Doors.

I worked in a new customers house today replacing an exterior door that had been kicked in when they were robbed two days ago.

Don’t get me started on mothereffers that rob people in their homes. Actually, do get me started. I think they should all have their hands cut off, then their penises, then maybe their arms and legs, and then maybe put ’em on a little cart and push ’em into traffic. But that’s just me.

Anyway. So I’m working on this house, listening to the middle-age homeowners tell me what they’re going through and it’s sad and I feel bad for them but they’re nice people and we chit-chat about life and stuff. And the whole time I’m feeling vaguely weird.

At first I’m thinkin’ that even though they’re nice people I hope their bad mojo doesn’t follow me home. But that’s not it.

Somethin’ just wasn’t right.

So I kept workin’ away and finally I finished up and they paid me and I went home and checked e-mails and walked the dogs and it hit me.

I was walking, listening to the endless and endlessly irritating music loop of an ice cream truck on the prowl (honestly, how do those people listen to that  all day every day and not go batshit crazy?) when I realized what it was that had been eaten’ at me all day about their house.

There were no pictures or paintings or artwork on the walls. Nada.

There were no pictures of kids and grandkids frolicking. Zip.

There were no nick-nacks cluttering up coffee and end tables. Zero.

There weren’t even any plants. WTF?

There was none of it. They had lived there for 8 years, had grown children and grandchillen and the place looked like they had moved in yesterday and could move out tomorrow.

I don’t get it and it made me sad.