Will you still need me, will you still feed me, when I'm 64? - The Beatles, When I'm 64.
B-Day today. I stayed up 'til midnight last night; didn't want to turn a year older any sooner than I had to. Overnight, I forgot my password to access this blog. It's all downhill from here.
Last time, I wrote about needing undies to replace those I bought when Clinton was prez. Mom-in-law came through for B-Day; who knew Hello Kitty made briefs in my size?
I did make an effort (small) to buy my own. The local department store has senior night where everything is discounted for us mature folks. Everything, that is except Jockey brand undies (my boys are brand loyal). I approached the checkout counter with an armload, but since I couldn't get a geezer discount, put them back, on principle. So, the same store sends me a $10 coupon for my birthday. The catch is that I have to spend $50 to save $10. That's like me saying I'll take you out and buy you a dessert, but first you have to buy me dinner.
I thought I might get a deal online, so I went to the Jockey web site; had to scroll through two pages of crotches to find what I wanted. Those male models must not have had any place to put their keys and wallet during the photo shoot, 'cause there's a lot more going on in their briefs than in mine. I'll bet theirs aren't all bagged out in the back like mine either. Anyhow, slight savings + shipping = better off buying locally and put all this talk of unmentionables behind me.
Let's talk real estate. The local news(?)paper says June was terrible month for home sales. However, in the last three months, Coldwell Banker Sea Coast Realty, put over 1000 properties under contract. That's one home sold every 3.7 hours! That's the results you get from a bunch of dedicated hard working real estate agents.
Want to know what's going on in the Wilmington real estate market? Confused about financing, short sales, foreclosures? Call, e-mail, tweet or come in to see me. If I can't answer your questions completely, I'll put you in touch with an expert who can.
Life is good. Have fun. Be grateful. Find someone in the military and thank him/her. Scoot on.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Wednesday, July 1, 2009
Tuna Briefs
The first rule of underpants is: Do not talk about underpants. – www.topfive.com
I woke up this morning feeling in an especially grateful mood and I thought . . . I’ll blog about gratitude. I was preparing a mental list of all the things in my life for which I am grateful when I got into an argument with my wife about underpants, which, as the saying goes, got my panties in a bunch.
So, gratitude’s out. I’m going with underpants.
Now, I’m sure that there are people who’ve had an argument about underpants, as in your wife finds a pair (not hers) in your glove compartment. Not me. I’m just saying . . .
No, for me it was an answer to a simple question that got the ball (slight pun) rolling.
Wife: Your birthday is coming up soon. What would you like?
Me: Underpants.
Wife: No way. You have way too may pairs now and you never throw the old nasty ones away.
Me: Yeah, but . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The little dots indicate the space where I was trying to make my point, but my wife was the one actually doing the talking. The question in my mind was, how did I get myself in this situation? As a Wilmington real estate broker, I analyze information, market statistics, trends, etc. and advise clients so that they can achieve goals and make informed decisions. I'd like to think I’m a smart guy and a decent problem solver. You would have thought I could have (should have) avoided the underpants argument. After all, I’ve been here before. Our discussion ended, as it always has, with a curt directive to buy my own underpants. We have similar conversations about socks.
See, the crux of the matter is that I don’t like clothes shopping. I under-like shopping for underpants. So, every once in a while, I stock up like a crazed underpants survivalist. In a digital age, my underpants are analog. My stash is disintegrating. The clothes dryer has rendered most of the elastic bands the consistency of dead leaves. The fabric has the ripped look of designer jeans. Moths are appalled that I blame my briefs demise on them. It’s time to clean house.
Once, years ago in my youth, I mistakenly dried a load of laundry at a laundromat for an hour and a half. The results were tiny potato chip brittle underpants, sized to fit Barbie’s boyfriend, but he wouldn’t have been able to sit down.
So, faced with the choice of duct taping my briefs to my belly or going s-s-shopping, I guess shopping is slightly less painful than tearing off the duct tape at the end of the day.
Here's a thought for you first time home buyers. The government is offering an $8,000 tax credit as an incentive to purchase a home. You can buy a lot of underpants for eight grand.
Scoot on.
I woke up this morning feeling in an especially grateful mood and I thought . . . I’ll blog about gratitude. I was preparing a mental list of all the things in my life for which I am grateful when I got into an argument with my wife about underpants, which, as the saying goes, got my panties in a bunch.
So, gratitude’s out. I’m going with underpants.
Now, I’m sure that there are people who’ve had an argument about underpants, as in your wife finds a pair (not hers) in your glove compartment. Not me. I’m just saying . . .
No, for me it was an answer to a simple question that got the ball (slight pun) rolling.
Wife: Your birthday is coming up soon. What would you like?
Me: Underpants.
Wife: No way. You have way too may pairs now and you never throw the old nasty ones away.
Me: Yeah, but . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
The little dots indicate the space where I was trying to make my point, but my wife was the one actually doing the talking. The question in my mind was, how did I get myself in this situation? As a Wilmington real estate broker, I analyze information, market statistics, trends, etc. and advise clients so that they can achieve goals and make informed decisions. I'd like to think I’m a smart guy and a decent problem solver. You would have thought I could have (should have) avoided the underpants argument. After all, I’ve been here before. Our discussion ended, as it always has, with a curt directive to buy my own underpants. We have similar conversations about socks.
See, the crux of the matter is that I don’t like clothes shopping. I under-like shopping for underpants. So, every once in a while, I stock up like a crazed underpants survivalist. In a digital age, my underpants are analog. My stash is disintegrating. The clothes dryer has rendered most of the elastic bands the consistency of dead leaves. The fabric has the ripped look of designer jeans. Moths are appalled that I blame my briefs demise on them. It’s time to clean house.
Once, years ago in my youth, I mistakenly dried a load of laundry at a laundromat for an hour and a half. The results were tiny potato chip brittle underpants, sized to fit Barbie’s boyfriend, but he wouldn’t have been able to sit down.
So, faced with the choice of duct taping my briefs to my belly or going s-s-shopping, I guess shopping is slightly less painful than tearing off the duct tape at the end of the day.
Here's a thought for you first time home buyers. The government is offering an $8,000 tax credit as an incentive to purchase a home. You can buy a lot of underpants for eight grand.
Scoot on.
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