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Tonight B. placed a call to our selling (a term I'm using very, very losely right now) agent to see what the hell is going on with this shit. We haven't gotten any feedback from people who've looked at the house. Well, not officially. B. was talking to an employee at our neighborhood convenience store where he gets a cup of coffee every morning. She lives on our block, and her family viewed our house. She told B. that they absolutely loved it, but it didn't have enough bedrooms. That, I can understand. We've nixed houses for that reason.

According to the agent, the main feedback he's gotten is that people are turned off by the pile of brush at our curb.

Excuse me. My head just exploded. Again.

Okay. Let's look at several issues here:

1. Every house on the block has brush waiting on the curb. Ours isn't even the biggest curbside brush pile on our street. We've been waiting for it to be collected since December, just like a hell of a lot of other people in the greater St. Louis metro area.

2. Brush is temporary. One way or another, it'll be gone.

3. Really? You're going to base your decision on whether to simply walk in the door based entirely on a neatly-stacked pile of yard waste at the curb? People who are that stupid shouldn't be allowed to acquire mortgages.

Yeah, I understand "curb appeal", and that people are probably assuming mess (another term I'm using losely) in the yard = mess inside. I also know that one of the houses we considered had a yardful of storm debris. The inside was a mess because the owner was 4 months pregnant and on bedrest with two young daughters. I just don't get people who aren't willing to look past something as simple and obvious.

Ever watch the show Sell This House? There's always at least one moron during the open house who'll say, "I ain't buying this house 'cause that couch is uuuuuuuuuuugly." I think such comments should immediately disqualify a person from acquiring a mortgage.

Speaking of which, our next-door neighbors are also moving. We were talking to them on Sunday and she said, "The only people this neighborhood's fit for are blacks and Mexicans."

To which I said, "You're right. Maybe that would finally take care of this block's redneck hillbilly Cletus problem."

Well, I wish I'd said that. Fact is, on our block and the block behind us there are three Hispanic households, one Vietnamese household, and a single African-American woman. One of the Hispanic households is easily the nicest, best-kept house on the street. The other two are mostly young men. The only complaint I have about them is loud vehicles. But I consider that a young male problem, not a Hispanic problem. The Vietnamese family? Lovely. And while the African-American woman leaves her Christmas lights up way too long and wears the most frightening pants I've ever seen, she's a sweet lady who always waves, stops to chat, and fawns over the kid. Frankly, if we had more diverse families of this nature instead of ones like my next-door neighbors, we might not be so desperate to unload this crapshack.

Rumor has it that our block is just a few days away from finally getting the storm debris removed. We shall see what happens after that with this hellhole.

In other real estate news ...

My parents learned last night that their wonderful, sweet elderly neighbors have decided to move. This is rather sad news, as we're all really fond of them. They usually join our family for all the major holidays and birthdays, and they spend a lot of summer evenings hanging out with my parents in the yard. They're just moving to the other side of town, to a new luxury retirement condo. It'll be great for them.

For years my parents have wanted my grandparents to move to their neighborhood. They're only a 15-minute drive apart, but my grandparents' house is getting old and worn. Grandpa Chuck's 82 years old, and he still mows their huge yard. We're talking acres. I used to mow it when I was a kid and it was no easy task for a healthy, athletic 14-year-old. Also, they're house is techinically in the country, but it's not country anymore. In the past 15 years, a big soccer park was built across the road from them, which has increased traffic and brought a bunch of cookie cutter subdivisions.

Within an hour of learning that the neighbors are moving, my grandparents were checking out their house. It needs a lot of work, but there's a possibility my grandparents and parents might become neighbors.

Now, I know I've mentioned this before, but I can't remember where, so I'll repeat: my grandparents have two cats, Bobbi and Elmer 2. They both lack tails. Bobbi arrived tail-free. Elmer 2 lost his in a tussle, we think. Elmer 2 doesn't do a very good job of taking care of himself, so there's really no telling why his tail swelled up and started smelling weird. Amputation was required. At least, that's the cover story. Really, I think my grandparents just have a problem with tailed cats.

I guess word that they might be moving into the neighborhood traveled fast through my parents' domicile. This morning, my mom went onto their screened back porch. Chiggar, their damn, dirty, baby-eating dingo was sitting a step below Slim, their delightful, easy-going black cat. Now, Slim never gets upset, but this morning, he was furious. He rumbled and growled at Chiggar, who was thoroughly confused by this change in attitude. Eventually Slim took off for the yard.

That's when my mom noticed something on the floor of the porch. "Oh look. Slim must have brought me something," my mom told my great-aunt Helen, who was on the phone. She bent to get a better look. "I have no idea what this could be. It almost looks like ... It's his tail! I've gotta go find Slim!"

That's right, my friends. Slim had left two inches of black tail, attatched to what my mom described as six inches of spaghetti, lying on the back porch. I know, you want to do what I did: blame Chiggar. Unfortunately, we can't do that. It seems that Slim got his tail slammed in the screen door hard enough to completely severe the end.

He's fine. Really. No one attempted any drastic measures involving duct tape or a staple gun to reattatch the appendage.

Personally, I think he heard that Grandpa Chuck and Grandma Viv might be moving in, so he decided to get a jump on the tail-sacrificing.