The Psychology of a House Showing

Here I sit, deflated, like a child’s discarded balloon animal 3 days after the birthday party.  Just hours ago I was revved up on adrenaline moving a mile a minute mopping and dusting while contemplating what I would do with the dwindling profit from the potential sale of our home.   A family trip to Europe, sessions with the chiropractor to finally get my back in good health; I might even splurge on that new crown for my molar.  But alas, it is just another showing with no offer.  This one was particularly brutal as the time I spent preparing for the showing (aka performance/presentation!) was about 20 times longer than the time the clients actually spent in my home (a mere 15 minutes).    Actually – forget the earlier animal balloon analogy – picture a rotund lavender balloon floating happily higher and higher in the air and then some shithead with a blowdart gun attacks me and with a sudden POP, I flutter back down to the earth, a small heap of rubber garbage.  Yes, that is a much better description of how I feel right now.

I have bought and sold my share of living spaces during my nearly (choke) 20 years of marriage.  Two condos in Boston, a house in the Massachusetts suburbs, a ski house in Deer Valley, another condo in Old Town Park City, and finally our dream home in the vast meadows of lower PC.  As it turns out, our dream peaked early, but our wallets couldn’t sustain the long-term effects of the economic downturn.  It also turns out that dream homes require a good deal of maintenance and attention, not to mention ongoing support funds.  In real estate, as we all know, timing is everything and for 15 years our timing was damn good, the last five – not so much.  Anyway – this latest real estate endeavor has brought with it a rather long DOM (days on market) due to the recession and the mammoth size of our home – just around 2 years (give or take a few months during the off season).

While I am usually not a type A personality, the disorder must lay dormant in my system until we put our house on the market, and then it liberates itself with a vengeance. There have been a few instances where all the stars align and I have a “showing” on the actual day that the cleaning lady has been to my house.  This only happens twice a month, so I know statistics are not on my side, but I always hope for the best.  Most of the time, I AM the cleaning lady and I have to perform at record speed.  My work ethic and moral code kick in and I believe if I expect someone to pay top dollar for my home, my house should look spectacular.  Perfect.  Unlived in.  The ultimate lifestyle oxymoron – how do you make a house where you live every day, appear as if you don’t live there?  Unless you are Samantha from Bewitched, trying to maintain the “unlived in” look creates a fair amount of insanity.  Some days, I truly feel like committing myself to the asylum – I imagine that it is quite clean there and people could drop in for an impromptu showing at almost any time.  My therapist (a long time ago when I could afford therapy) told me to throw some dirty clothes on the floor before my next house showing – “just do it!” she yelled enthusiastically.  I couldn’t do it.  I failed.  What if they loved everything about my house and they didn’t buy it because they thought I was a slob?  How could I live with myself?

The natural enemies of the house showing are: kids, dogs, and the Everything Bagel.  Regardless of my constant nagging, the kids leave their stuff (affectionately called “shit” more often than not) everywhere.   Homework, clothes, pencils, glasses, food wrappers, water bottles, Wii remotes, electronic devices and their cords.  After 4 pm, it looks like the teenage sprawl has taken over my family room.  They enter the mudroom and an endless mound of goods drop from them as they make their way into our habitat – shoes, coats, backpacks, hats.  Once they hit the kitchen, their appetite -which as been unnaturally sequestered during the school day - comes completely unleashed while they open cupboards and fridges in search of the quickest high carb treat they can shove in their mouth.  In minutes, the floors and counters that were spotless and shiny are cluttered with crumbs and debris. 

The dog: Four happy dog feet are the equivalent of a nuclear bomb going off on your floors.  The dog comes in from her morning constitutional (which I agree is a moment worth celebrating no matter your species) and she can literally deposit hundreds of footprints within seconds while displaying her enthusiasm in seeing me as well as her jubilation over her recent evacuation. 

And then, there is the Everything Bagel – which at this moment, no longer has a place in my domicile.  Since I have virtually no control over my other two enemies, I can at least ban the seeded bagel beast from my kitchen.  I remove the bagel as carefully as I can from the packaging, seeds and spices fly everywhere.  I deftly hoist the bagel into the toaster, more seeds and the occasional flake of dried garlic spew forth.  After applying cream cheese to the carb-laden villain, I can’t even watch the disaster that ensues as my kids try to consume the bagel.  Seeds go from mouth to counter in slow motion, then onto the floor, where the dog tromps over with her wet feet to eat the crumbs.  The whole scenario sends me into an unrecoverable fit.

The phone rings.  I see that it is my realtor and my heart stops.  I know that whatever I had planned for the next four hours is about to get nixed.  I feign cheeriness as I agree to a showing later that day.  Everything gets put on hold as I attempt to erase the existence of my family and pet from our home.  I race home and de-clutter, make beds, clean bathrooms, vacuum, dust, mop and light a candle so it smells like I’ve been casually baking a spice cake instead of cleaning toilets.   I clear my shower of product – from the usual 12 shampoos and conditioners (see earlier blog) down to a more reasonable 2. I play subtle spa-type music in each room to evoke a feeling of peace and calm for the potential buyer (as opposed to the frenzy that preceded his arrival).  I arrange flowers, and get rid of personal photos.  Everything is perfectly staged for success.  I, on the other hand, am a wreck.  During the 4-6 hour cleaning process (depending on the level of depravity that has taken place in my house) my mind constantly oscillates, “This is it, this is the one.  I’m positive we are going to sell the house.  I’m going to research flights to Italy and potential rentals tonight…… and then this is such a waste of my time, we are never going to sell this house, why am I working so hard.”  And on it goes….

I hastily depart my residence with my dog and her four assault weapons in tow, I’m usually sweating, the floors still wet behind me.  (During a showing last year, I left her in the yard and she was playing with a potential buyer’s offspring when she inadvertently ripped the little girl’s skirt off by mistake, so now the dog has to go.  Needless to say, no offer on that showing either).  The dog and I lumber around town in the car while I try to catch my breath and calm down. As I begin to again ponder the various scenarios that might result from all my labor, the realtor calls again, “They liked it, but….”   POP! There goes that damn blow dart gun again. 

Coiffure in Crisis

I fear a hair predicament coming on.  Listed below are the telltale signs that I’m about to do something drastic:

1. As I look down in my shower, through a veil of suds, this is what I see:

At least two of these shampoo/conditioner pairs were purchased within the last two weeks.  Go ahead, count them.  There are 5 shampoos and 6 conditioners.  I would like to say that a couple of them belong to my husband, but it is simply not true.  As much as I occasionally stretch the truth about his less than redeeming qualities, it is not the case this time.  They all belong to me.  Don’t do any more math please, my own hasty monetary calculations made me feel slightly nauseous.   In my defense, I use all of them regularly except for the Paul Mitchell Awapuhi conditioner that I purchased as the result of a bad tip from a new hairdresser.   Another alarming revelation, the list of hair stylistics, colorists, and salons that I’ve visited over the last 9 years in Utah absolutely exceeds the number of hair products in my shower.

First – let’s discuss my hair.  I have thin hair, but a lot of it (or I used to have a lot of it, based on what’s sitting in the drain after my daily hygiene, I must have a lot less of it).  It is dry and frizzy and sort of curly/wavy when left to its own devices – which because it looks so hellish, I rarely do.  Instead, I blow dry and then flat iron/curling iron depending on the occasion.  I live in an excruciatingly dry climate and we have a lot of minerals in our water.  It also grows painfully slow, so if I get it cut – I’m looking at years to grow it out.  As I read this last paragraph, it is no wonder my hair is dry and “unmanageable” as they say.  With all of these factors, it just doesn’t have a chance. And so, the psychology of marketeer wins and I embrace the theory that I too can have shiny, thick, perfectly coiffed hair like Courtney Cox if I just use Pantene’s age defying products.

If I thoroughly examined all of the ingredients in these products, I would likely find that 95% of them are the same and I’m paying varying amounts of money to put the same old shit in my hair day after day.  I have made a few attempts to compare the ingredients, but honestly the words are so long and unfamiliar and put in different orders, it is impossible.  I’m fairly certain this is a deliberate effort from the hair companies to keep us confused so we continue to believe that the newest and best product will somehow transform our hair into that of the celebrity of the moment.  Honestly, what is left of my rational, intellectual brain comprehends this.  The emotional, vain, narcissistic side is compromised.  It must be all the dry hair surrounding it; it is seeping into my thought process like the wayward hormones of an unruly teenager. 

2. Ok, you think the shower looks bad?  Let’s take a look at the styling and so called “leave-in” products, not quite as bad  - my little army only numbers ten items.  Some for when I leave my hair curly (none work), others for thickening, straightening, detangling, repairing split ends, smoothing, and then there are the variety of oils I purchased in an unsuccessful effort to obtain something as effective, but less expensive than Moroccan oil.   Again – don’t undertake the math, it is depressing.

3. I’ve been ripping hairstyles out of every fashion magazine on the shelf.  I will read an entire InStyle and not even take a glance at the clothes, I’m all about the hair.    Again, I know some (most?) of these styles are not right for me at all, but a girl has to dream.  The style pictured below is the one I showed to my son, who looked at it, gave me a funny look and said, “Mom, do we need to have a little talk?  Are you having a mid life crisis?  This look is pretty goth.”  Now obviously I’m not going to sport the beat me up eyeliner, or the S&M choker so I actually think this cut is pretty cute.  Let’s not discuss the fact that this girl is a MODEL, maybe 18 years old, with thick straight hair that probably grows two inches a month.  The antithesis of my challenged locks. 

4.  The final straw in any hair crisis is when one consults the virtual hairstyler, which I paid $14.95 to do.  These four indisputable alerts indicate that I’m going to lose it very soon,  make an appointment with a new stylist who doesn’t know me,  chop it all off and immediately regret it.  This is my cycle, which takes place about every 24 months:

CHOP------à loathe new shorter hair and lack of styling options -------à proclaim to be “growing it out” ------à increasing annoyance with longer frizzy hair -----à have PMS ----à  make appointment ----à CHOP. 

Please vote now for the following styles:

Ellen Barkin's bob cut

Cameron Diaz

Courtney Cox - a definite no on the dark hair and center part

this is some disney star my daughter watches - I would need extensions obviously

Alyson Hannigan

Mrs. Claus

Every woman I encountered during the month of December was a stressed out mess.  Tasked with finding the perfect gift for not only her immediate family, but also her extended family and her husband’s family had proved overwhelming.  Wrapping, planning holiday menus, attending parties, buying hostess and teacher gifts, baking cookies, appearing at school concerts, dealing with lines at the post office have made them all dreary-eyed and exasperated.  Isn’t this the month when we are supposed to be both merry and peaceful?  Deck the halls on the Silent Night and all of those other festive oxymorons?

On the other side of the spectrum, the men I spoke with seemed rather relaxed and completely un-phased by Christ’s birthday celebration looming at the end of the month.  Granted – some of them were preoccupied with closing an end of the year deal in hopes of retaining the large bonus that would ultimately fund the gift-giving extravagance of their significant other.  But mostly I maintain that men simply don’t participate in Christmas preparations for reasons I don’t understand.

After running into female friend after friend with the same gripe, it dawned on me that along with my daughter and son, I have my doubts about Santa.  Oh - I believe Santa existed, I just don’t think he did all the work.  I believe in Mrs. Claus.  When you start to analyze the legend, it becomes obvious that – much like the bible – men wrote stories with the intent of glorifying themselves.  Behind every great man, stood a woman working her ass off to make magic happen, and it was no different in the Claus family.

Brief Santa Analysis

Fact 1: Men can’t even figure out what to get their own mothers and children, no less for millions of children all over the world that they have never met. 

Fact 2: Have you ever witnessed a man making a list?  Even a simple one that breaks things down into two categories:  naughty and nice (except for his porn collection?)

Fact 3: Have you ever seen a man wrap a present that doesn’t look like a 5 year old did it?

Fact 4: How could Santa be that fat if he was doing all the work?  It just doesn’t add up. 

Fact 5: Who else has the ability to organize and multi-task in such a way that hundreds of millions of children receive exactly the presents they requested in a mere 12-hour period?   Who could manage the cross-functional elf team, wrapping wads of presents attractively, packing the sleigh so the toys don’t fall out, feeding the reindeer twice a day, and still have time to make enough food to double Santa’s girth?  

I tell you who, it was Mrs. Claus.

I liken the sleigh ride on Christmas Eve to my own morning routine whereby I rise at 6:30 and wake the kids, make the breakfasts and lunches, pack the backpacks, feed the dog and make coffee.  My husband lumbers out of bed just before 7, breezes down the stairs at 7:10 fully dressed and says “Oh I will take the kids to school - don’t worry!” Ergo - All of the moms see him dropping the kids at the bus and exclaim “Oh what a good husband he is” while I, still in my jammies with unbrushed teeth, sit home in brazen anonymity.

I conclude that it is Mrs. Claus that performs all of the important tasks behind the scenes, and Santa dons the fancy the suit and drives the sleigh. Consequently, his name is mentioned in all of the folklore and he gets to eat the cookies while she is left behind in the kitchen, cleaning up the mess.  Remember ladies - it is He who makes the public journey that reaps the acclaim.

I imagine in present times, The Night Before Christmas goes something more like this….

Twas the night before Christmas when all through the house,

Mama was a basket case trying to cook, wrap and clean without the help of her husband, that louse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,

In hopes that Santa would get his fat butt in the sleigh and the reindeer in the air.

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

With false visions of Santa making toys wrongly placed in their heads.

With mama exhausted and cranky, and me feeling great after a night cap,

I asked for some Holiday nookie before our long winter’s nap.

When what to my wondering eyes should appear?

A wicked woman with a wild look in her eye saying, “go fuck yourself dear.”

Even though I was feeling quite lively and quick,

I knew in a moment, I should probably put away my prick. 

The bags under her eyes, and the droop of her head

Soon led me to believe I had everything to dread.

I back peddled and pleaded,

Apologized for my long list of not doing the things she needed.

Before I could make amends, she had left the room in a huff

My first thought was that she had more stockings to stuff.

I followed her out, trying desperately to atone

But alas, it was too late, it seemed her heart had turned to stone

She said, “Thank you Amazon, Target and Cole Sport,

My undying gratitude also goes to Apple, Wii, and Wal-Mart.”

And giving me the finger as I stood in the alcove,

Away in the Land cruiser (like a bat out of hell) she drove

But I heard her exclaim as she sped off into the night,

Good luck making Christmas happen by yourself next year and watch out – those reindeer bite!

Blue Skier

I live in one of the most renowned ski towns in the world.  In less than ten minutes, I can ski at three of the top resorts in the US.  Within 45 minutes, I can add another four to the list.  My husband grew up skiing and loves it.  My kids are on the alpine race team. 

I hate to ski.

By announcing this to the world (or at least my paltry number of blog followers) I risk endless ridicule from my friends, (what else is new), I may be kicked out of Park City, and most certainly the marketing job at the chamber of commerce that I have been coveting will be given to someone more ski friendly. 

However, I feel if I am able to present ski life from my point of view, perhaps people will understand, dare I say empathize with my situation.  As I review my skiing career, there seem to be several clues as to why this may not be my favorite sport.

Early Years

I did not grow up skiing, which I believe is the crux of the problem.  My parents skied early in their marriage, but did not have the urge to teach my brother or me.  After helping my own kids learn to ski and knowing first-hand the great amount of patience and burning quads (not to mention $$) this endeavor required, I can see why they put this activity on the back burner.  I would also point out the obvious fact that there are not a lot of mountains in Connecticut.  I did, however, love the snow.  My experiences with snow involved making snowmen, building snow forts, having snowball fights, the thrill of a snow day off from school, and attempting increasingly more dangerous bouts of sledding through thick forests of trees (one time even with a cast on my ankle), countless pairs of soaking wet wool mittens, and hot chocolate with marshmallows.  In Utah, the snow is fluffy and dry making it ideal for the powder skier, not so perfect for snowballs and snowmen – my areas of expertise.

Teenage Years

My long-term high school boyfriend was an avid skier; he even attended the Green Mountain School in VT to perfect his talents.  He introduced me to skiing at the mountain where his family owned a classic A-frame VT ski house, Mad River Glen.  For those of you not in the know, the tag line on the resort bumper sticker is “Mad River Glen Ski It If Your Can” - probably not the place of choice for the novice skier.  He bundled me up in his mother’s clothes and old ski gear and we set off for the mountain at 7:30 to ensure we were the first on the lift (and the last to leave at 4).  Back in the day, we packed our own backpack with lunch and goodies so not to waste precious time waiting in line and paying exorbitant fees for ski lodge food.   After a terrorizing tangle with the lift, I was set loose on my own on the mountain top with a few words about “plow” and “Stem Christie” – not the more easily interpreted pizza and French fry metaphors that my children are accustomed to.  There were no hot chocolate breaks, no other lessons, just me and the mountain challenging me to ski it if I could.  By midday, my boyfriend had grown tired of my complete lack of ability and decided to ski with his more competent friends.  One day, he lost me completely and I wound up on a black diamond run by myself.  With a combination of tears and snot streaming down my face, I awkwardly carried my skis while I attempted to descend the mountain – half on my butt, half sliding in his mom’s ski boots.  We finally found each other at the bottom hours later– he in his parent’s car coming to look for me.  I stomped right by him, face red from crying and the cold, covered in snow, fogged goggles askew, trying to balance my skis across my chest cupped in my arms.  That was the end of my high school ski experience.  Mark – don’t worry, I have forgiven you – no amount of patience could have made that day any better and you were wise to find a more outdoor friendly partner than me. 

College Years

My first college boyfriend ventured to alleviate my antagonism with the sport by skiing a friendlier mountain called Loon in NH.  Still in borrowed gear and clothing, this time I was equipped with something better – a flask full of peppermint schnapps.  While I was warmer and more tolerant, alcohol did not make me a better skier.

Post College

Alas, I met my next college boyfriend, who ended up becoming my betrothed.  He was smart and determined; he didn’t attempt his conversion until we were engaged and my exit strategy was compromised.  No more borrowed gear for me, he bought me the entire ensemble:  Spalding skis (yes, the tennis ball manufacturer), boots, and my OWN outfit.  We rented a ski shack with 8 friends at Killington and religiously drove the four-hour journey every other weekend for an entire season.  We usually slept 3-4 to a bed and if I showered, I did so bravely and nimbly so as not to touch any of the walls or the shower curtain that blew around spectacularly if someone opened the door.  It was at Killington that I did find something about skiing that I loved – APRES SKI.  I have fond memories of dancing on the table at the lodge to a live band and having way too much fun at the pickle barrel in town. 

Faulty anatomy

It is important to mention that, simply put, I am not built to ski or withstand cold temperatures for extended periods of time.  I have extremely short toes.  In all of my 45 years, I’ve never met anyone with toes as short as mine.  Thus when my spouse/ski coach tells me to push the tips of my skis which are at least two feet from my boots - using my toes which are less than an inch long, it just doesn’t jive from a physics perspective.   After numerous visits to the boot fitter, he informed me that there is something wrong with the balls of my feet which makes them go numb in my boots, regardless of cold.  My nose and chin are longer than most, making it difficult to achieve maximum blood flow; consequently they also lose feeling quickly.  My fingers turn blue and white in the cold.  My skin is old, so 8 hours after I remove my goggles, I still have their outline framing my face.  My quad muscles are nonexistent.  My nose runs and turns an unattractive hue of purple.  My POC helmet squishes my cheeks together and forms wrinkles down the side of my face.  If Borat were to see me on the mountain he would scream, “Ski bunny – NOT!”

Present Day

Jump ahead 15 years and two children.  I finally gave in to my husband’s nagging and moved to Park City to “try it out” (that was almost 9 years ago).  Despite having only half the ski gene pool he anticipated, he is determined that his kids will be skiers, and they are.  I, on the other hand, am still a work in progress.

Today, it is snowing, overcast, hovering around 28 degrees.  The kids are off in their respective ski programs.  I am so excited to hunker down by the tree, listen to carols, wrap presents and finish my xmas cards.  For me, the perfect day.  And then, my husband barges in on my blissful dream,

“Come on, let’s go skiing today, it will be fun.” 

This will be my first day out on the slopes this season.  I know that he will continue badgering me until I give in.  I decide to make a deal and counter,

“Ok, but only if I get to do whatever I want tomorrow.” 

Armed with the promise of my dream day awaiting me in 24 hours, I mentally prepare myself for the task at hand.  It is like childbirth; I remember vaguely how torturous it is, but I do it anyway.  I stopped after two kids but I keep skiing year after year because it seems oddly important to my family members.  Although I don’t know why; “skiing together” encompasses the rest of my family racing down the hill ahead of me, I chug down the hill to where they are stopped.  As soon as I arrive, they start out again and so the race continues.

“Maybe things won’t be that bad this year” the angel over my shoulder whispers in my ear.  I pull together the necessary equipment: helmet, goggles, mittens, neck gator, long johns, snow pants, jacket, skis poles, skis, ski pass, and boots.  I load them all into the car and depart for the mountain.  At 9:30 the lot is almost full and I search for a decent spot.  The first step is to put on my ski boots, which has to be done outside the vehicle because it requires all of my weight plus someone pushing on my shoulders to jam my unwilling, wide in-stepped, high-arched appendages into what feels like an endless tube of inflexible fiberglass.   I push and jiggle and grunt and finally they go in.  Tug, buckle and on to the next boot.  OMG, I remember why I hate this – the devil breaths over my other shoulder.  (I believe that you need to be seasoned from age 3 to endure this type of pain.  When you learn to live with discomfort at an early age, it becomes commonplace. Your parents have geared you up to think that skiing is the best thing on planet earth and the only way you can do it is to shove your little feet into those boots and get out on the slopes.)  With my helmet and goggles in place, I grab my skis and try to put them over my shoulder the proper way during my trek to the lodge.  I have been taught the “right” way to do this many times, but it still doesn’t feel "right" to me.  The bindings dig into my shoulder and the skis end up crisscrossed behind my head as I struggle to walk in my ski boots the rest of the way.  Because of my inadequate foot design, my feet fall asleep within 15 steps of walking in the boots.  I finally get to my destination and I try to put on my skis but my boots have too much snow on the bottom and they go into the bindings crooked and I try again.  Thank goodness my husband hasn’t witnessed the last 30 minutes of struggle just to get to the first lift.  I pretend like it was a piece of cake as sweat drips down my back.  We board the chair together and proceed with our day.

He provides helpful pointers during our time on the mountain such as:

Wiggle your toes. Bend your knees. Lean forward. Not that much. Lean back.

Hold your poles out in front of you. Put your shoulders down. Make sure your gloves are in your pole straps correctly. Relax! Maintain an athletic stance. Push with your toes. Keep your knees soft. Unbuckle your boots on the lift so your feet don’t fall asleep (too late - they were asleep hours ago).

My son offered advice one time while we were powder skiing together. “You are doing what we call shopping; you are looking to turn in a certain place, you just have to turn with your natural rhythm.”  I suppose this makes sense if you have a natural rhythm, but as we know, I have no natural anything when it comes to skiing and I rather like shopping – especially for the perfect place to turn that doesn’t have too much snow, or a patch of ice, or a tree in the vicinity.  I want just the right spot.  Of course, most of the time, my shopping is unsuccessful and I end up looking like a “newb” plucking my way down the hill or traversing for miles. 

Today my goal is to make it for two hours.  I can do this.  I look at the clock every time we get on the lift.  The minutes click by and soon I’m half done, but my puny quads are killing me.  My nose and chin are completely numb and I can’t talk which at least has the benefit of limiting my ability to complain.  I commend my husband for his tenacity; if sheer will could make me love skiing, I would be on the world cup.  He suggests we go to the lodge and warm up.  He buys me hot chocolate and rubs me feet until they come back to life.  Somewhat rejuvenated, I head out hoping to conquer another 4 runs.  Well, maybe 2.  Luckily, my daughter calls with a bad sore throat and needs a ride home.  I can’t get down the hill fast enough.

I want to like skiing.  It seems like it should be fun, swooshing through the fluffy powder with the greatest of ease like the Warren Miller athletes.  I do like to ski for an hour or so on a nice blue, groomed run, but that is about it and I don’t win many friends with this lack of ambition.  It is also not really worth the $54 I pay for a lift ticket (that is the heavily discounted local rate).  For $54, I could take two painting classes, get a pedicure, 4 manicures, half a facial or watch 6.5 movies at the theatre - all things that make me infinitely happier than putting two slick boards on my feet and plummeting down a mountain. 

  

Of the 6M or so people out there skiing each year (less than 2% of the population), I know that I am in the minority.  I have never had a YEEHA moment.  I’ve muttered a lot of obscenities, but never shrilled in sheer delight as I gracefully bounce through 2 feet of powder.   But if you were in my boots – where half your body is numb, you undertook the sport as a cynical adult, your only coaching has come from people you were romantically involved with, and you can imagine 100 other ways you would rather spend $54 and 3 hours of your time, would you continue your fight with the devil?   Or call it a day and make a snow angel in the back yard.