I'm whitetrash, but. You know. Not whitetrash.

We've been spending our evenings and weekends looking at houses. Funny how they're all different. It's strange how much you can tell about a person by the things they leave out in their living spaces. The people are gone, but they've left their dog-eared copy of Coping with Codependency on the dining room table next to the completely-full ashtray. I like to look in their pantries and refrigerators to see what kind of food they eat. I think this information tells more about people than anything else. 'This house belongs to a recently seperated man who is balding [indicate 30-plus hats hanging on the hat-rack], smokes a pack a day [indicate ashtrays], eats out three times a day [no food in pantry, trash full of McD's wrappers], and can't seem to get it together without his wife [Codepentent No More! etc. littering the countertops in the kitchen].

Sometimes it's easier to tell what sort of people live in the houses we're looking at. Like when they don't leave the house we're touring. My favorite to date: We walk up to this cute little suburban ranch. Sidewalk covered in cigarette butts, lawn un-mowed. They're not taking very good care of this place my realtor says. She always rings the doorbell - just in case - before she punches her keycode into the giant lock hanging from the doorknob, but this time someone answers. He's middle aged, dirty, wearing greasy denim cut-off shorts and a wifebeater. He's smoking. Are we interrupting something? My realtor asks, incredulous. That's when a terrifying voice bellows out from somewhere within the house...deep, redneck, loud...TELL 'EM TO COME ON IN. IT'S AWFUL DIRTY, THOUGH. TELL 'EM IT'S A MESS. We walk inside and are greeted by one of the largest women I have ever seen. She's sitting on a once-brown-now-yellow-grey recliner in the corner, leaning forward against a cane. Smoking. Drinking one of those giant, 8473-ounce cokes from Village Pantry.

Oh. You're renters. Notes our Genius Realtor [she really is!]

YEEEAAAAHH. WE'RE JUS' TRYIN' TA FIGGURE AUHT WHERE WE S'POSED TA GO. MAYBE THE HOSPITAL! [loud, terrifying laughter] ...what?

I'm holding Tony's hand so tightly I can't feel my own anymore. This is so terribly awkward. There are sandwich wrappers everywhere. On the floor, on the furniture. I can see an old McDonald's cup on its side under the recliner, between the Giant's feet. In the bathroom, a tub of Country Crock margarine lies on its side next to the toilet. The sink is full of Hardy's cups, while the bathtub/shower looks like it's never been used. They obviously sleep in seperate rooms - hers holds nothing but a matress on the floor and old food.

His is full of porn and Hustler magazines.

Neither one say bye when we run out of the house, all holding our breath.

Mrs. Roydes needs therapy.

Tony and I have been looking into buying a house.
Well. We've been looking at houses.

The actual-real-'Let's-Make-an-Offer-on-This-One-Right-Here' part was delayed be someone named Mrs. Roydes.

I had this credit card three years ago. It defaulted three years ago. And then I paid it off. And now I don't have it anymore. Except - it's still on my credit report and it still says that I owe them money, which I don't. I know this because it came up two months ago, when Tony and I bought our new car. It popped up on the credit report then, so we couldn't get the loan until the credit card company sent me a letter stating that my account balance was zero and Everything Was Fine. It actually took so long for them to send me the letter that my bank just gave me the money and made me promise to bring the letter to them when I got it. I got the letter. I remember holding it in my hands and thinking, Finally. Those fucking assholes. This is where all memory of the letter fades away. I have NO IDEA what I did with it.

So. I needed another letter. For the mortgage lady. I called to get one and Mrs. Roydes picked up the phone.

Mrs. Roydes: This is MRS. ROYDES.
K: Yeah, hi. I have an old account that's still showing up on my credit report, so I need a letter saying that the balance is zero and the account is closed.
Mrs. Roydes: Says here that we sent you a letter on August 21st, 2005.
K: I know. I don't have that one anymore. This is for something else.
Mrs. Roydes: Well. You only GET one letter.
K: But! I! Neeeed! Okay. We're trying to buy a house and the bank -
Mrs. Roydes: YOU ONLY GET ONE.
K: But what if I don't HAVE the first one?
Mrs Roydes: Sounds like a personal problem to me.
K: Yeah. I need to talk to your supervisor now.
Mrs. Roydes: Management doesn't take phone calls.

-Mrs. Roydes hangs up on K-

And I'm not even exaggerating this time!

So. After Mrs. Roydes hung up on me, Darling Tony called back and complained. He put me on the phone, still crying and sniffling, so I could tell the guy what she said to me. At the end, voice cracking, I cried is it TRUE I only get ONE LETTER?!. He laughed and said he could send me ten letters if I wanted.

I only asked for one.

But I DID make five copies.

Formulas.

The Kittens have come to my mother at the precise right time in her life. They're three weeks old and wobbly. She has to feed them from a bottle every two hours. Before feedings, they crawl over each other and wiggle and cry, hungry. Today I sat on the floor with her as she cooed them and shushed them and held them like babies, wrapped in towels. She pleaded with them to drink the formula and rocked and burped them when they were done. When they finish eating, she rubbed them softly with all-natural baby wipes to clean them and teach them how to someday clean themselves.

It's tragic and beautiful to see her care so deeply about these little orphaned kittens - especially at a time where the stress and heartbreak are plenty in her life. I'm glad they're here, though. Otherwise she might be too sad and focus on the problems too much. Become trapped inside herself. I'm glad she has the distraction.