Some Thoughts on Porn

This is a guest posting from our dear friend Audrey:

I was on a patio on Elgin Street recently with friends, including Conch Shell and Painted Stick. Conch Shell told me that, the evening before, she had been at home, working on her new laptop computer, when Painted Stick came into the room and asked her what she was doing. She said, "looking at porn". He went over and saw she was looking at a real estate website.

Conch Shell and I share a love of real estate. People tell us that we should be agents! We are always delighted to hear this. This summer we checked out the requirements and we were completely daunted by all the steps involved. Is there a way of being an agent without taking a course?

Others in our circle of friends do not share this passion for real estate.

They do not, daily, review homes for sale in the Glebe and Dow's Lake on the Multiple Listing Service. They might even find it odd that neither I, nor Conch Shell, is actually looking to purchase a home. (We are just keeping an eye on the market!)

They do not spend hours in cramped auction houses assessing the beauty and possible utility of hundreds of items.

They do not lust after the sublime furniture at Van Leeuwen's in the Ottawa Byward Market.

They do not order British pottery online from Bridgewater.

They do not share my already-admitted addiction to house magazines.

I recently met a couple who had owned 23 houses over the course of their 25-year marriage. They told me that this was unintentional! They admitted that they had a passion for homes and that they fell in love with the possibilities of a new home - the new canvas, the new location.

And so, my question, dear readers, is this: What should Conch Shell and I do to take our love of real estate to the next level?

Civic politics 101

...It utterly baffled Larry that, even long after dumping his two old business partners and then getting himself elected mayor, he was still regarded as something of a loose cannon in local political circles...

More People Trying to Limit my Dating Life

Bad enough that the Chair set out strict limits on who I get to go out with, there's a bunch of Midwesterners producing propaganda reels.

Click To Play

Slight technical difficulties...

"I told ya not to fire them damn rockets, Short Guy. I don't know how to navigate uppy-downy arcs through the freakin' air. Especially at high speed. After that explosion on the Decarie, er, launch pad, we're really lucky we even went the right direction.

"So, why doncha just cool yer jets while that nice RCMP guy in the front of this cruiser checks our IDs. Ya gotta expect these kindsa holdups when ya land in a flaming wreck in the Parliamentary Precinct before dawn. And hey: I can smell Elgin Street from here!

"I'm pretty sure we'll get past the whole racial profiling thing with flying colours; no terrorists here. You're a short-arse space pirate, I'm a smartass talkin' dog, and we just plowed into the lawn behind the Parliamentary Library -- what could be more normal? We'll get outta this in plenty of time for you to scoff fries when The Usual Spot opens.

"Meantime, why doncha mellow out and watch the pretty eclipse? Us coyotes always say ya don't have to actually land on the moon to appreciate it..."

The Long Road Back to Elgin Street

Umm, so, here I am in the interestin' position of shotgunnin' in 4th Dwarf's primo ride, on the way back from the ESI Beachfront Timeshare™. (Don'cha just love WiFi?)

Unfortunately, we've been stuck in permanent gridlock on the Decarie Expressway in Montreal for days now. Something about a subway collapse downtown rerouting all the traffic out here in the 'burbs. And, oh, maybe the fact that the navigator is a teensy bit bad with maps.

Lookit, I work mostly by smell, for cripes' sake.

While I can handle the gnashing teeth and sotto voce cussing (Hey. I'm the one doin' it, after all...) I am becoming increasingly nervous when the Short Guy starts muttering darkly about "cracking the taps on the liquid oxygen tanks and torching off the retro boosters to get the f*ck outta here". 'Specially since all I can see back there is a two-horsepower Evinrude and a coupla leftover propane cartridges....

We'll make it back eventually, I keep telling him. We'll be fine. Hell, we have Jerky Treats™ up the wazoo in this thing. But all he does is moan about the perfection of the fries at The Usual Spot on Elgin Street, and how long it's been since he's had any, and droolin' in a most unseemly way. Frankly, I fear for his sanity. And maybe mine...