Urban pastorale

Our neighbors are selling their house (which has been really sad, by the way). But every weekend, the house is descended upon by people gawking through the windows, walking around the house trying to get glimpses inside. Yesterday was particularly busy, as the weather has been sunny and warm (I know, it's like were not in the Pacific Northwest!). Well, Margaret and I probably started out making a great impression on would-be buyers. Margaret was practicing piano, which gives the illusion that this is our town house and that most of our time is spent in Vienna. I happened to be reading the New York Times (which the departing neighbors gave to us as a going away present), so I was giving the illusion that we were transplants from the Big Apple, bringing an air of sophistication to the neighborhood. Unfortunately both illusions are shattered once people walk around the house and see our ramshackle garage with a giant tattered Irish flag (remnants from a baby shower for some Irish friends almost TWO years ago) hanging in lieu of an actual door. That gives the illusion that we are refugees from the Irish potato famine and still haven't gotten back on our feet. And I guess that that's the illusion that people eventually believe, since the house still hasn't sold. (And I'm sure it has nothing to do with my propensity to walking around the house naked, which I'm sure would have ensured that the house would have been snatched up by now!