You are correct, sir, that the gentleman whom I purchased this house from, or “the old man,” as you call him, is indeed no longer in residence here, though I’m sure he’d be fascinated to know that is how you thought of him. So much so, in fact, that were he still in residence, he would no doubt happily continue employing you in his service.
Or not.
I completely understand how uncomfortable it can be to find yourself in a neighborhood where your skin color attracts a little too much attention.
I’ve been there.
That’s the neighborhood’s problem.
But if you’re type of person who looks around a neighborhood (say . . . my old one, for instance) and declares that it’s not [Insert your favorite skin color here] enough for you, well now . . .
That’s your problem.
Yesterday, on the advice of my mechanic, I had the headlights on my car refurbished. I knew they were . . . let’s say “mucky” (The guys who did the work told me they felt like they were performing cataract surgery.), but I didn’t really expect to see that much of a difference.
I was . . . let’s say WRONG!
I have no words (at least not words I want L. to pick up from me), to describe my reaction to seeing the finished work, much less just how much more effective the car’s headlights are now, so suffice it to say that I’m glad I took my mechanic’s advice because, sacred excrement (1), he was RIGHT!
*****
(1) Sorry (2), I’m tired enough today that I couldn’t resist.
(2) Actually, I’m tired enough today that I’m not actually sorry, either.
Well . . . it’s officially undeniable; in the eyes of at least one person, I am “no longer young.”
Yesterday somebody referred to me facetiously as “young man,” and unless that person is an elderly relative (and it wasn’t), I know what that means.
Truth be told, I was so offended by this, I almost hit him with my slingshot when he wasn’t looking . . .
Me: “My signature is looking worse and worse as time goes by.”
L’s Mother (innocently): “It doesn’t have to look good, it just has to look like you.”
Normally I post earlier in the day than now, but today I’ve been caught up in cleaning/moving chores, and when the time came for my break, my choice was either write a post, or eat a late lunch at one of my favorite Mexican eateries.
Easy call.
Glad I made it to, because at said late lunch, I overheard one of the most disturbing introductory phrases I’ve ever personally heard crafted for an English language sentence:
“The first time my Mom got me drunk . . .”
Now that the deal has been sealed, it turns out a set of golf clubs was left behind at our new place by the previous owners.
This isn’t a problem, but it is a bit perplexing to me, not being a golfer. I’m not sure what I’m going to do with them, but I’m sure I’ll come up with something as soon as I fully recover from yesterday’s signing of a pile of paperwork only slightly smaller than the heights of Olympus Mons. Now I’m not a big fan of paperwork in general, but I weathered the storm fairly easily . . . except for one thing:
The agent kept asking me how “excited” I was about buying a house.
“Excited” is not the word I would use to describe my mood at any point during the ups and downs of trying to complete this house hunt (the politest word I can think of is closer to “annoyed”), but this question wouldn’t have bothered me if it hadn’t been around the twenty-forth time I ‘d been asked that question since my house hunting began, sometimes by the same people even after I had asked them to stop it.
The agent didn’t know that, of course, which is why I let the questions slide. I have more important matters to deal with anyway, like what to do with those golf clubs and checking my messages . . .
. . .
I see that one of those messages is from somebody who should really know better by now, guessing that everyone is “excited” over the house.
I’m starting to get an idea of what I’m going to do with those golf clubs.
House Hunt Status: Officially concluded.
Energy Levels: Depleted.
To Do Now List Status: Long enough to rival Santa’s Naughty and Nice list.
Chance Of Anything From That List Being Done Today: Laughable.
My grandpa notes the world’s worn cogs
And says we’re going to the dogs.
His grandpa in his house of logs
Said things were going to the dogs.
His grandpa in the Flemish bogs
Said things were going to the dogs.
His grandpa in his hairy togs
Said things were going to the dogs.
But this is what I wish to state:
The dogs have had an awful wait.
– Anonymous
The good news (seriously) is that a good ending for all our house hunting travails is at last in sight.
The bad news is said travails have already put me (seriously) behind on my writing schedule, and I’m going to have even less time over the next couple of weeks or so.
So it looks like I’ll be putting in some extra hours this weekend.
Candles & Curses 