The Story You Probably Haven't Been Waiting For

In an addition to the increase in the number of “y’alls” that I hear now that I’ve moved that much closer to West Virginia, I’ve noticed an exponential increase in the amount of gum smacking I hear as well.
I’m talking full-on, open-mouthed white trash chawin’ of the sort that would put most cows and My Name is Earl co-star and undisputed Queen of White Trash roles Jaime Pressly to shame.
When I ventured out to Super Target briefly today I was confronted by that sound in virtually every aisle.
Of course, the oddest thing I heard was when I was first walking in and I heard some lady talking on a cell phone by the door saying, “Would you want to be buried there?  You and Diana?”
I couldn’t help but wonder if that was a hypothetical question or an offer.
Once I got home I went to esurance.com and switched over my car insurance, as they quoted me a rate that was nearly 50% less than what Progressive was charging me.  I saved even more ($90) by paying for the whole six months in one shot.
Afterwards I ventured out again to get ingredients for a recipe I found, which, if I ever make again, I will make on a much smaller scale (the recipe called for a whole chicken).
And that was pretty much my day.  Nothing too interesting or exciting, which means that…

Now It Can Be Told:  The Story of Jon Closing On His Condo!

Of course, saying that “now” it can be told implies that previously it couldn’t, which isn’t the case.  I was just too lazy.
In any case, our story begins shortly before 9 am on Wednesday, January 25, 2006.
I’d just finished signing off on the walk-through inspection and was on my way to Vienna, Virginia, which is fairly close to DC.
As I mentioned that day, this meant that I was heading toward DC during rush hour, which is never fun.  Thankfully I didn’t actually have to get on the Beltway, which would have made it a nightmare.
Under ideal circumstances the drive would have taken a bit over twenty minutes, but, as mentioned, these circumstances were not ideal.
At one point I found myself being forced to a crawl thanks to an unladen but still slow-moving car carrier ahead of me.  I moved over to the lane to my left and started moving at a slightly brisker pace until shortly after one of the innumerable stoplights.  Once traffic stopped in my lane it barely seemed to start moving again even well after the light had turned green.  Thinking that maybe I’d passed the car carrier, I opted to move back over to the right lane.
Once I got there I saw the reason that traffic in the middle lane had slowed down:  the car carrier had slipped into the lane ahead of me.  Well, I thought to myself, that’s fine for him and he can stay there now.
Only he didn’t stay there:  he lumbered back over into the right lane directly in front of me, cutting off my attempt to zoom past him!
I couldn’t believe it.  It was the clearest sign ever that there are mysterious forces in the universe that enjoy fucking with me.
Fortunately he turned off at the next exit, but even so, it was a mind-boggling occurrence.
Once I got closer to the title company I found myself baffled by two sets of conflicting directions.  Google Maps had told me to approach it from one direction, whereas the directions the title company had given me told me to approach it from another.  Eventually I managed to delineate the conflict and found the building, though I ended up parking in a different parking lot because I’d turned in at the wrong entrance.  Still, I was there and (just barely) on time.
My realtor, David, however, was not there, and as I reached for my cell phone to call him I realized that I’d left it in the car.  I decided to just sit and wait and within the next couple of minutes David arrived.
Shortly after that a woman who introduced herself as Jenny came out to the waiting area to lead us back to her office.  Once we got there she asked us if she could get us anything to drink, and when she departed, David and I gave each other a look that could be universally understood by every (straight) male to mean, “She’s pretty hot.”
David added, “Well that doesn’t suck.”
Jenny was a perky and petite little blonde with a body that belied the fact that she had children (“She’s a MILF,” David said).  Still, there were some signs of aging that indicated that she was in her mid to late-thirties and while she was clearly holding up very well it was obvious, and it’s not my intention to sound mean or sexist, that physically her best years were behind her.  I would say that five or ten years ago she really would have been a hot little number.
As I mentioned, there were some snafus with the paperwork, which I won’t get into, that made the whole process take almost three hours.  
Since much of this time involved trying to get a hold of other people and then waiting for them to fax things to some other people, this meant that much of our time was spent simply sitting around and waiting.
After the walk-through two days earlier I’d mentioned Threshold to David and he’d asked for the URL, so during one of Jenny’s absences he said, “I checked out your blog.”  Then, sort of looking at me askance in much the same way you might look at someone you suspect is dangerously unstable or who may secretly be the Unabomber or something, he added, “It’s…interesting.”
I said that I’m obviously much more vocal in writing than I am in person, which was a statement with which he agreed.
Later, we were talking about male-dominated nature of my work environment and I got into talking about some of the inane conversations I overhear about things like Magic:  The Gathering and Everquest.  These things were met with confusion, and as I started to explain what I was talking about it occurred to me that here I was attempting to explain elements of nerd culture to a former professional football player and I became keenly aware of the fact that I was a nerd in a small room with a jock, someone who should be my natural enemy.
At some point Jenny rejoined us, and though I’m not certain how it happened – though I think it was the result of David trying to steer the conversation in that direction on my behalf, as Jenny, we had learned, was recently divorced – we began talking about my love life.
Or rather, they began talking about it.  I was busy being uncomfortable and trying to get them to stop talking to me about it.
After all, it was pretty much the standard sort of fare, involving suggestions about what I should do, where I should go, and how I should behave.  It was exactly the sort of things that people say to me as they erroneously assume themselves to be the first ones to ever offer any of these suggestions.
What bothers me most about this sort of thing isn’t the fact that they don’t seem to realize that pretty much everyone I’ve ever known has said exactly the same things to me, it’s that they obviously think, just like everyone who said them before, that I’m too stupid to have ever though of any of these things on my own.
“Oh, really, I should go someplace if I want to meet someone?  Wow, that never occurred to me.  Or maybe I should try these newfangled online personals that have been around for over a decade?  You just blew my mind; I never thought of that in the last ten years.”
What was most entertaining about the whole thing, though, was watching Jenny as she kept putting her foot in her mouth.
For example, when I said that I don’t go to bars since I quit drinking, she suggested that I “start drinking again!”
Then, as an afterthought, she said, “Unless you’re…you weren’t like an alcoholic or anything, were you?”
I said, that in fact, I was (and am), which was the first major embarrassment she suffered, though she rebounded by suggesting that I go to AA meetings to meet someone.
When I explained that it really wouldn’t be a good idea for me to hook up with another alcoholic, David chimed in and suggested that I go to church to meet someone.
My response was something along the lines of, “First of all, I work on Sundays.  Second of all, no.”
The topic of online dating came up, and this was the major source of foot in mouth action as Jenny said that “she would never do something like that,” and that she’d worry about “meeting some creep,” and that it seemed “desperate,” and then she tried to explain how I shouldn’t be insulted by her suggesting that I try something that, in her estimation, only desperate, pathetic creeps should resort to.
She eventually went on to talk about how she knows “lots” of women who are desperate – possibly even desperate enough for me – to find a relationship, and said that she was going to make it her mission to find me a date.
Every person I’ve ever known who’s decided that he or she is going to take it upon him or her self to find me true love has pretty much forgotten that decision within seconds of us parting, and I’m sure that’s exactly what happened with Jenny after I walked out with my keys in hand.
Though there was much that was said that I could have been insulted by, I was too busy being amused by the whole thing.  What I found especially amusing was the bit when she said that she knew lots of single women who are – as she was quick to point out – unlike her, desperate to meet someone.  It brought to mind something that’s been a sort of standard refrain from women.  Basically she said, “There are lots of women who’d be interested in you – I’m just not one of them.”
And of course there was my standard confusion at the inability that people have to understand that despite the perceived unfairness of it, there are lots of people who live their lives alone.  The whole “there’s someone out there for everyone” mentality has so pervaded our culture that people seem to be blinded to the truth.  People die alone every day, many of them having gone their entire lives without ever meeting that someone who is “for” them.
It’s almost as if they believe that life is somehow fair and that we all get happy endings.
They’re also unable to understand that it’s possible for someone to try to meet someone and fail, and fail enough times that they just decide to give up and do their best to content themselves with their lonely lives.
These people don’t need advice or suggestions, they don’t need promises – which won’t be kept – of dedicated assistance, and they certainly don’t need to spend the better part of an hour with two people who are more or less strangers focusing all of their attention on their failed love lives.
In any case, that, in a fairly big and wordy nutshell, is the story of my closing on the condo.
Tomorrow I’m going to head back into the old neighborhood so that I can go to the Wal-Mart that has less of a white trash flavor and more of a Middle Eastern flair, and along the way I’ll probably stop to have lunch with Kathleen.
And in the meantime I think I’ll sleep.