Make me an offer for the cat and I will consider it.
Last night I was organizing my vast porn collection to give away and wound up with the floor of my bedroom covered in stacks of magazines (I had decided to organize them by titles. I now have no idea why) It was exhausting, and as I dragged my poor aching carcass to bed, I thought “I’m going to trip over this in the dark on a pee run.” I was too tired to care and a few hours later, sure enough, coming back in, tripped and went down like the Titanic. Fortunately, I already had an appointment with my chiropractor and he helped, but I am still sore. Why is life so hard?
Here’s one last look at Chez Moi:
My living room
My favorite rug, The center is a lantern hanging from a branch protruding from a cliff. Love.
A tiny little Danish modern bureau which
ta-dah, converts to a vanity when you flip up the top.
My room, where absolutely no magic happens. That red lump on the cedar chest is Saki napping in one of his many, many beds scattered around the place.
When the relator I like showed up, the first thing I said was “I blame everything on the cat.”
And finally, my late, great smut collection, now handed off to some weird guy from Oakland who repeatedly announced he had OCD. Whatever. Adieu, my paper dolls. God love you and thank you for the countless hours (cumulatively) you have given me.