tried to pretend to be interested in passive-solar power and Japanese toilet/bidet combos that came with built-in butthole detectors. Apparently, you did your business, a mechanical arm shot out to just the right spot, and gave your no-no a good polishing. While the contraption might be fun at a certain kind of party, I didn’t find it absolutely necessary in a home.
The house was nice, I guess, but it seemed so generic. Call me a traditionalist, but when I buy a house, I’d like a history to come with it. You know, a murder or two, lead paint, and at least one ghost. That house had obviously never been lived in. I finally spoke up, “It just doesn’t have any character, Twyla.”
Mona Lisa turned on me, she had been doing her Vanna White thing in front of the European washer-dryer combo. She didn’t even try to hide her hostility. “Who needs character when you’ve got a perfect energy score? The power company will be sending you a check every month.”
I wasn’t about to be intimidated by that Kale-powered dynamo. “It feels like the inside of a box. An empty box.”
“Did I mention the rainwater storage system? You’ll never have to water the lawn. Never.”
I rolled my eyes. “This is Portland. Why would anyone store rain?”
She waved a hand. “Droughts happen everywhere, dude.”
Twyla finally spoke up. “Mason’s right, Mona Lisa, I think we’d really prefer something traditional. Do you know of any old Victorians for sale?”
Poor Mona Lisa fell out. “Victorians? Have you ever heard of a carbon footprint? Every Victorian house in Portland should be burned to the ground.”
I didn’t bother to point out that burning down a quarter of the city’s older houses would leave one hell of a carbon footprint because Mona Lisa was obviously past reason. She was hyperventilating in her outrage at the thought of someone wanting to live in a house that could murder the planet all on its own. I was getting kind of worried about her and finally thought of a way to calm her down. “Twyla really needs an older place with a yard. Someplace she can raise chickens for organic eggs.”
Magic. “Oh,” Mona Lisa gushed, “Organic eggs! I see where you’re going. We’ll find you a nice old Victorian with a big yard. We can see about putting enough money in your loan to up the energy score… maybe solar panels on the roof… rain barrels in the backyard… and a chicken coop!”
We spent the next few hours looking at Victorians. Twyla loved each one more than the last and ended up telling Mona Lisa she needed a few days to think about it. Mona Lisa smile and promised to bring diagrams of solar-powered chicken coops to the next meeting.
I literally had to drag Twyla into Zippers. She refused to believe in the existence of something called a “juice bar.” She insisted it must be a front for Scientology or the KKK. I reminded her that I’d gotten out alive and promised she only had to stay long enough to meet Shane.
We found him standing in a circle of athletic groupies. They were all still in their marathon getups, looking long, lean, and a little too proud of themselves. Shane broke from the group and loped over to us, drawing Twyla into a big hug. He had a lot to learn.
Twyla disentangled herself with as much grace as she could muster and said, “I hope you’re Shane.”
He was beaming. “I am. I’ve been dying to meet you… and congratulations on the baby.”
Twyla did what I can only call an aggressive curtsy and said, “We’re very excited. Mason’s got a lot of plans for the nursery.”
Shane cocked an eyebrow for just a second, but I noticed it. Then he smoothed his features and smiled w ith the wattage of one thousand beefy erections. “I’m sure he does. Mason knows about everything. It really amazes me, but I guess you must be really smart, too. I can’t imagine him spending any time with a dummy.”
That seemed like a good point for me to interject myself into the
The house was nice, I guess, but it seemed so generic. Call me a traditionalist, but when I buy a house, I’d like a history to come with it. You know, a murder or two, lead paint, and at least one ghost. That house had obviously never been lived in. I finally spoke up, “It just doesn’t have any character, Twyla.”
Mona Lisa turned on me, she had been doing her Vanna White thing in front of the European washer-dryer combo. She didn’t even try to hide her hostility. “Who needs character when you’ve got a perfect energy score? The power company will be sending you a check every month.”
I wasn’t about to be intimidated by that Kale-powered dynamo. “It feels like the inside of a box. An empty box.”
“Did I mention the rainwater storage system? You’ll never have to water the lawn. Never.”
I rolled my eyes. “This is Portland. Why would anyone store rain?”
She waved a hand. “Droughts happen everywhere, dude.”
Twyla finally spoke up. “Mason’s right, Mona Lisa, I think we’d really prefer something traditional. Do you know of any old Victorians for sale?”
Poor Mona Lisa fell out. “Victorians? Have you ever heard of a carbon footprint? Every Victorian house in Portland should be burned to the ground.”
I didn’t bother to point out that burning down a quarter of the city’s older houses would leave one hell of a carbon footprint because Mona Lisa was obviously past reason. She was hyperventilating in her outrage at the thought of someone wanting to live in a house that could murder the planet all on its own. I was getting kind of worried about her and finally thought of a way to calm her down. “Twyla really needs an older place with a yard. Someplace she can raise chickens for organic eggs.”
Magic. “Oh,” Mona Lisa gushed, “Organic eggs! I see where you’re going. We’ll find you a nice old Victorian with a big yard. We can see about putting enough money in your loan to up the energy score… maybe solar panels on the roof… rain barrels in the backyard… and a chicken coop!”
We spent the next few hours looking at Victorians. Twyla loved each one more than the last and ended up telling Mona Lisa she needed a few days to think about it. Mona Lisa smile and promised to bring diagrams of solar-powered chicken coops to the next meeting.
I literally had to drag Twyla into Zippers. She refused to believe in the existence of something called a “juice bar.” She insisted it must be a front for Scientology or the KKK. I reminded her that I’d gotten out alive and promised she only had to stay long enough to meet Shane.
We found him standing in a circle of athletic groupies. They were all still in their marathon getups, looking long, lean, and a little too proud of themselves. Shane broke from the group and loped over to us, drawing Twyla into a big hug. He had a lot to learn.
Twyla disentangled herself with as much grace as she could muster and said, “I hope you’re Shane.”
He was beaming. “I am. I’ve been dying to meet you… and congratulations on the baby.”
Twyla did what I can only call an aggressive curtsy and said, “We’re very excited. Mason’s got a lot of plans for the nursery.”
Shane cocked an eyebrow for just a second, but I noticed it. Then he smoothed his features and smiled w ith the wattage of one thousand beefy erections. “I’m sure he does. Mason knows about everything. It really amazes me, but I guess you must be really smart, too. I can’t imagine him spending any time with a dummy.”
That seemed like a good point for me to interject myself into the