Embarrassing Confession Number 18

4 Aug

I go to open houses on the weekend to dream of owning my own house with wood floors and a walk-in closet and a fenced yard. You know, everything I can’t afford (hell, I can’t even afford to rent right now) so basically it’s like performing Chinese Water Torture on myself. Cruel and unusual punishment.

This past weekend I looked through a house with my mom, sisters and friend Krista. It’s amazing how much you can learn about someone by looking through their house. For example, this man had impeccable style. Long sleeve, button-up shirts (with rolled up sleeves is by far my favorite look on a guy), polos, nice jeans, even some fedoras all organized in his beautiful walk-in closet. Unfortunately, judging from the photos hanging in his room, he has a girlfriend. Lame.

He was sitting on his porch as we exited. We made small talk, inquired about the asking price, pretending like someone in the group could afford said house and made our merry way back to the car where Krista made one last attempt to flirt with the not-so-single homeowner.

Krista: “I like your style.”

Attractive, well dressed homeowner: “I like your moves.”

However, to the rest of us in the group it sounded like, “I like your boobs,” which, needless to say, was the running joke for the rest of the day.


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