Rich people are nasty

I know I've blogged once today already. But this was too good not to share.
Tonight we went to start cleaning out our latest foreclosure. So basically I've worked fifteen hours today, the first day back from vacation, but that's neither here nor there. I'm tired as balls, but I'll live (I think).

So this house, oh wow. Gated community, needed to show ID and get a pass to get into the neighborhood, private golf course, fountains, by far the nicest house we've been to yet. We were told there wasn't a huge mess, but what there was, was tons of shoes and clothes, many brand new with tags still on. This was true. Believe it or not, I took only a few things home, because the sizes were so varied. But I am excited to consign the tons of stuff because much of it is name brand and in new or just slightly used condition. This woman SHOPPED, baby.

I got a couple of pairs of amazing boots, which was exciting enough. But. BUT. Using my purse-sniffing super powers, I spied amongst the pile of purses what appeared to be a black leather Coach bag. With tags. This is not the Coach bag I am used to that is made of vinyl and purchased on the street in Chinatown. I now know what poker players feel like when they hit a royal flush. A golfer getting a hole-in-one. A bowler rolling a 300. Michael Phelps at this year's Olympics. I'll stop with the sports metaphors now, but you understand? I hit the motherlode. I never have to find another good thing in one of these houses and I can die a happy Jew. Was Lisa looking down from Heaven smiling on me tonight? I believe she was.

Then we found less pleasant things. Brian was downstairs cleaning the kitchen when he came across a douche. No, not an obnoxious asshole who has a PETA bumper sticker on his hybrid; an actual plastic bottle with which women use to shoot vinegar solution up their tu-tu's. It was unused and in its box, but storing it in the same cabinet where you keep your spices and Shake & Bake? Strange.

But oh honey, I soon had him beat. Okay, if you're eating something or just have a weak stomach in general, you may want to skip this part. In the master bedroom closet, with all those nice new clothes and Coach purse, was not one, but two Fleet enemas. NOT NEW OR IN THEIR BOXES. Oh, the boxes were there too, which is how I knew what brand they were.
Can I ask a silly question? You have this nice-ass house (which granted, you can't afford, but whatever), all these fancy clothes and accessories. You feel the need to siphon out your no-no hole and then you discard the bottle not in your bathroom garbage, which is conveniently located right next to your bedroom, but IN YOUR CLOSET??? I'm...speechless. I have no words for this. No comprehension, does not compute.

So, on one hand, new Coach purse. On the other, having to put on my yellow rubber cleaning gloves to remove items from someone's bedroom closet while sort of gag-screaming.
I guess it's all about balance.