Yesterday evening my sainted wife
was fortunate enough to grab the television remote control from me.
I normally control the “magic
wand” because, like most women on the planet, my sainted wife always picks the
wrong shows to watch.
She’ll tune-in those sappy shows
about women dying of incurable diseases, all the while going through an entire
box of premium tissues.
Premium tissues are those that
are strong enough to contain a sneeze and a thorough nose-blowing. Less-substantial tissues tear and allow mucus
to gather onto your fingers thereby creating a web-like effect. But I digress.
I generally watch educational
programs that have little to do with soap operas or grown men kneeling on a
football field, for any reason.
In any case, I left the room when
she struck like a red tailed hawk grabbing a field mouse dinner, snatching the
remote control. Quick high-fives between
her and Smokey, accompanied by toothy grins, sealed this electronics coup.
I returned to find the TV now
tuned to a house shopping show.
It seems a though watching other
people buy things is a popular event on television.
People who are members of the
More-money-than-brains-club set about traipsing across select territories in an
effort to incorporate more problems in their lives.
These potential buyers search for
homes in the Caribbean , at the beach, on
lakes, in the mountains, even perhaps next door to you.
I watched a couple of these
episodes that all seemed to maintain similar formats.
The husbands are usually Mr. Milqetoasts,
the wives are whiny, and not in a good way.
They are both well-dressed however the women look as though they belong
in a biker bar rather than an upscale resort.
Rarely are the sources of
purchase money disclosed. Guessing these
funds came from sizeable inheritances or drug sales, I would say that money
would be better spent on tattoo removal procedures over a second home.
With the wives repeatedly carping
about the tiny kitchens in these vacation properties, the husbands – with bowed
heads – realize their much-desired man-cave will now be another pipe
dream. Worse, those guys will still be
waking up next to their wives tomorrow morning.
Still, those tiny kitchens cause
my sainted wife to pipe-up about our first house’s kitchen, ending up with,
“I’ll show you tiny!” while angrily waving her fist.
 |
| Not our first house, but close |
Our kitchen was 6x9’, with a gas
range, sink, and refrigerator; it also had three doors and a window, all of
which occupied valuable space needed for countertops. It was termed a “galley kitchen.” Elsewhere, it is called a steamer trunk. But we made do.
And so these programs go for a
sparing half-hour.
Countless times they droningly
repeat the words, “Is there enough room for our friends to visit?” And, “But there is not a view!”
I’m going to come clean to the
world. There was not one time, when I
was house-buying, that I was concerned about whether there was enough room for
my friends to visit. Sorry, friends.
And the view is equally
unimportant as I won’t be seated in an overstuffed recliner looking out the
window; I’ll be out doing things such as annoying my neighbors with motorized
yard tools.
Invariably, the people select
houses with their needs in mind, ending the wagering in our living room, with
Smokey usually winning.
After being sated by these house
searching shows, my sainted wife is now searching for a television program
about mopping floors. Yeah!
