Dressing a Russian, I Guess.

We are in the market, theoretically at least, for a new home.

Note: Theoretically, of course, because the purchase of our new home requires the selling of our current home. And yes, the real estate market SUCKS and yes, we must be PATIENT but if anyone tells me even one more time that God has a plan for me I'm going to scream.

Anyhow, the process involves lots of driving around and peeing in supermarket restrooms and cursing the dude who plants that gosh-darn pumpkin patch and corn maze on Highway 101 and adds an extra half-hour to the drive because apparently, no one on Highway 101 has ever seen a gosh-darn pumpkin patch and corn maze before. Ever. So they have to drive 18 miles an hour and clog up the freeway just to sneak a peek. At a freaking corn patch, yes.

Note: No, I am not bitter. Well, maybe a little bit, yes.

We also meet many real estate agents. Agents like Kevin, a mid-fifties fellow who finds me, frankly, quite irresistible and serves dum dums at his open houses. And Cell Phone Dude, who sits on the couch in a very creepy living room, frankly, playing with his phone and not even bothering to grunt at his visitors. And oh yes, THE MAYOR who knows everything about the city, frankly, because did she mention that she is THE MAYOR?

But THE MAYOR wilts at a the sight of THE RUSSIAN.

Note: I am wilting right here on the couch just thinking about THE RUSSIAN.

She is young, trim and blonde, with wide animae eyes and some sort of nuclear detonator in her spy shoe, quite possibly. Her name sounds like a combination of a female body part and a Yiddish holiday casserole.

Her accent is heavy. Are you vreddy to buy a house today? Before I can even whip out my checkbook and write a check for $992,000, she steps closer. The questions come faster.

Vhat are you looooking for in a house? Why deeed you come here? Who eees your agent? Geeve me the name of your agent or I will keeel you with my bare hands. Tell me!

Simmer down chick, I am saying. Our countries are pals. The Cold War is over.

Note: Okay, fine. I really deedn't say that. But I wanted to, yes.

Additional Note: I do not understand The Cold War. I google it to get more information. But my mind wanders as I read words like proxy wars and glasnost and non-aligned movement.

Note to the Additional Note: Doesn't non-aligned movement sound like a chiropractic diagnosis? Maybe The Cold War was exacerbated by Chronic Back Pain of the Glasnosts.

The only real escape seems to be either leaping over the deck railing or writing that doggone check. No problem. I will pull my disappearing ink pen from the sole of my shoe.

Oh, Americans will always win the Shoe War, Baby.

Heck, yes!

Note: I am just having fun here. I love Russians. Really. They make a really great salad dressing.

Additional Note: Sorry. I could not resist. Will someone just please take my computer away before I wind up in some prison, suffering from chronic back pain ...