1968

Published on Gather, January 27, 2008 04:57 PM EST (Updated: January 28, 2008 01:52 PM EST)

Like Duckie, I also had a recent visit from a Ghost.

December 31, 1968.

• Bell-bottomed, black, bolero pants with wide suspender straps over an uncharacteristic,
  
  
  white, ruffled blouse my parents had given me for Christmas, worn only to protect their feelings.
• Black pumps with gold buckles, a poor choice for walking on ice.
• A tight girdle (laughable in retrospect, since I was 110 pounds with a flat stomach, no butt, and toothpick legs), because I needed something to hold my stockings up without having garters show through my pants.
• My favorite peach and brown bikini panties, even though I couldn't wear the matching bra under a white blouse and I didn't plan on letting anyone else see them, included only because they felt stylish
• Blue eye shadow, light pink--almost white--lipstick and copper rouge applied under my cheekbones. Black eyeliner curled up at the outside corners, with a thin line of liquid white above the pupils to create the Sophia Loren look.
• Gold wire earrings with snowflake charms, a gold barrette securing the top layers of side hair to the back of my head.
• Hard contact lenses that still felt like huge chunks of broken glass in my eyes.
• A pea coat, and Daddy's rabbit-lined leather gloves.
• And a smile that would last forty-five days.

Until then, my father had photographed every event in my life and laminated some of his favorites. But the camera didn't come out for my first, first date with the guy with whom I would later share many firsts, many of which I would not have wanted anyone to photograph. For some reason that I won't try to guess, Daddy did not preserve this night on film; the only picture is the one that my memory pulled out on December 31, 2007, when it all came back to me - the clothes, the music, and the emotions.

What caused that night to revisit thirty-nine years later? Forty makes sense as a milestone year. It might seem appropriate if I had been at a house party in the same neighborhood, worn similar clothes, spent the evening with his friends or family, mentioned his name, heard Diana Ross' "Love Child", seen a picture of him, or even thought his name. None of those qualifiers carried me into the time warp.

One minute I was sitting on the couch in my 2007 sweats, listening to a movie on television while I worked on a craft project. In an instant, I landed in the same calendar square thirty-nine years earlier.

Now, nearly a month later, I still feel something akin to the life-altering hangover of a dream that was too real. If he were still alive, I would expect him to call. As it is, I've started 2008 feeling young, and with a wild streak that has nowhere to go.

(I alternately blame and thank Time Heals and Lyndon for drudging up this bad boy, and Duckie for opening the door to let him back in.)

Jerome Corsi Exceeds His Father's Expectations

Posted on Gather, August 16, 2008 12:06 PM EDT (Updated: August 16, 2008 02:38 PM EDT) 

Over the years, I’ve met writers whose work impressed me more than anything I see on the bookstore shelves, yet they pile up rejection letters and never seem to be noticed. This morning, during a C-SPAN appearance, Jerome Corsi shed a little light on the topic when he shared the journalistic advice his father gave him: If you aren’t making people angry, you aren’t doing your job.

I think it is safe to assume that Jerome probably exceeded his father’s expectations with comments like these[1]:

• Corsi on Islam: "a worthless, dangerous Satanic religion"

• Corsi on Catholicism: "Boy buggering in both Islam and Catholicism is okay with the Pope as long as it isn't reported by the liberal press"

• Corsi on Muslims: "RAGHEADS are Boy-Bumpers as clearly as they are Women-Haters -- it all goes together"

• Corsi on "John F*ing Commie Kerry": "After he married TerRAHsa, didn't John Kerry begin practicing Judiasm? He also has paternal grandparents that were Jewish. What religion is John Kerry?"

• Corsi on Senator "FAT HOG" Clinton: "Anybody ask why HELLary couldn't keep BJ Bill satisfied? Not lesbo or anything, is she?"

And accolades like these:

• He plagiarizes[2] and can’t write a book on his own[3].
• He’s embarrassing[4].
• He’s a white supremacist[5].

Not only have the good people of the Midwest[6] called his work “classic gutter politics,” others have written that he is ugly, inside and out[7]. Millions of people are outraged by the deceptive garbage he writes and it’s rumored there are plans for a million man and woman march planned on Simon and Schuster for publishing it, probably in honor of the close relationship Corsi’s father has with Louis Farrakhan[8]. (Please research this footnote and observe that this is not merely an insinuation that the father is as gay as the son is[9])

The books probably just earned brownie points, extra hugs, and seconds on dessert.

Then, I remember that some of my writing friends anger people daily. The Chive™ sent a few people into flaggot rages, Devin Barber draws hatred from all fifty states and a few foreign countries, and others manage to have someone remove their comments or tattle to Gather almost hourly. But, as far as I know, those writers haven’t been picked up by their local newspapers or Mother Jones, much less Simon & Schuster. There had to be something more to this than something as simple as Jerome Corsi hanging out in the men’s room for a little between-stalls footsie at Simon & Schuster.

Mr. Corsi cleared this up for me as well. When questioned about the trash he has written, he referred the questioners to the footnotes in his books (for the parts he either couldn’t remember or didn’t want to admit in public) and said he supports freedom of speech. Therefore, I am exercising his version of free speech with this article to see how it feels to write from the perspective of a best selling, plagiarizing[10], lying, hen-pecked by a wife[11] who doesn’t speak English[12], winner of the biggest loser award[13] who blew his lid[14] and attacked George Bush[15] but somehow managed to avoid prison.

I hope my use of footnotes is impressive enough to earn me a column somewhere.

Unfit for Publication

[1]Media Matters

[2] He Plagiarizes

[3] Can’t Write on his own

[4] Embarrassing

[5] White Supremacist

[6] Midwest hates him

[7] Ugly, inside and out – extremely credible source

[8] Name connections another great source

[9] Is Jerome Corsi gay- this source better than Ann Coulter

[10] Plagiarized

[11] Henpecked

[12] Does his wife speak English? Could she be an illegal alien?

[13] Winner of the biggest loser award

[14] Blew his lid

[15] Attacked Bush

Love or Leave

(published to Gather on March 27, 2008 09:08 AM ED)

When my child falls to the floor in the aisle between cereal and pop tarts and throws a temper tantrum, I am not proud. I might walk away with the Quaker Oatmeal Squares and pretend I don't hear her screaming for Reeses Puffs, but I don't desert her and look for a perfect child.

I don't excuse her because she needs a nap, or because she saw Reeses Puffs ads on television, or because I have seen other children demonstrate the same behavior, or even because most three-year-olds behave that way. And I don't blame the grocer for stocking the unhealthy choice or the network for running the ad.

I don't excuse her inappropriate behavior because her father doesn't contribute emotionally or financially, or because she is female and therefore expected to be emotional. I don't decide she deserves a treat because she is female and will always get the short end of the stick in life. I don't reinforce any of the excuses she might hear from anyone, anywhere, any time in her life.

Did I already say I am not proud of her behavior? I want to say that again. I love her and I forgive her, but am not proud of my daughter's inappropriate behavior.

I will tell my daughter I am sorry she is disappointed. I will understand her need to cry. But, I will tell her that she chose the wrong time, place, and method of expressing that disappointment. I will explain that her inappropriate behavior disrupted others, and why repeating that behavior will not benefit her.

I will tell her screaming in public is not appropriate. I will tell her she has choices, and the power to choose behaviors that will benefit her in life. I will tell her how many friends, ads, movies, magazines, and grocery shelves she will meet in life, and how many times people will offer her excuses and scapegoats. I will make sure she knows I believe she has the strength to resist what will hurt her.

She might not hear me the first fifty times I tell her about her about power and choices, but that won't stop me; I will repeat myself until she finds her strength. As her mother, it is my job to believe in her, arm her with knowledge, and give her strength, and I take my job seriously.

I love and respect my child enough to help her when she is out of sorts.

When my government pitches an eight-year temper tantrum, I am not proud. I know it can do better. I will not excuse poor behavior because others have done the same, or put it down for a nap and hope that will solve the problems. I will address the problems and repeat myself until it finds the strength to make healthy choices.

It is not a matter of love it or leave it (I can't believe people are still saying that). For me, this is about loving enough to do the work, even when it isn't popular or easy.


As a citizen, it is my job to believe in my government, arm it with strength and knowledge, and I take my job seriously. 

Breakdown Canceled

Melissa Etheridge wailed an appropriate sentiment through the car speakers as Rachel backed out the drive and proceeded to the corner.

I cannot run,
I cannot hide,
it came with me,
locked inside,
the bough will break,
the cradle will fall,
it only takes one call.

Rachel lowered the windows, inviting the nippy autumn air inside, and stopped at the corner to look at the contents of the large envelope again. Her hands shook in a state of combined fear and anger that edged so close to loss of control that it frightened her. She sorted through the baggies that had come stuffed in the envelope: several small bags containing long, single auburn hairs, and a bigger one full of trimmings, obviously collected from a salon floor. What kind of lunatic had followed her around collecting hair, and then mailed it to her?

A sociopathic lunatic according to the police; yet, they still refused to arrest him. Since she had survived his first attack with no permanent (physical) damage, and neither collecting nor mailing hair violated his probation, some legal brainiac decided she would have to deal with it, or hope he did something worse.

Neither seemed fair.

She watched for a safe opening and made the turn, squealing the tires when she floored the gas pedal and dared anyone to get in her way or try to stop her. To hell with the speed limit. If laws didn't apply to sociopaths, their victims should also be exempt. She turned the volume up and shrieked the chorus with Melissa. The ends of her hair escaped through the window, floated on the wind, and tugged at the roots still connected to her head, challenging the rest of her to want the same freedom.

So you're having a breakdown,
so you're losing a fight,
so you're having a breakdown
I'm driving and crying,
unraveled, I'm flying,
I'm coming to your breakdown tonight.

What started as a mad drive suddenly developed purpose when she remembered a walk-ins welcome sign on a shop she had passed in the mall. She drove up the interstate ramp and activated cruise control, since tears and the irrational decisions proved that self-control had abandoned her.

She rushed through the mall, hoping this was the correct mall, and she wasn't too late. Luck was with her. Not only was the shop there, between the pet and toy stores where she clearly remembered it now, the receptionist escorted her immediately to a station and promised someone would be right with her.

"Beautiful hair," an over-zealous stylist repeated several times as he circled the chair, fluffing Rachel's hair around her face. "We need to take a few inches off, and put some layers around your face."

"Cut it all off," Rachel said. "Short. I want something sassy and sporty."

The stylist folded his arms and stepped back to examine her. "As sweet as that might look on you, it's too drastic. And I would hate to cut off this gorgeous hair." He ran his fingers through her hair, from scalp to hips.

"Can I donate it to cancer patients or something?" she asked. "I have to do this tonight, before I lose my nerve."

He bobbed his head several times with his brows drawn together. "So this is an impulsive decision?"

"Not entirely," she said. Strangely, he seemed more upset over the situation than she felt. "I've thought about it for years, but let a man stand in the way of my decision. I'm ready to let go, of both of them. The hair and the man."

Rick, whose name she saw on the stack of business cards sitting on the vanity, let out a hoot and clapped his hands. "So this is a revenge cut. Honey, I'd never stand in the way of vengeance. As long as you're positive you want to do this."

"Positive," she said, feeling the first twinge of doubt.

Rick wrapped a cape around her shoulders and led her to the sink. "It'll be so much easier to care for, and you'll save a small fortune in shampoo," he said as he wet her hair with the sprayer. He lathered, reached for the shampoo bottle a second time, and whistled. "Girl, you've got more hair than I've ever seen on one person. I wish I had cut about a foot of it off before I brought you back here."

"Can I donate it?" she asked. "I'll feel better if I don't just leave it on your floor."

He wrapped her hair in a towel and guided her back to the seat. "We aren't set up for that. But you can take it home with you and check it out later."

After he had combed her hair and tied several ribbons around it, Rick cut off a two-foot ponytail and handed it to her. She stared at the hair in her hands, afraid to look up, even though her back was to the mirror. "I expected to feel immediate regret." The words gave her the courage to meet his eyes. "I don't know how to describe what I feel." She shook her head. "I feel free. Yes. I don't think this is a negative feeling."

The hostess brought a binder to Rachel. "Thought you might need these. Pictures of different styles."

"No." Rick said. "I know exactly what I want to do with her."

Rachel shrugged and returned the book to the hostess. "I'll trust him."

"Low maintenance, air dry, no products," Rick said. "That's you, right?"

She nodded. "You got it. But, I'll probably need make-up if you give me a little boy cut."

He clucked his tongue. "I won't let you down. I'm going for a soft, tousled look that I promise will not make anyone mistake you for a little boy."

Rachel threw her hands up. "Okay. Do it."

He snipped and chatted, keeping the chair turned so she couldn't see anything until he had finished and spun her around to face the mirror. By then, she was the only customer left in the shop. The hostess and two remaining stylists had come to watch her reaction.

A nervous giggle escaped before she spoke. "I love it!" She ran her fingers through the fringe around her face and watched it fall back into place, giggling again. "I look ten years younger."

"And still like a girl," Rick said.

Her audience offered compliments; both to her, for making the decision, and to Rick, for creating the perfect look for her. She continued to play with her hair and smile. "I don't know how to thank you."

"Pay me so I can go home," he said. "We're holding up mall security."

She jumped up, embarrassed, and pulled a credit card from her pocket. "I'm sorry I kept you late," she said, handing the card over and picking up her ponytail from the vanity. She thought about telling him this was the most fun she had had in months, but realized that made her sound like a total loser, unless she explained that she had been holed up, hiding from her stalker, in which case he might still think she was a total loser.

The other employees left. Rachel followed Rick to the desk, eying herself in another mirror while he processed the card. "Thanks again," she said. "I can't tell you how pleased I am with the cut."

"I am too," he said. "Now, I hope this will open new doors, and you'll stay away from whoever's mistreating you. No one deserves to be punched around like that."

Rachel looked in the mirror again, this time seeing everything. "Want to hear something funny?" she asked.

"Sure." He came around the counter and walked her out.

"I forgot all about my face while I was here. Until you brought it up."

"Sorry."

"No. It's nothing to be sorry about," she said. "You gave me an hour of safe, stress-free fun. I can't tell you what that means. Know why?"

"Nope," he said, waving at the security guard as they passed him and stepped off the curb into the parking lot.

"You looked at me like a real person. No sympathy, no disgust, no judgment. You aren't a cop or a co-worker. Or a parent. Because you didn't react, I forgot for a little while. Thank you."

"The black eye doesn't keep you from being a real person," he said. "You'll need a trim in about a month. I'll bet your bruises are gone by then."

Rachel pressed the buttons on the remote and opened her door. "I'll hold you to that bet. See you next month," she said before getting in the car.

She put her ponytail in the glove compartment and ejected the CD before leaving the parking lot. At the first red light, she tossed the envelope of baggies out the window and pulled the visor down for another look at her new self.

Sociopath beware; the breakdown is over.

(Song lyrics from Breakdown written and performed by Melissa Etheridge.)

Chest Pain

Recognizing urgency in the knock, Paul forfeited his Nyquil induced reprieve. "Coming," he called, donning a sheet as he stumbled to the door.

Lila greeted him with a puff of smoke, a sneer, and her telephone. "You look like hell. It's your mother."

He listened to his mother and ignored Lila's rolling eyes. "Call the doctor. I'm on the way."

Lila ditched her cigarette in a glass of water on the varnished stump Paul used as a coffee table and took back her phone. "Drop me at the mall on your way?"

He nodded, flinched, clutched his jaw as pain exploded from his neck to his brain.

"Tooth still hurt?" Lila asked. "When you gonna get that fixed?"

"Soon." He returned to the bedroom, traded the sheet for a pair of jeans, stepped into shoes while he grabbed his keys, and headed out the door.

Lila followed with a scowl. "You ain't gonna brush your teeth or hair?"

"Her chest hurts." He started the engine. "Don't have time."

Lila crawled in and slammed the passenger door. "You stink." She lit another cigarette.

Paul stopped the engine, jumped out, ran a gas can and lawn-trimmer from the trunk to the porch, and returned, pain nearly blinding him now. "Got an extra smoke?" he asked, wiping his hands on his pants.

"Thought you quit." She handed him her cigarette and lit another.

"Need something to take the edge off this pain." He sucked relief into his lungs. "Had an appointment with the dental clinic this morning. Took six weeks to get in."

He pulled into the mall lot. She slid out. "Hope you finish with your mom in time for the dentist."

While waiting in line to exit the lot, his mother's voice rolled in. What you lack in brains, make up in kindness. You'll be fine. He shifted the car into park, grabbed a bag from the back seat, and jumped out to collect litter from the side of the road. Horns sounded but he ran a few feet farther to get a whiskey bottle and soda can, waving an apology as he returned to his car and sped off.

Chest pain. He shouldn't have wasted time.

He turned the corner, slid into the last car in a gridlock. Jaw throbbing, he jumped out to check on the passengers in the other car and slid, landing on the ground beside his front tire.

"Stay away," the other driver yelled.

He's drunk," the driver accused when the police arrived. "Came around the corner like a maniac, slammed into me, then staggered out and fell down."

Paul watched the officer and the woman walk to his car and look inside. "That your bottle?" The officer asked.

"Looks like a pig sty," the woman said. "He's filthy. Look at his hair."

"Sir, would you please stand?"

Paul struggled to his feet. The woman fanned her face. "Smells like an ashtray.

Chest pain. What you lack in brains, make up in kindness. Without a fight, he held his hands out to be cuffed.

Houses Are Dressing For Success Now?

I spent Saturday morning watching Sell This House and Flip This House on the Arts & Entertainment channel. Worse than the disappointment of discovering this is someone's idea of art or entertainment was the realization that marble and granite countertops are only a small part of the deceptive practice of dressing houses for success, or for the owners they hope to have. At least in cases where actual marble or granite is used instead of Formica colored to look like stone, the updates are real and not illusion.

 

Since these programs were presented in the tone of public service announcements, and rude attitudes were valued higher than personal tastes, feelings, and safety, now I understand better how out of touch I am with corporate reach into real estate. After viewing what are apparently acceptable levels of unreasonable expectation, demands for instant gratification, personal insults, ignorance, lack of imagination, poor character, theft by deception, and profit above all else, I was heartsick.

On Sell This House, a group of workers goes into houses that are on the market but have not sold, to "stage" makeovers. There must be a charge for their service--even though sellers and their friends are expected to help with labor--either passed on to buyers or covered by advertisers who promote ignorance, instant gratification, and poor character. Either way, it costs buyers and society.

First, the team "stages" an open house before making changes. Potential buyers wander through the house, wearing expressions of disgust and confusion while they criticize everything from structure to taste. None of them is smart enough to remember that they will bring their own furniture, decorations, dishes, and photographs if they buy this house. Someone must have told them these sellers have received permission to buy the last paint and hardware on earth, and the sellers plan to leave everything they own in the house. All they see when walking through these houses are themselves, stuck, forever living the horrendously pathetic lives of the sellers.

Of course, the staging team plays recordings of these insults for the sellers. Regardless of their attachments to the things they own or their ability to afford changes, the team must share the insults to justify cleansing their home of everything personal, intellectual, useful, and entertaining. (They threw one item out a second story window and shattered it.) Books, electronics, kitchen appliances, photographs, and keepsakes must be moved to storage where they belong. According to Oprah and current designers, houses must look like no one lives there and everything that existed before 2009 must be destroyed and replaced with a staged gadget. The staged replacements are worth little (prices are shown) but will give the illusion that, should the viewer decide to buy, they will have modern stuff in this house.

No one on either side seems to realize this is wasted crap since, instead of staying in the house that is now painted to match the crap, the cheap bed clothes, the curtains that are stapled to the wall, and the couch cushions carelessly made from more bargain basement sheets will go with the sellers, who will have to hope the crap survives the move and matches their new place, which will not suit their taste according to the looks of sorrow on some of their faces.

Finally, the team stages a second walk through in which the rude people are invited back to love the makeovers without showing signs of embarrassment for not having considered what the place could have looked like if they had painted walls, thumb-tacked old clothes over windows, and covered their own couches with a thousand gaudy pillows. As expected, one of the potential buyers wants this house at the new price because it's beautiful and uncluttered now. The staging team boasts that they have turned two days of labor and insults, and a couple hundred dollars, into thousands of dollars in profit. Never mind that the total square footage remains the same as before and they are paying thousands for the couple hundred dollars worth of crap that will mostly go with the sellers or in the trash. All dressed for success, this house looks bigger and like it belongs on Oprah so they feel bigger, or smarter, or more in the mood to buy.

Flip This House was a more appealing idea on the surface. If flipped by conscientious investors who care as much about society and others as they do about profit, it might salvage and restore failing neighborhoods. Sadly, this program featured some for whom it was all about profit. One guy had to see a counselor when it turned out he could not just paint over rat and roach feces but had to replace walls, cutting into what was still a more than $100,000 profit. Fortunately, I kept watching until they featured the guy who flipped a house for less than $100,000 profit, cared about safety, donated or recycled what he removed from the house, and installed energy saving appliances.

How is this going to work for the people whose salaries remain stagnant (that would be most Americans) while the cost of housing (this ultimately affects rental rates, as well) rises ten times faster? Illusions and ignorance are killing what's left of the American Dream.

I Don't Want Granite or Marble Countertops

A friend reported that the suffering economy had apparently not hindered the ability of everyone he has visited recently to update their kitchens.

"Let me guess," I interrupted. "Marble or granite countertops and stainless steel appliances?"

"Correct," he said. "How'd you know?"

"Those are the latest, keep-up, status symbols. You're nobody if you still have butcher block or black. Nobody, I tell you! Imagine what that makes me with white appliances and Formica." 

He confessed. His Formica countertops prove that he is a nobody with me.

In all my life, I can only remember seeing a couple of countertops destroyed beyond repair. Cutting boards or trivets sufficiently covered most of the mishaps I've seen. Maybe I'm out of touch, though. Are Formica and ceramic tiles on the growing list of things that will kill us if we don't replace them immediately? If so, I will swallow some of these words with a spoonful of sugar.

My mother owned three refrigerators in her life. She lived to be seventy-four. At fifty-seven, I've bought as many. Obviously, they aren't lasting like they used to but it's still hard to imagine that all of the non-stainless ones that have been replaced in the last few years actually bit the dust making those replacements necessary. I'm betting people are replacing perfectly useful counters and appliances because that's what people do these days. I'm also feeling very old saying these days.

My friend said he had priced marble and granite and decided the switch could wait until he is ready to sell his house. Then, of course, he will have to update the kitchen and bathroom to attract buyers.

"Huh?" For the sake of making this as accurate as possible, I will embarrass myself by typing that grunted response. "Why would you make those changes to a house you are going to leave?"

"Because that's what they tell you to do if you want to get the best price," he explained.

I might have told him that I think they always say stupid things. I'm certain I said, "But they are game players, the people who run up the cost of buying a home. And you are playing their game." I'm certain about that part because my accusing him of playing their game is what made him furious with me.

He explained how he could put a little money into updates and get more than a little back, which made my head want to explode. I was shocked to hear this from a friend who usually lashes out against Corporate America and materialism with more venom than even I use. I must be missing a lot these days (and getting older by the paragraph since I keep using these days).

"Why not give the buyers the opportunity to decide when they would prefer to make this investment?" I asked. "Let them choose the countertops and appliances they want when the time comes since they are going to have to pay for them. Updates aren't free, you know, just because the seller makes them."

He said something about wanting to get as much as he could for his house. I'll admit that I closed my ears because I didn't want to hear this from my friend.

"The buyer pays more because the seller wants to make more, and the bank or mortgage company takes their cut, then the real estate agent boosts his percentage, and the closing attorney gets a few cents . . . all because the Joneses went into debt to keep up, creating a domino affect in the neighborhood which in turn helped out the bank by loaning money to replace perfectly useful trappings (old lady word, totally appropriate, and a liberty claimed for my willingness to own up to my nonstop rant)," I argued.

If I hadn't been in such a fossilized tizzy at that point, I'm sure my friend, who is usually reasonable and patient with my rantings would have explained how the bank would use that extra money to create jobs, and the people in those jobs would be able to buy more expensive homes, and perhaps the next status symbol will be floor coverings and above ground gardening boxes since they already have kitchens built into their mortgages, thereby helping other industries, and eventually the economy will improve and everyone will be sitting on easy street all because of marble and granite countertops. I'm sure my hateful growling of the words foreclosure and rackets are what made him change the direction of our conversation.

"My house is an investment,"he explained. "I bought it to make as much money as I can. Why did you buy your houses?"

And there we had the difference. Whew. At least this made some sense of the disagreement. I bought homes to live in, not houses to invest in. The first one had a different ugly carpet in each room. Hideous would better describe the absolute, most disgusting outdated floor covering in that kitchen. The front sidewalk had been painted red, leading to a black and white porch, attached to a house with green trim, making me almost grateful for the overgrown hedges framing the front and side yards. Almost. I would never have chosen the paint color in a single room or the sidewalk of that house, or the foil wallpaper that clashed with the hideous kitchen carpet. And I will never understand why the previous owner nailed plastic fruit to the doorframes. 

But I will appreciate the real estate agent who did not advise the previous owner to spend money on updates that would have made this place move-in ready. I'm positive - absolutely, positively, without a single doubt positive - she would not have chosen what I wanted. Also, at age twenty-four, I barely qualified for the mortgage as it was, so I probably wouldn't have been able to buy this house with those costs added to the price.

I cleaned the ugly carpets and walls, collected old furniture from garages and basements of friends and family, and moved in with big dreams. I would save a little from each paycheck and eventually paint and replace carpets. Maybe, a few raises and bonuses down the road, I'd buy furniture, a piece or a room at a time. Meanwhile, I had my own home. When I looked at that house, I saw what I knew it would be, not the fixer-upper it was.

I replaced everything in that house while I was there. Seriously, every wall, the wiring, floor coverings, the furnace and air-conditioning, light fixtures, electrical outlets and covers . . . At times, I lived with plywood floors and studs without drywall while I saved for what I wanted to cover them. That way, the interest that might have gone to the bank became my profit. When I left, I sold my home to the first potential buyer, making a little profit which I then used as a down payment on another house that I saw as the home it could be instead of the mess it was.

And this concludes my story about one of the ways I think the housing market went to Walmart in a hand basket. Next time, I plan to talk about investment buyers and how I hope their homes are as overpriced, drafty, leaky, and miserable as the ones they rent.

Some granite counter tops may emit radon.