8 September 2000
Quote: Yuppies, funny beasts. Tear down an old
place so they can be a healthy lot riding their super spiffy bikes in the
bike lanes on the weekends and driving in their BMW's on weekdays helping
cloud the sky with exhaust.
Tonight was the Reckless Kelly/Robert Earl Keen show, which I've been eagerly anticipating for months. Normally, I would be putting a long review of the show up. All I really have to say is RK started off slowly, rallied after a few songs, and David Abeyta (the guitarist from Bartlesville, OK) is beginning to steal the show. Robert Earl Keen has great presence and charisma onstage, and his band is excellent.
But I really didn't enjoy the show, because my mind was on something from earlier in the day. For several years, I've been housesitting for people who have grown into great friends. They are about to move away, sadly. Months ago, they asked if I could do the normal housesitting gig when they go off to Maine for the annual getaway, and I initially declined (I have a dog now, a serious girlfriend, and a presence in and love of Montrose -- in other words, circumstances have changed since I started housesitting for them). They persuaded me -- as friends -- to reconsider, and I agreed to stay at their place and take care of the cat, bringing my dog with me.
Well, I didn't realize quite what I was in for. It turns out they have the house up for sale, and people are constantly coming by. The realtors have been letting the poor cat get out and then simply leaving, which is not good in the, until the past few days, triple digit heat we've been having; we keep finding the poor thing outside crying when we get there in the evening. And yesterday, one of the realtors left a message for me on my voicemail at work, which was followed by a conversation with the people for whom I'm housesitting. Apparently, the realtor has decided the house "isn't showing well" because I'm not keeping it neat enough!
Yeah, well, as I explained to the people for whom I'm doing this favor, I had reservations about doing this WITHOUT the added bonus of the house being up for sale, and I surely would not have agreed to do so had I known it. I explained that I was essentially living out of a suitcase by the side of the bed, trying to get some dissertation work done (books books books, plus the computer I had taken over there!), and no, I probably wasn't being as neat as I could. I explained that actually, being neat was the furthest thing from my mind after projects at work, taking care of my dog, and various other stressors in my life, which included the "goddamn realtor bitches" letting the cat get out constantly. I think I made it clear I wasn't very happy.
So tomorrow, I have resolved (basically during the concert, steamed as hell, and getting more steamed because it was ruining the show for me) that I will pack up all of my stuff up and moved back to my apartment. I will go over once a day and make sure the cat is inside the house, fed, and otherwise healthy. I'll send a letter to the people for whom I agreed to housesit explaining my move and returning their check (this has never been about money) because I feel like somehow I'm breaking an agreement, even though I am still fulfilling the duties of the agreement. But as I'm going to explain in the letter, "I will be goddamned if I have a bitch realtor calling me at work -- as if I don't have enough to do there already! -- to tell me I'm not being neat enough for her prissy ass." I think it's a good line actually!
Lessons from this: 1) Never, ever let anyone persuade you to do something against your judgment, even if they cash in a "one last favor as a friend" card; 2) Things that add any more stress to my life simply aren't worth it, and 3) If this is one of the beauties of home ownership -- at some point having one's life on display for prissy bitch realtors who have the audacity to call a complete stranger at work (she's lucky she didn't catch me or I would have ripped her a new asshole) -- then I will be a renter for the foreseeable future!
Copyright (c) 2000, Kevin L. Whited