Sunday, November 30, 2008

Why I don't want to be a real estate agent.

Even though half the women I know shill residential real estate, I refuse to even contemplate it.

See, here's how it would be. I figured it out from checking out a friend of mine's listings.

The other agents would get the listings with the beautiful, gracious, traditional, formal rooms. Like this dining room:

I'd get the listings with the twenty year old master bathrooms slathered in garish tile, looking like something Darryl Hannah would have decorated in Wall Street. Like this:


  1. I don't know what you're talking about, that bathroom is fantastic. All it needs is some of those giant red fuzzy rugs for the floor and maybe one for the toilet, and some of those glow in the dark soap dishes, it would be totally chic. ;)

  2. But you'd be so good at telling the prospective buyers to "just RIP IT OUT."

  3. That bathroom is bigger than most of the apartments I've seen in Chicago!

  4. That bathroom is bigger than my kitchen. At least I don't have to look at that tile everday.

  5. That bathroom is bigger than my house.

    It's also waaaaaay uglier, which explains why I'm not suffering from an overdose of covetousness.

  6. I would have loved that. When I was 7 and in love with Donny Osmond and his purple socks. Now? Uh, no.


Gentle Readers:

For the time being, I've turned off comment moderation. Please don't spam; it's not nice.

xxx, Poppy.