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.