Where are the weeping relatives and the pewter candlesticks? Hmm. No preternaturally large owl that hoots hauntingly when the wind is high. Let me explain something. You should be dead. And yet there you are, sitting behind a pair of card tables in your driveway.
This McMansion in the exurbs has a generous lot size, yes, but all the trees are still saplings. There’s no family cemetery plot, or a murky pond that gurgles unsettlingly. Just a well-maintained swing set and a freshly mown lawn. I mean, jeez. And your neighbor is using a gas-powered leaf blower to get grass clippings off his sidewalk. It’s totally ruining the vibe.
Also, you won’t let me into your home.
How can I meet your lobotomized relatives, who will regale me with disgusting stories of sexual deviance while also displaying a breathtaking lack of self-awareness? I need to exploit their ignorance to learn of the clandestine compartment behind the paneling in the northwest corner of the dining room. The one that’s only accessible by pulling on the wall sconce in a series of morse-code-based tugs.
Upon entering the hidden chamber, I would then find a mahogany tea table from Gloucester, circa 1840, that had a distinctly maritime charm, even as it had been secreted away in this creepy land-bound backwater.
It would make for a perfect end table in my family room. In this apparently-not-actually-gonna-happen estate sale moment, I would trick one of your cretinous relatives into trading the tea table for two Spanish doubloons that were actually just chocolate wrapped in gold foil.
But, no. I’m not going to get such a once-in-a-lifetime moment. I won’t be able to share the story of the tea-table-cum-end-table at every dinner party I host, while basking in my guests’ frequent and effusive admiration.
Why? You won’t let me in your home. Everything is either laid out of the card tables, or sitting in the driveway, or so you claim. Fine. That may be. And, based on the Kirkland-brand cashews you’re snacking on, it appears that you also shop at Costco, giving me the sneaking suspicion that most of the things you own will bear a remarkable resemblance to most of the things I own.
That said, it’s not a bad collection of stuff. I also have a Panini maker I never use, and yes, I’d like a lampshade shaped like a football, but my wife would throw a fit. A replacement motor for my lawnmower? Four Garfield books for a quarter? Now you’re talking. I’ll take both, but do you have a huge plastic trash bag I could wrap the motor in? I don’t want to get grease on my car. Okay, that’s nice of you. Thanks.
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