How NOT to Sell a House

I love being a home renter. The thought of my father-in-law coming to town to help us "fix" SOMEONE ELSE'S house is benefit enough (seriously love that man). But then there's the fact that we don't have to deal with pesky problems like property taxes, homeowner's associations, country club memberships, resale value, and keeping up with "The Joneses." Because, let's be honest, we'll only be here a few years and really don't care to meet the Joneses. But home ownership does have something more appealing than home rentership - and that's security. To know for certain that no one will come along and kick you out because they want their house back is very reassuring. Unless you're terribly indebted to your bank…but that's another situation all together.

l'm so thankful we no longer have to worry that our landlord will kick us out before the Air Force decides to move us back to America. We're no longer in that "danger zone" where we think we may have to live in a hotel our last several months in England - with a toddler and a baby nonetheless. So, when the real estate agent calls the house to schedule a viewing of potential buyers, I no longer dodge their calls or try to make the house seem intentionally unappealing (you'd be surprised how gifted I can be in this department).

We had a couple come by last week to take a look at "our" house, and I was more than accommodating. In fact, the house was as clean as it had been in weeks. The kitchen was clean and inviting with no decibel-piercing spin cycles coming from the washing machine. I had some candles burning rather than a trash can full of dirty diapers. And, I even went ON AND ON about what a great house it has been for entertaining. In fact, when they came upstairs to take a look, I engaged the husband in further discussion about how much we have loved this house.

I said to him, "We're really going to miss this place! That kitchen was really the selling point for me. I've thoroughly enjoyed it!" To which the husband replied, "Yes, the kitchen is where we spend most of our time! I can imagine you spent most of your time there as well."

And then I said something so unintentionally idiotic I still can't believe I said it.

"Well, honestly, I've spent most of my time here in this bedroom." And, as if that comment wasn't suggestive enough, I pointed to my enormously pregnant belly.

Insert long...painfully awkward silence.

Then this poor man slowly backed out of our master bedroom and rejoined his wife who had moved on to the guest bedroom.

I was mortified. Did I SERIOUSLY just say that? Of course, I meant to suggest that I've spent most of my time SLEEPING since my husband was deployed and I have a toddler. What it probably sounded like to him is that with a toddler, my blatant pregnancy, and my obvious lack of tact and/or judgment, I probably spend most of my time here entertaining men. But it was too late to backtrack and explain myself to this poor man. I had already made him as uncomfortable as humanly possible.

On a positive note, we've not received nearly as many calls to show potential buyers around the house.

Burning Questions

It's a funny thing this writing business (if you want to call The Morgan Trail a business). Sometimes I can churn out three posts a day. Other times, I hardly write one a month. A good friend of ours, Bo, has expressed a similar frustration on his blog. He calls it Paralyzing Perfectionism. Add it to my list of disorders.

Writing is an activity I tend to gravitate toward when I'm feeling "up." After all, who wants to read the incoherent ramblings of a depressed, stay-at-home-mom as she invites you to join her pity party of self-loathing? There's enough negative smut on the Internet that I try not to contribute to it when I'm feeling "down" or depressed. On the other hand, there are few things that irritate me more than reading all about someone's "perfect" life as they gush about it on Facebook or their blog. It's nauseating to read about their perfect life with their perfect husbands who have a perfect job to support their perfect kids. Then they post their perfect pictures from their perfect second honeymoon while their perfect parents watched their perfect kids for three PERFECT weeks. It makes me want to egg their perfect house.

So, I guess you could say I try to write somewhere in the middle. Where most of us reside. That place where we are comfortable enough with ourselves to admit that we DON'T have it all figured out. (By the way, I just washed an entire load of white clothes with a fluorescent yellow scarf. Epic housewife fail.) I've had lots of people express appreciation for the fact that I do open up about my struggles with depression or bipolar or whatever you want to call it. I've had friends and complete strangers thank me for writing from an honest place. And that's when I start to get excited. Like maybe this is something God has created me to do - to put words together on a blank page that will one day encourage others to live for His glory. And, of course, to learn to laugh at ourselves in the process.

Sometimes it just takes a little nudge. A little encouragement to get started. That's what Bo's blog post did for me this morning. I needed that reassurance that not everything I write or create has to be a masterpiece. Sometimes the most important thing is just to start.

And this all brings me to the point of this particular blog post. I get excited when I look at the statistics for our website and realize that, lo and behold, there are people out there who actually read this stuff. And, believe it or not, there are people who actually come across our site through search engines. But, when I looked a little bit further to see what top keywords people searched that led them to our site, this is what I discovered:

Tom Cruise hates psychotherapy

Okay, so I completely deserve that one. Next?

Pictures for enormous bums

What, exactly, have I written that would point a search engine to our site to give people more information on enormous bums? Is this supposed to be a pregnancy joke or something? 'Cause I'm not laughing!

If your pee is bubbly does this mean something bad?

Bubbly pee? Really? First of all, call your doctor. Or maybe your plumber. Second of all, why does a search engine point them to our blog? Is it because I'm obsessed with WebMD? I bet it is. Great, now we're going to get lots of people coming here who are searching for answers to their most "burning" (pun intended) medical questions.

Now I'm going to put it back to you, my dear readers. What are your favorite kinds of stories/articles to read? Or, better yet, what are some of your favorite blogs, websites, magazines out there that you read on a regular basis? (One of my absolute favorites is The Pioneer Woman.) Do you have any "burning questions" that I (or WebMD) could answer for you? I'd love to write more about the things that interest YOU!

But Wait, There's More!

I'm a sucker for a good sales pitch. Really, any sales pitch. Salespeople can smell me coming from a mile away. That's why Saturdays in the BX and the Commissary are always so difficult for me. All it takes is one free sample, and I suddenly feel I must buy three boxes of Ham, Egg & Cheese Breakfast Hot Pockets. It's a compulsion, really. Or maybe it's the law of reciprocity. They give me a bite-sized free sample; I subsequently buy their nasty microwave food. That seems reasonable.

Recently, my parents were here for a visit, and we were shopping around the BX on a Saturday afternoon. Suddenly, this overly-enthusiastic voice comes over the loud-speaker and says, "Ladies and Gentlemen, do you like free stuff? Then meet me in front of the fragrance aisle in five minutes for your FREE gift!" My mom and my hubby both rolled their eyes as if to say, "Oh, no. Here we go again." You see, this very scenario happened four years prior, and we all went home with a box of $30 knives that have since rusted. But, I'll have you know they are still sharp!

Since my dad and I are both suckers for "free" stuff, we made our way over to the fragrance department. There, we found the awkwardly enthusiastic man with his bowl of water, his tomato, his piece of mangled wood, and his set of never-seen-before-knives. Except we had seen them just a few years ago. Still, dad and I stood there like we'd never seen a knife before. When he asked us to come closer, we came closer. When he whispered to us about how few "free" gifts he had to give away, we leaned in to better hear him. We were eating out of his hand.

At one point he impressed us with the powerful capabilities of his incredibly inexpensive knives. He sawed through a piece of wood like it was a stick of butter. [Only a slight exaggeration.]

Meanwhile, my mom and my husband - who both refused to come closer when he asked them to do so - continued to roll their eyes in disbelief. They thought surely I wouldn't fall for this same sales pitch AGAIN. Especially when I already had the same stupid knives. Especially when said knives are currently rusting in my kitchen drawer. Especially when this salesperson is horrible.

And they were wrong. I bought the $30 knives. Dad just got the free gift (a lens cleaning cloth). Tightwad.

My family laughed at me the whole way home at how easily I am swayed by a horribly predictable and uncomfortable sales pitch. Maybe I bought the knives because I felt sorry for the guy in his early twenties who had all the charm and wit of a bill collector. Maybe I wanted to get rid of the rusty knives currently in my drawer. Maybe I am just that easily swayed by salespeople. (Don't even get me started on my track record with infomercials.)

But wait, there's more!

A few weeks later, we were at dinner with another military couple when my husband couldn't help but throw me under the bus about this whole knife business. He explained the entire excruciating story to them. The sales pitch, the "free" gift, the sawing of the wooden block...and then my friend's husband said, "Wait, I know who you're talking about. I saw that guy in the ER!" Apparently, this knife sales "professional" proceeded to slice his hand during a demonstration - oh, and let's not forget to mention that the knife broke apart and hit his one of his spectators as well. No doubt he had just asked her to take a step closer.

I couldn't stop laughing. And now I'm just picturing this poor guy with stitches in his hand trying to sell these knives to an already-skeptical audience. He probably had to change his sales pitch to say, "I would show you the part where this spectacular knife cuts through a block of wood as easily as a stick of butter, but I'm going to have to wait until I get my stitches removed."

What's the most ridiculous thing you've ever purchased because you got caught up in the sales pitch? Any Magic Bullet owners out there? Any of you hanging on to an ab machine for the past 15 years that you've never touched?

Cross-posted on SpouseBUZZ

Bird Talk

Saw these two love birds on our garage today and had to tell you about their conversation:

He-Bird:  Come on, baby, I thought you liked it when I kiss your neck!

She-Bird:  I said, NOT RIGHT NOW! I'm not in the mood. Not after working around the nest all day.

He-Bird:  I bet if you stop talking and let me kiss your neck some more, you'll FIND the mood!

She-Bird:  Honestly! You're so insensitive sometimes! I said I'm not in the mood, and you just keep after me. Maybe instead of using all your energy to make out with me, you can put some work into making our nest a decent place to live. I work my little beak to the bone...

She-Bird:  Did you hear me?!?!?

She-Bird:  Don't you walk away from me when I'm talking to you! This is EXACTLY why I'm not in the mood sometimes. You come home expecting me to drop everything and tend to your needs. WELL, WHAT ABOUT MY NEEDS?

He-Bird:  (Mumbling) I couldn't meet YOUR needs if I had all the time in the world. My needs take two minutes...MAYBE three.

She-Bird:  I can't even look at you right now! Maybe you could meet my needs a little better if you took the time to actually LISTEN to them! Instead, you come home barking orders like, "Where's my worm, woman?" Well, GO FIND YOUR OWN WORMS! I'm tired of being your slave. I'm going to sleep at my sister's tonight.

He-Bird:  (Doesn't realize she's gone.) That's fine. Just make sure you leave enough worms for me and the kids. You know I don't like to have to go hunting after a long day at the... (Realizes she's gone.) Kids! Do you know where your mom keeps the worms?

These two need therapy!

Best of Britain: Sunday Roast

I recently posted a Facebook comment about something I'm going to miss when we leave the UK, and it inspired me to create a series of posts entitled "The Best of Britain." We are scheduled to leave this great country in December, so I should have enough time to procrastinate to death and post at least two more of these.

In my Facebook post I marveled at the efficiency of the postal service over here. (And all the Americans just thought, "She can't be serious." Oh, but I am.) I ordered something on Amazon.co.uk at 12:14 p.m. last Wednesday, and it arrived Thursday morning at 9 a.m.! It's almost crazy to waste the gas to drive 20-30 minutes away when you can pay a few pounds in shipping to have those baby-proofing items at your door the next morning. I love this place. And I love Amazon.co.uk. (I also love JJ-proof locks for my cabinets. That kid enjoys smashing our fine China.)

Sometimes, though, it pays to drive a little further for something spectacular. This week, I got a craving for a traditional, English Sunday roast. Despite the mountain of homework and work responsibilities he had to do this afternoon, Brian agreed that we should go to the Plough Inn in Icklingham for lunch. (Yet another reason I adore that man.)

Side note:  In case you're new to this blog, I'd like to let you know that I am now in my 5th month of pregnancy and nothing excites me more than food. Well, food and massages. Ooh! Massages while I eat! If only there was a Mexican restaurant with those really expensive massage recliners. We'd have to come up with a way to make them so they don't lean back too far, though. Indigestion, you know? I have to believe that the world's greatest inventions (like massage chairs and remote controls) were invented by pregnant women. Or possibly husbands of pregnant women who were sick of hearing about it.

But I digress...

Back to our Sunday roast.

We called to book a table as we always do at this particular pub because they refuse to let you in the door without one. No joke, we went there on a whim once, and the manager said to us, "Have you booked a table?" We looked around the empty pub as if to say, "Are you joking?" And he wasn't. He sent us on our way. So, since we know how the English love it when those pesky Americans follow the rules, we booked a table for 1 p.m.

In most pubs in Britain, you place your order at the bar before you're seated, and this is one of those traditional places. I ordered the beef roast, and Brian went for the chicken. After placing our order the manager said to us, "I could have guessed that." I suppose he's grown accustomed to our faces. Also, we're very predictable.

When our plates arrived, I could hear a choir of angels accompany the lovely waitress to our table. Out came the three generous slices of beef with a perfect amount of thick gravy. I also had a beautiful, homemade Yorkshire pudding on my plate and two roasted potatoes. Quick lesson here: Yorkshire pudding is the reason God invented gravy. They're puffed pastries filled with nothing. They're just puffed-up pastry with a dip in the center to hold - you guessed it - gravy. Isn't that the most glorious thing you've ever heard? (Remember, I'm pregnant.) The two, large roasted potatoes on my plate were perfectly browned and crisp - no doubt from the goose fat used to cook them. I've come to love goose fat for this reason.

Brian's plate was a beautiful presentation of half a roasted chicken. I'll stop here and clarify for the Americans who are accustomed to our hormonally-injected super-chickens in the States. This was half of an average-sized chicken browned to perfection and served with its own special gravy. Brian also had a small portion of dressing and roasted potatoes to accompany his meal.

Traditionally, Sunday roasts are served with meat, potatoes, and LOTS of vegetables. Today was no exception. They brought to the table an assortment of roasted carrots, parsnips, cabbage, broccoli, and potatoes. Yes, more potatoes! Brits love their potatoes.

I ate until I couldn't eat any more. I cleaned off my plate, most of Brian's and the family-sized portion of veggies. And as I contemplated an order of Sticky Toffee Pudding for dessert, I caught a glimpse of the smile on Brian's face as he watched me scarf down the rest of our feast. I knew exactly what he was thinking, too. "I can't wait until this baby is born and our lives no longer revolve around her next meal."

Well, me too, buddy!