No, this is not about that other ‘Bush’
Charile Brown, steps aside. There’s one person more wishy-washy than you are, and she is Mum of Extrakun. Honestly, if I have the money and the time, I would find someone to craft, in pure sparkling gold, an award for her – Mistress of the Bush Beater. She doesn’t just beat around the bush. She tramples them like a drunk, overweight mammoth on steriods. Actually, she more than trample them – she stomps them so hard that they become fossil fuel immediately.
Pardon me for beating around the bush so - here’s the story. We are out looking for a nice apartment to rent after our terrible ordeal in our most recent rental. With the power of the Internet, and by the grace of Google, I found a couple of units within reasonable price range and gave them to my Mum. And after some discussion, we narrowed down to an affordable apartment, located in a quaint, quiet corner of the world, far from noises and distractions (and also a bit tad far from major transport hub). There’s only one catch – the owner is a single male, and he occasionally comes come. Other than that, everthing’s fine. Location is ideal, we can cook, we can use his washing machine, we can use the common room – everything’s kosher.
I have to give full credit to the poor agent who have to be the target of my mum’s numerous wracking doubts, though. (But, ah, who will give me sympathy for me being the constant target of her mind-numing doubts and misgivings?). When my mum worries, it’s just not a wave of worries. It’s a tidal wave of what-ifs and what-if-nots, and if you get Deep Blue to analysis it, I promise you its stack will overflow with much frame errors.
As we were leaving, my mum was nodding her head happily. The moment we set foot on the first storey, she was having her doubts. “We haven’t had a look at the upstairs neighbour”. So we went up to take another look. As we head down, I can already see the telltale signs of warning frowns creasing her face. As we reached the bus stop, she was began to worry about leaving my sister (who’s already 27, btw) alone with the single male.
So we called up our sister (who was, eh, busy at her SO’s place studying for an exam) and she said “I’m fine with it”. My mum, however, was not reassured. Then her doubts ballooned.
“What if he’s not really the owner of the house? He looks too young. Maybe he’s in cahoots with the agent. Once we paid the despoit and moved in, the agent and him are going to disappear.”
I pointed out that con men, when engaged in such dirty jobs, usually don’t go for small pot-shots who couldn’t even leave a shit-stain on the toilet bowl. She then told me, “You’ll never know.”
By the time we reach home, the agent called, wanting an answer as to whether wish to rent. My mum asked the agent how did such a young fellow get an apartment (By the quaint housing laws of my country, you either have to be married or 35 or an orphan to get a government-sponsored flat). The answer was simple, “He was divorced”. My mum was smiling then, some doubts laid to rest. “Can we fix our own locks on the door?” she then asked. No problem! the agent said.
I could see the angels dancing happily on the pinhead now. So I went for a celebratory bath. But when I returned, she was already wringing her hand.
“What if he sells the flat soon? Then we have to move again.” (By the quaint divorce laws of my country, if a married couple divorced, they have to decide to whom the flat will go. Most of the time, they would sell the flat and split the dividends equally).
I pointed out that if the man is intending to rent, he wouldn’t be screwing us that way. But she wasn’t assured. And it was a worried mum who went to bed nervous, and an irrated me who hit the bunk frustrated.
My mum was supposed to get back to the agent this morning. So I asked her, “Mum, is it a YES or NO. It’s that simple.”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Fine, that means NO, right?”
Wrong. The very look on her face told me that she was trapped in the eternal agony of indecision, still teetering on the half-way fence, still not sure whether to be or not to be.
“Right,” I said. “What if the agent guranateed that we can stay at least a year? We put it up in black and white.”
She nodded. “Yes, then I would say yes.”
Good. I called up the agent, and told her the requirement. I could imagine the look of frustration at being asked such an obvious, absurd question. “Of course the owner isn’t moving out soon!” she said. “Why else would he be renting out?”
'But it will be in black and white, right?"
“Of course,” she assured me. “It’ll be in the contract.”
I almost say, “Yes, then we want the apartment” but I knew my mum. I said I would tell the agent I be getting back to her. Oh Lord bless that poor woman. She was angry. If a real estate agent is angry, she must be royally pissed.
So I went back to my mum, and told her that it’ll be in the contract.
“There’s no use with it being in black and white,” she moaned.
That was just less than five minutes. My dear mum, can’t you make a decision and keep it for five minutes??
Aarrgghhhh!