You know you’re in trouble when…
…I didn’t know what to do. Specifically, what to say. All snark and sales-womanship smoozing aside, the realtor was an incredibly nice lady. More, she had dug up five apartments in my price range (pathetic) and my location preference (hopeless).
“It’s really…pink.” I tried. That worked until the landlord showed us around and then left. I successfully refrained from saying You know, pink like a radioactive meringue on the side of some Chernobyl wreckage that you need to scrape off before you can determine how long it took the cow to die from fallout.
The apartment itself was very small but beautifully floored and maintained. The landlord was both genuine and kind…the building? I squinted. I tried taking off my glasses. I tried closing my eyes. It didn’t work.
“Remember,” said my kind realtor “I didn’t build it, so whatever you think…”
Thank the Gods. I sighed. “Geena, I’m sorry but that building is so damned blinding, toxic, hellacious pink, I’m afraid every time I see it I’ll have to rip my clothes off and run naked around the thing counter-clockwise sprinkling gin, virgin’s hair and gunpowder, screaming the full rite of exorcism at the top of my lungs. In the original Latin.”
I know I shouldn’t have thought it. I know I shouldn’t have said it. Geena, thank you for laughing…