Ever seen Lemony Snicket's "A Series of Unfortunate Events"?
Ever lived it?
As Mr. Snicket once profoundly penned, (and Meryl Streep so expertly exhibited)"There are two types of fear: rational and irrational. Fear of real estate agents is an irrational fear."
Though undeniably a brilliant writer, on this point, Mr. Snicket, you are so very woefully wrong.
Fear of real estate agents is--as of today--most DEFINITELY a RATIONAL fear. Just ask the guy who just had to scale two stories to break into my house for me.
Yes, my friend, while you spent your day comfortably numb in your cubicle, I spent mine in the parking lot, gazing wistfully up at my apartment, wishing so desperately that I could once again venture inside. You see, I had been locked out. By a sinister real estate scoundrel!
When I moved into this place in December, I was told by my landlord that he would be putting the place on the market this fall--but not to worry! The place would most certainly NEVER sell in the current real estate climate, and no one would likely even inquire after it. Just to recap:
Not to worry.
My landlord put the house on the market in February, and ever since, I have had countless strangers in my home, countless calls from real estate agents to "come home and put my dog up" and countless surprises with strangers just walking in. (One of which recently got the shock of her life when she opened the door and Melvin pounced her. Now that's a damn good dawg!)
So today, the house is being shown FOR THE SECOND TIME IN 5 HOURS, and so I decide to take Mr. Melvin out for a walk so the intruders can have some privacy. I smile at the sinister agent. Sinister agent returns the smile. I leave with dog.
Only with dog.
All I have is dog.
Senior Sinister chooses this moment to pounce. Bastard locks me out.
Bastard. Locks. Me. Out.
And, just to taunt me, leaves the door on the porch wiiiiiiiide open.
Now, for those of you who have been by, (and for those of you who haven't) please keep in mind my home is on the second floor.
Floor numero dos.
And as I have no talent for scaling walls (in a sun dress and sparkly flip flops, anyone?) I decide on the only other options available. They are, in this order:
Attempt to kick my own door in.
Call my landlord and leave an overly sarcastic message.
Attempt to climb to the balcony from the emergency staircase. Realize this folly will likely end in death.
Run throughout the complex in search of Senior Sinister. Prepare self for Mortal Combat.
As real estate agent has mysteriously vanished, return to parking lot. Sulk. Stare up at apartment. Continue to sulk.
At this point I hear a familiar sound. It is the incessant beeping noise which has plagued me since I moved into this ridiculous place, waking me in the mornings and making it virtually impossible to write my graduate school papers--the sound of construction crews.
Ding! Ding! Ding!
Not only do they have ladders, but men who speak little English and wear hard hats LOVE women in sun dresses and sparkly shoes!
10 batted eyelashes, three tales of woe, 15 minutes, two men, a translator, a ladder climb and a sigh of relief later...here I sit. On my couch. Writing to you.
Sure. It ain't the story of a Happy Little Elf. That one's playing in Theatre Number Two. None the less, this is a story about triumph.
"Dear reader, ...this story is about [Erin Greer]. And [she is] the sort of [person] who know[s] that there's always something. Something to invent, something to read, something to bite, and something to do, to make a sanctuary, no matter how small. And for this reason, I am happy to say, [Erin Greer was] very fortunate indeed."