But it gets to me, it always gets to me, and I must go and try to hawk my family's "villa". Somewhere, there must be the perfect trading company or somesuch that would love to make a home of the finest office space in Constanta, at the very heart of the city with original hardwood floors and spectacular views of the beach. My charge has remained vacant 5 months, and I am embarrassed. Oh, dear reader, you wouldn't happen to be a multinational businessperson expanding into Central Europe? Oh well. I thought not.
To the realtors' offices then, to put a fire under all their asses. I am one to talk, here in bed and it's going on 2 pm, but I have no great impression of the work ethic of the Constantan realtor. Of course they preen with the status symbols of the age, the long, dark coats and gleaming silver mobile phones, but it seems to me they put up ads and wait for phone calls, and atata tot — that's all. It's not enough, of course. So I will make myself much pushier.
R— is in the bathroom, primping and powdering herself in long rituals. She will never be persuaded, though I have tried, I have, that all this work is entirely unnecessary. So I wait my turn, to use the can, take a quick shower, then off we go, to lunch, to the realtors.
|Steve Randy Waldman — Friday March 3, 2006 at 6:51am||permalink|