Thanks to a god-only-knows-how-it-happened bank-financing miracle, my house is potentially closing in two weeks.

Two weeks. Labor Day weekend, come on over, you can help unpack some boxes and drink some of our beer. We probably won’t have furniture, but you can lie on the floor. And don’t knock the floor — The Sister and I spent an hour yesterday lying on the floor. Our lives are so pathetic that we went to visit my house, take some measurements, and lie on the floor.

It was my floor though. And therefore, somehow, oddly satisfying. Maybe I won’t fill my house ever and instead leave it empty for floor-lying goodness. Possibly could work, my perpetual make-believe fort.

The Realtor, interestingly enough, was the one who started the floor-lying. In my room. After I told him to figure out how far out my bed would go. He didn’t get up after that –stayed exactly where I was planning to put my bed. Because he was tired.

When The Sister finished exploring her new room, she came into my room to talk with The Realtor – which was slightly unnerving, most especially because they starting talking about my love life, of all things, after The Realtor asked if I had gone out with that loser guy yet. The Sister has many opinions about my love life, or lack thereof, specifically that I need to date many people that I don’t care about so I can treat them badly and avoid hurting myself. The Realtor acknowledged the merit of her opinion but was of mixed views, voting that I either needed a good guy, because he’d be safe, or an asshole, like him, because they’re more fun and would balance me out.

Sister: “But first, Molly needs to stop talking to her stupid ex-boyfriend!”
Realtor: “Oh yeah? And why is he so stupid?”
Me: “He just sucks and we’re not talking about this right now and [Realtor], like you should talk, you still talk to your exes.” With that, I avoided further scrutiny and walked out of the room under the guise of measuring the loft. With my trusty 12-inch plastic ruler.
Sister: “Oh really?”
Realtor: “Yeah, I’m currently stringing along three, but the thing is, I don’t like any of them.” Muted discussion, then: “Hey, Molly, wanna go out on a date with me?” His tone was slightly mocking, clearly remembering our earlier conversation.
Me: Exasperated “Freaking-a, [Realtor].” What was I supposed to do with that?
Sister: “The last thing Molly needs is a guy who is stringing along three other girls!”
Realtor: “Yeah, but none of them matter. Anyway, I gotta get back. Can you guys lock up?”

He and I will hang out when I have my house, I’m sure, but for now, I have two weeks. Two weeks to pack, to clean, to buy furniture, to buy plates, to plan a house-warming party. This coming week, I have one of my all-time favorite guys in town; this coming weekend, I have a wedding and rehearsal dinner; and then, THEN, I will move into my beautiful new house. And at that point, seriously, you’re all welcome to help with the boxes and unpacking and beer-drinking.

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