I Bought the Book.

I know, I know: I was going to wait to emerge from escrow before tackling the Jonah Goldberg book, but I really had high hopes that we wouldn't have any showings today, now that the offers are coming in on the house.

I figured the time for the buyers to look at the property was over with, and people were going to be writing up their bids today.

No.

I had arisen early to call in to Fausta's podcast; then I read a while, and went back to bed to catch up on sleep. I was just starting to drift off when my husband awakened me. "The carnival's starting again," he told me.

"More offers?" I mumbled. "How much?"

"No. More showings. We have to be out of here in an hour."

"More showings? What haven't they seen around here? Anyway, yesterday was the deadline: they aren't supposed to be looking. They are supposed to be writing up their offers!"

"Yeah, I know. But bids are likely to go up from here."

"I don't supposed they can just walk around me while I sleep, can they?" I enquired. "I mean, what if I try not to snore?"

I poked my head out of the covers. He was just looking at me, as if he thought $50,000-$100,000 was a bit much to pay for a nap, no matter how much I wanted it.

"Fine, fine," I snapped. "I'll see if I can get the dishes done. Or at least stack them neatly. Tell them to come on down. Bring their friends. Have a party! I don't mind! It isn't like I live here, or anything!"

I started to make the bed and turn on the lights.

Behind that noontime tour, of course, there were two other groups there today to take "one last peek" at the house and the grounds. So we will have at least two offers waiting for us tomorrow morning at the office—maybe three.

I got the book, and a couple of servings of "Rice Crispy Treats" here at Camp Lefty. I told the nice barista that if I attempted to buy any more delectable carbs, he should call the police. Or my husband. Or my real estate agent.

At least my hair is closer to clean today; I did manage a short shower back at the homestead before the house turned into a freakin' Mercedes dealership again earlier today.

I should be grateful, of course. The term for this is "bidding war," and it's tough to pull off in what is supposed to be a buyer's market. All I know is that I'm still certain the minute we sign the escrow papers the value of the property will spike, and we'll be unable to close on any of the condos we want to buy.

Next thing you know, I'll be homeless for real, rather than just playing a homeless person here at Camp Lefty.

Did I mention the fact that I'm not good at this kind of thing? Everything I ever let go of, as they say, had scratchmarks all over it. This house, more than anything.