There’s been a snag in the sale of my place. I received a nice offer, but then the buyer conducted a home inspection that revealed something behind one of the bathroom walls.

“What is it?” I asked my realtor.

“It appears to be a monster.”

“WHAT?”

“Yes, there’s a monster behind one of your bathroom walls.”

“What kind of monster?”

“Well, the inspector thinks it resembles that beast that tagged Luke Skywalker across the face in The Empire Strikes Back.”

“You mean a Wampa?”

“.........how did you know the actual name?”

“Never mind that. Look, there isn’t a Wampa hiding behind my bathroom wall.”

He shrugged. “The inspection shows otherwise. We’ll have to kill it with a lightsaber. You and the buyer will have to split the costs.”

“I don’t have a lightsaber.”

“Hmm, that means we’ll have to kill it with a balpeen hammer. That will increase the cost.”

“God damn it!”

Well, okay, apparently the inspection actually revealed “a high level of humidity, possibly indicating mold,” rather than a Wampa.  But seriously, it might have well been a Wampa.  There is no mold in my goddamn place.  Except maybe when I forget to clean out my refrigerator sometimes.

I recently put my condo on the market. Before I did, I hired a stager.

I was a little afraid to do so.  I can always tell when I visit a staged house. It doesn’t feel real; it feels...staged.

So how did they do?

Well, first of all, they put wagon wheels on the wall:

Apparently, you should want to live in this condo once you’ve had a long, dusty day heading out west with the rest of the pioneers.

Also, and you can’t see it very well, but there’s a gigantic wooden key behind the vase on the left.  What exactly does this key unlock--the place where the good staging furniture is kept?

There are also, on the dining room wall, gigantic cut out wooden pieces in the shape of utensils:

I’d feel less weird about it if I had the actual utensils to use. I mean, sometimes I like to take a really big bite of cereal.

That drawer against the living room wall is actually mine:

The stager dragged it out of my bedroom. It holds my clothes, which are still in it. I wondered if any prospective buyer opened a drawer and got an eyeful of my underwear and socks.

Also, note that she took the TV out of there. Personally, I think a house without a television is just creepy.  But she also took out the bookshelves and books. Without TV or books, what are people supposed to do who live here?  Admire the cut out utensils?

Finally, there’s this bed:

Nice duvet. Did the country of Ireland get sick and puke all over it?  How are you supposed to fall asleep on it--count not only sheep, but also Shepherd’s pie?  Is the northern part of the bed fighting for home rule?  I mean…

...oh wait, the bed is mine too.

I recently started driving a slightly nicer car, and I’ve noticed that very expensive cars now park next to mine.

I find this very irritating.  They are probably thinking that since my car is new-ish, I’m not going to drive carelessly and ding them.

They have severely underestimated me.  I am not some pampered pansy.  I am 155 pounds of road rage. Sometimes, after coming home after driving in commuter traffic, I park my driveway and then run back out on the highway and start screaming again at passing cars, just to make my point.

I do not wish to be driving what I’m driving.  I wish to be driving the General Lee. And one day, just to prove that it’s not good to make assumptions, I’m going to gun the gas on my new-ish car and turn their fancy-dancy cars into metal accordions.  But don’t worry--I’ll leave a note on the hood. It’ll say “I look forward to you getting soaked even more when Obama’s healthcare plan hits the $250K and up bracket.  Also, wash your windshield.”

I’m always stopped short when the little card reader at the supermarket asks if I want to pay with a “gift card.”

Who the hell gets someone a gift card for Safeway? “I just thought of you when I saw it hanging there next to the cash register. I mean, I know you often need to buy food, on account of needing to survive and all, so it seemed perfect.”

Or maybe people actually want them and drop hints? “I’ll tell you what I really like--groceries.  Seriously, I spend practically all my time thinking about groceries.  By the way, did you know it’s my birthday next week?”

It’s one thing to get a Target card for a college student or something, but it seems that every store offers a gift card.  I looked it up, and even Dollar Stores have gift cards.

Which I think is extremely convenient if you want to give a $50 Dollar Store card to someone and say “I really wanted to give you exactly fifty really tacky gifts, so finding this card was like manna from Heaven.”

I’m thinking of creating my own gift card--a Greg Card if you will--and handing it out to people I know.  Probably more people I don’t like, though. Because I can say, here, this card enables you to spend some time with me--but after it runs out, you have to go away or pay me to stick around.  Gift cards are thoughtful, and I’m a thoughtful person, so I think this idea is pretty sound.