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The Jerks Who Sell Houses

So this weekend started the taper.  Wait.  No.  Today started the taper.  The weekend was a butt kicker!

I was supposed to have a pretty killer weekend of cycling and running.  Neither really happened–volume wise–but the quality of every mile was great this weekend.  


I woke up early Saturday and packed the house until almost 5:30 that night.  Meanwhile, the Expert went out an tackled a 10 mile run, which he needed under his belt. I was scheduled for a 2 hour trainer ride, but 28 boxes later, and three rooms cleaned, I was in no shape.  Instead, I opted for wine and pasta… with a big brick on the schedule for Sunday morning.

The Expert and I arrived at Silver Comet on Sunday morning.  It was cold. The forecast last week was a lovely 75… and the morning showed up with a lovely 38 degrees.  We put on the shoe covers and headed out.


I was a little crabby, but not too much.  (I had texted my coach and said, “I want to skip and go to Waffle Hose an a movie.”  He ignored me.  Until after noon, when I got a text, ‘Hope your ride went well.’)

So I went.  For no matter how hard a ride is… about five miles in, I always feel the reason I ride.  The freedom, the pain, the speed.

And I am happy.

We rode out 25… turned around, rode back, and strapped on the gear for a run.  I was scheduled for 6, and ran 3 due to a standard pre-race IT band creeper that always shows up.  So a solid 50 mile bike and 3 mile run.  Nevermind that my 70.3 volume is usually 70/8…. doesn’t matter. I’ve sucked in those races anyway. 🙂


This might be a PR! I can tell you what Florida 70.3 WILL be… a joyful race. I’m so GLAD to be out there again… and isn’t that the good stuff?

Great workout and despite the family chaos… (e.g., we are moving in 4 days…), a great weekend of workouts and “LIFE” happened.

…So the Swim Bike Family has not been blessed in the housing department.

The Expert and I have been married 12 years–and this is marking our EIGHTH move in married years—- our ELEVENTH in years together.  We are either very nomadic or shitty-as-hell pickers of homes.

[A little of both I think.]


So we found a house we loved.  I walked in during the showing, and gasped, and said, “Yes. Please. This house.”  Knowing that I am a shitty picker of houses, though, I paused and looked at the Expert.

He had the same face. “Yes, this is our house.”

It was our house.


He knew it, and so did I.  It had a bathroom I “needed,” room for bike trainers, and a backyard that took us back to our first house.  A basement that was finished, in case we ever had to take in a family of nine.  A grow-into house that we could afford (for reals). In the burbs. With free school.  We found it.

And even though, my inner woman was all “squeeeeee!” (not really, I don’t have that gene), but I was excited really—still, I struggled with the “settling down” part of all of this.

I have traveled a lot… but I have only lived in Georgia.  And to BUY a house here–and commit to kids going to school for, uhhhhh, the next 15 years? I was scratching from the hives.

Truth: I wasn’t ready for this.

Not at all.

But I swallowed it.  I am blessed. The house is great. Family is within a four-hour drive. It’s a good, smart, well-timed and responsible decision. (Nevermind that I want to “turn left” out of the driveway at work and head straight to San Diego every day…. nevermind that…)



The Expert and I came to an agreement. I would not be crazy.  And he would be nice.

Amazing. Such deals of terms. And don’t act like any of you married people haven’t had this conversation. Correction… married people with children. Children are the drivers in all of this mess—-schools!  They must have good schools.  So all of the sudden, you have a very limited place that you, on the planet, can live—with kids going to school for free. It’s insane…. just how small it is… I never knew.

And we found amazeballs schools. SCORE!

And public! Double score!!!


So I was growing okay with all of it.  Even getting excited due to the schools and Super Target and proximity to PTS Sports and crazy hills to climb around our ‘hood — some of the best bike riding ever… I was good. I was good.

Whew.  Time to sign.

But… even today at closing, as the seller was running her  mouth about all the parties she had thrown, and how fabulous she believed herself to be—the only thing I could think was:

1) “Do the neighbors do endurance sports?”

2) “Do the neighbors drink beer?”


Two things I can handle.  Not necessarily both  are required… but one of the two must exist for a harmonious, neighborly relationship. #facts.

It’s funny… I just want to be a good mom, daughter, wife and member of the world. I’d like to run faster and someday (by the grace of God) wear a bikini again…


BUT, I’m very simple… I want to be happy and loved and told that I am pretty (even if I am not), that I am safe (even if I might not be), and that I am loved (sometimes, even if pretending is the case).

And the people who sold us this house…

… Well, they are jerks. For 45 days that entailed this transaction, they made every party (realtor, attorney, buyers, broker) miserable. Just horrible people.  Plain and simple… she was a jerk, and he was the jerk whisperer.

Only because I think he was “nicer,” does he not get a free pass to be separate from her. He’s married to her–that’s his punishment. (And guess what… truth is the ultimate defense to libel… so if she wants to sue me, she has no case… Because I write that she is a JERK.  And the truth? She is a JERK. I win.)


And at some point, maybe the neighbors will learn about their ole blogger-next-door…. but I really have one theory about this new neighboorhood… if the sellers were indicative of the quality of people in this place, I don’t care to be a part of it.  There’s no way the Jerk and Jerk Whisperer were really liked in this little slice of suburban heaven.  No freaking way.

And who cares. [All my friends live in my computer anyway.]

Okay, I don’t mean that. I want this to be a happy move.  I want my kids to fit in. I, for the love, want to fit in. My introvert is begging for a safe place.

I hope that we throw a keg party in a few weeks, and we all gather in the suburban cul de sac.. and I hear:
“Oh, I love to run!”
“I can drink you under the table!” and
“The people who lived in your house were assholes!”

—-because that, would make this whole thing feel perfect.

But nothing is perfect.

We can only control what’s in front of us.

We scored a wonderful house.  We have a great school for the Swim Bike Kids.  The house is amazing and I only have to paint the hideous ugly off the walls of this house.  (A blue dining room ceiling and gold chair rail…  I have no design taste in the world, but even that makes my eyes twitch)… Oh, LAWD… things are good.

Things. Are. Good.

Moving day is Friday. My parents are coming to help us settle in.  I am blessed.

And I am hoping I can finally relent, release and be.  Let this life be my life.  And breathe.

No more moves.  Settle. Quiet….




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