It's Whoreticulture Friday! Issue 31

Whoreticulture: The industry and science of whores and whore-related topics. Whoreticulturists work and conduct research in the disciplines of OB-GYNery, Brazilian waxers and shavers, adultery, personal hygiene mavens and easy women. The word is composite, from two words, whore, from Greek meaning "harlot" or "dear", and the word "culture". Like NPR's Science Friday, Whoreticulture Friday exists to educate and spark discussion on the science of Whorology. Whoreticulture Friday is not for children. Or squeamish people. Or Mother-In-Laws.

Today's topic: Whoring my house.

Hello gentle readers.  Sorry I've been remiss on posting, but
I've been out of my f*cking mind!!!! 
And not in the usual way.  Let me break it down for you:

1. Current Husband and I find another house we like.
2. We decide to make an offer and sell Current House.
3. Offer is accepted contingent upon sale of Current House.
4. I start going completely apeshit crazy.
5. I begin the process of putting my house in jewel-toned spandex, black lace bra, six inch patent leather stilettos, and bright red lipstick, and give the house a large box of condoms.  "Make it happen, Sugar", I whisper to the house.  "Don't you come back until you have something to give Big Momma or I will beat your ass."

 The problem that nearly every homeseller has is that to sell the house, they have to suddenly do every single thing they've been meaning to do in the house for the time they've lived in it.  You start with one simple project, and the next thing you know, everything you've known in your life to be true has changed.  You are living in the Matrix.

I give you the Nancy Reagan 
Wallpaper Death March.
I have never liked wallpaper.  I've stripped more wallpaper in my life than I care to admit, and it's becoming a dealbreaker on houses for me.  I don't care what DIF tells you, once that paper is up, it ain't coming down without some intervention from Jesus, vodka, and power tools.  The wallpaper in my bathroom was installed when we were Just Saying No and The Gipper was saying "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down that wall!"  I wish I had the presence of mind to take a picture.  So we're selling the house, and I'm thinking, "I think I'll tear down that wall!"  I pull a little corner of the paper.  It comes off easily.  And that was the last piece that came off without a struggle.

Throughout the rest of the house, I've been painting ceilings and wood trim and walls.  I've been cleaning and purging and organizing.  I've made use of countless Rubbermaid tubs to store things away that we don't use every day.  But last night, I finally decided it was time.  I opened a Smirnoff Green Apple (delicious and oh so icy!) and grabbed my trusty scraper, a sponge, the DIF, and the Bible. Various members of the family had tried to tear Nancy Reagan down - the rule was that every time you use the bathroom, you have to remove six inches of Nancy - but the project was at a standstill.  With an open house on Sunday, it was time to act.  I started at 6 p.m.  Throughout the evening, it became more and more personal.  At one point, I remember talking to the wallpaper. 

ME:  "Oh, that was a piece bigger than an inch!  Give me another one..."
NANCY:  silence.
ME:  "Hey, that wasn't very big.  You need to be nicer to me."
NANCY:  silence.
ME:  "Listen bitch, you need to get off of my walls, NOW!"
NANCY:  silence.
ME:  "I'm going to get another Smirnoff, and then you'd better cooperate or I will just expand the kitchen and take you down as an entire wall."
NANCY:  (whispers) "You'll never get me down...." 

When I scraped off the last bit last night, I didn't know my name or age.  My feet were swollen to the size of large red meat slabs, and I could hear birds tweeting outside.  It was after 5 a.m., but I smiled, because I had finally exorcised the demons of Nancy Reagan from my bathroom.  Next stop?  Scrubbing the glue off of the walls, then priming and painting them.  And the next person in this place had better gaze upon those walls lovingly, and if I find out they wallpapered over that paint, Big Momma will come down here and beat their asses.

Of course, if whoring the actual house does not sell the place, I am not above whoring myself.  I have my zebra print bikini, and have taken a home selling course from Mocca:
 


I think I smell a house selling!

We are burying St. Joseph tomorrow, I will try to record the ceremony for posterity to put on the blog.  Happy Whoreticulture Friday, and have a great weekend!