I have this self-punishing habit of collecting real estate flyers while out walking my dog. I take them home to my husband and we half-laugh, half-cringe at the listed prices. We speculate about the scores of people who will undoubtedly shell out six figures over a seven-figure asking price to own one of these 800-square-foot shacks: Are they nuts?!
Once the veins in my neck stop bulging, I file the offending slips of paper in my circular filing cabinet. Those printed on sturdy card stock earn a reprieve and live among the junk mail Matt and I use to scoop up and re-home errant spiders.