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backyard. To my surprise, it is pretty nice. Although like the front, the grass is brown and dry and the flower beds are filled with weeds, it does have some mature trees and is fairly good sized. Unfortunately, though, there are as many dog-poop piles as there are weeds. No one usedbaggies to pick up around here. It’s like walking through a minefield just to make my way to the back door. But then again, there’s a covered deck that could provide a shady place to sit if it wasn’t piled high with filled trash bags and various pieces of junk, including about twenty old tires stacked like a privacy fence and a bunch of broken yard toys.
    I unlock and open the back door, hoping that Judy’s theory of air flow will work. But the smell that comes out from this end seems even worse than the front. I’m seriously considering my ax murderer theory again. There could be a whole pile of rotting corpses inside. I don’t think I’ve seen anything like that on
House Flippers
yet, but it would probably raise their ratings some.
    Moving carefully through the land mines, I walk all around the outside perimeter of the house, checking it out. More peeling paint, more broken windows, missing screens, junk, and garbage. But even as I continue to find more flaws with this house, something in me seems to be coming around. I’m starting to envision the house with a fresh coat of paint in an inviting color, maybe an earthy sage green with tan trim, some new windows, some landscaping… That really could transform the place. Maybe all this house needs is someone who cares.
    I try to imagine the original owners of this house, probably back in the early sixties. Maybe they were a young couple with two kids. I’ll bet the kids were dressed all nice and neat. The house was probably squeaky clean. The furniture might’ve been that sixties modern-contemporary style that’s considered retro now. And for all I know, there might still be hardwood floors underneath that nasty carpet.
    I dig in my faux D&G bag until I find a small sample of Poisoncologne that a Macy’s salesgirl practically forced on me when I shopped for my dads birthday present last month. I apply this strong-smelling scent generously to my wrists and my neck, using every drop so that it’s overpowering as I stand in the front yard, mentally preparing myself to do this walk-through. I wish I had a scarf to tie over my nose and mouth like a bandit, but maybe I can hold my breath. I take several long, deep breaths, psyching myself into this. And then, feeling strong and confident, I march up to the front door and go inside.
    The perfume trick works for about ten seconds, and then it’s futile. Since no one’s around to witness, I pull my T-shirt up over my nose, revealing my not-so-slender midsection and part of my bra. Then I literally run from room to room throughout the house. I quickly take in what appear to be three good-sized bedrooms, also piled with trash and junk, two full but filthy bathrooms, a smallish, dark living room, and a barely there family room, or maybe it’s a dining room off the small kitchen.
    And finally, thinking I’m about to die and wondering how long it will take for someone to find me expired on the dirt-encrusted floor of the disgusting kitchen, I explode out the back door and run across the deck, where I stand hunched over at the edge of the backyard right next to several piles of old doggy doo-doo and brace myself to throw up. I think it would be a relief to hurl just now, a way to purge the foul things I just inhaled. But the fresh air slowly revives me, and I think perhaps I’m overreacting.
    I find an old plastic lawn chair that’s only moderately filthy and carry it over to a semicleared corner of the deck, where I sit down and consider this whole crazy house-flipping plan. Did I expect it to beeasy? No. Did I think I’d get a house that was “nice and neat”? No. Am I too much of wimp to do this? No. Am I ready to give up? No.
    Perhaps