Dr. Phil’s house is not for you.

Its modern-cum-Wyoming-chic-cum-Mohegan-Sun interiors are not for your eyes. The entry with vibrant fuck-bear art and purple egg chair hanging from the ceiling is not for you to sit in. Its screening room with oversized Barney-colored couch and TV that plays only Godfather at maximum volume and cannot be shut off is not for your ears.

It is for serious buyers only. And come on, you can’t be serious.

You can’t be serious about an entire billiard room splashed in dye-pack blue, or double-thick railings rendered as tree branches. You can't be serious about a harlequin ceiling detail, a neon sign that screams "hello there" in migraine-inducing white light, a dining room adorned with a Lucite box filled with assault weapons or a ceiling-height wine vault.

Maybe you can be serious about the wine vault.

But, you're not going to buy a 6,000 sq. ft. house for the wine vault alone. You can buy your own little fridge and call it a vault. Your friends will think that's funny. Especially Samantha. Samantha will laugh for hours over your tiny “wine vault".

You're not going to request a private showing. You don't need to walk the "extremely rare long gated driveway" or peruse the "stunningly manicured grounds including an outdoor kitchen, inviting pool/spa and cabana." You are content with less fantastical things, less whimsy.

You have your hibachi and the kababs come out pretty good when you're not drunk. You can haul out the K-Mart kiddie pool this summer and make a thing of it. You'll all stand in the pool — you and Samantha and maybe Dave and Lindsay — and drink in rosé and the buttery sun that appears in your backyard precisely between 130PM and 245PM, before it slides behind another row of houses.

"This is living," you'll say to Samantha. And you'll mean it, too.