"I feel violated."
"What do you mean?"
"They're looking through all my stuff."
What Mark means by all his stuff, is mostly the kitchen. Although I own the kitchen on paper, the kitchen is Mark's. He is the cook, and the kitchen is where he does the magic that has made me so damn fat. He picked out just about everything in there, except for the dishwasher. I got real cheap on the dishwasher and he'll never let me forget it, especially when the damn thing starts flashing those lights for no reason.
It's inspection day. Our house is overrun with 'inspectors'. There is the termite inspector, the outdoor inspector, and the indoor inspector. There is also the real estate agent, and some other guy who I am not sure what he's doing here. It is the next step in the sale of our house, the inspection. This is the step that we never got to the last time we signed a contract, so I am cautiously optimistic. Once we get past this, there is the financing. And once we get past the financing, the buyers can't back out without a penalty. So the inspectors are in the attic, looking for what I don't know. They are knocking on every inch of wood on the outside of the building with a stick, looking for termites. That, of course, has the dogs beside themselves. It's "Bang, bang, bang. Bark, bark, bark." The inspectors have turned on the dishwasher, flushed all the toilets, run the showers, and I think they did a load of laundry. Despite all the doors being opened and closed, the air conditioning is running at full blast and working just fine. I also had to remove all of Mark's pots and pans that hang right in front of the electrical breaker box so that they can get a good look in there. Basically, the whole house is wide open and running at maximum. And it all looks good. Other than the little termite problem that every house in Florida has, nothing seems to be wrong. Everything is working properly. It's a fucking miracle.