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    How fantasy football will help you go straight to hell

    September 28, 2006

    This morning I got a call from my BIL Jorgie.

    J:  Krissy, I just wanted to know.  If the first thing I thought of when I heard that Terrell Owens tried to kill himself was “maybe now I can beat Katie this week,” is that bad?  I mean, I think I am going to hell for that one.
    K:  Jorge, I’ll be sitting right next to you at the pinochle table in hell because when I heard that he tried to commit suicide, I thought “good God, he was out of the news for a whole 3 days because his team didn’t play this weekend so he decided to kill himself to get back in the news.  Drama queen. “
    J:  We are so going to hell.

    I would like to thank T.O.’s publicist for giving me the best laugh of the day.  I believe that when questioned about the possibility of T.O. being depressed, she replied that he has 25 million reasons not to be depressed.

    Thank God there is someone in the world who realizes that lots of money equates to happiness. 

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    It’s the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine

    September 27, 2006

    Actually it’s the end of the world as I know it.  I find that people often misuse the “we” phrase.  Like, say, the buyer’s real estate agent tonight at the closing.

    AH:  (in the elevator from the garage) If I could guess, I would guess we have a closing today and you are the seller.
    K:  And I would guess (based on your slimy appearance and apparent lack of a soul) that you are the buyer’s real estate agent.
    AH:  And what’s our name?  (to Ethan)
    K:  Our name is Ethan.

    Because WE clearly had not been tortured enough by his mere presence, let alone having to converse with him, he continued his assault.

    AH:  Well, did we fix the little problem in the condo?
    D:  What problem? (ever the smart ass)
    K:  Yes.  (more like a growl)
    AH:  What did we find?  Did we need to change the flapper, or did we need to change the valve?
    K:  We (being two of us–three if you count The Boy throwing a pipe wrench into the toilet tank) fixed it.  You didn’t go by today to check it out? (read–you lazy ass bastard who has tormented me for the last three weeks–I hope you get run over by a bus on the way out of here today)
    AH:  No.  What did we fix?
    D:  Well, we didn’t fix it at first because nothing is wrong with it.  Then we just replaced the whole thing because we weren’t sure what YOU thought was wrong with it.

    Only Derek can say something like that and get away with it.  I almost burst into laughter. 

    Then the buyers showed up with 3 kids under the age of five.  And I would just like to say that as much disrespect a stay at home mother may get, you had better thank your lucky stars that you are not a stay at home dad.  And then have two girls and a boy.  Who treat you like you are a bitch.  Apparently Dad forgot to bring the right power cord so the girls couldn’t watch a movie during the closing.  So instead, they proceeded to get into a cat fight that would rival a WWF match.  Complete with hair pulling and name calling, which included calling Mom “you stupid mom.”  Mom yelled back and they ignored her.  The Boy clung to me in fear which I found fascinating.  I yell at him all the time but apparently another mom’s screeching was not as tolerable.  Dad seemed, dare I say it, impotent?  The kids then attacked the overflowing candy dish in the middle of the table despite being told to they could only have one.  Mom pryed open their little mouths and yanked the candy from the caverns of their mouths.  She did all this while feeding baby boy the boo and signing on the dotted line. 

    As I left, the buyers and their creepy real estate agent were still bemoaning that there was no receipt for the electrical work on the thermostat for the convector.  I asked yet again if they had turned it on and of course they hadn’t.  The stay at home dad said that we couldn’t have fixed it ourselves because it was an electrical problem. 


    And you can’t be a stay at home dad because dads go to work.  I don’t know what to tell you.  All this as his offspring were jumping on and off the chairs, throwing crayons. 

    Had I not already been pregnant, I would have rushed home to take a handful of birth control pills which I would have then chased with a pitcher of red ruby martinis.  Derek is still shell-shocked.  He requested that we spend the rest of the evening not speaking.  And said he should be entitled to $250 for all the things he fixed in the condo.  I told him that I did the work too and he said that I had 4 years to fix the electrical problem and I waited until I was pregnant to get someone else to do it.  I wish I had left the power on when he was rewiring.

    All that drama to find out that I don’t get any money for 2 days.  They can occupy the bastion of my singlehood tonight, but I don’t get a dime until Friday.  Somehow I was thinking that a check would make me feel better about the fact that the last of my “separateness” was officially gone and that all was left of me had become “marital property.”  

    Maybe I’ll feel better on Friday.

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    One of the many ways I am eating my words years later

    September 26, 2006

    Oh, I’ll never watch Barney.  That dumb ass purple freak.  Won’t do it.

    My motivation should have been for better reasons.  My logic–he sings off key, he is a scary dancer.  The problem is that all of those things appear to make children want to climb right up into the t.v. and sing along with the “I love you” song.

    This morning I turned on TV and couldn’t quite turn the channel in time from PBS before The Boy noticed the Big Purple Loon.  He then sat beside me riveted for the next 17 minutes.  17 whole minutes that I used to kite checks and float money in between accounts feeling grateful that if the federal government is the one required to catch me, I can live like this forever.  With a little luck, I won’t have to do it once 5:00 pm and closing happens.  But back to Barney.

    The last time The Boy was this attentive to tv was during the John Roberts confirmation hearings.  I started to get a little worried because it appears that The Boy was so enthralled that he had even stopped breathing.  I leaned down in front of his little mouth and nose to find that he was in fact breathing.  Except now he was pissed off because I broke his line of vision with the Great Purple God.  He shoved me out of the way rather meanly, if I don’t say so myself.

    Three minutes later I waved a hand in front of his face.

    Nothing.  He didn’t even blink.

    Holy Moses.  When someone figures out what kind of subliminal messages Barney is sending to toddlers let me know.  Unless it’s “kill your parents in their sleep.”  Then I don’t want to know.  Looking forward to 30 minutes of silence tomorrow.

    Oh, how the mighty have fallen.  Yet again.

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    Is it wrong to think that the buyer should beware of himself first????

    A new twist on caveat emptor

    Today I got a phone call from my real estate agent.  She called to tell me that the buyers were doing their walk through and that she had just gotten a call from their real estate agent.  He was complaining that he couldn’t flush the toilet.

    The toilet that The Boy has flushed, oh, 900 times this past week.  I started to wonder if maybe the buyers thought they were getting another condo and maybe we should ask which unit they were, I don’t know, actually in. 

    But it was what came out of her mouth next that just brought a smile to my face.  She asked if we had a receipt for the work done on the thermostat.  The problem with the thermostat is that Cath and I got the brilliant idea years ago to get our neighbor Arthur to change it for us.  Arthur used to be in the heating and cooling business.  Arthur is also about 100 years old.  He put the new thermostat on and things went haywire.  We got him to take it back off and put the old one back on.  Afterwords, the thing never really worked right again.  The AC would kick on if you moved the temp higher rather than a lower temp.  It was Cath’s room and somehow she figured out how to make it work.  But it’s an electrical issue and very fair that the buyer’s would want to have it fixed. 

    When I suggested that we pay someone to fix it, Mr. FixIt/CheapAss said, “it’s only 3 wires, how hard can it be?”  There was some discussion about sparks and fire, but he managed to fix it.  That’s why I love him.  So we had no receipt because we did the work ourselves.

    Real Estate Agent:  Well, the real estate agent and the buyers are concerned because there is no way to verify the work was done.

    I paused. 

    It was a long pause.

    I let the sound of a forest full of crickets envelope me/warm me….

    And then, in a very pleasant voice, I suggested that she call the real estate agent back and tell him to, (and this is gonna blow your mind because it is so novel), turn the A/C on. 

    Apparently the opposing parties were very pleased with this suggestion.  No one had thought of this.  Except me.  I’m very frightened.  I am slightly concerned that we will get to closing and they will say something like, “we’re supposed to pay today?  I didn’t know we were supposed to pay.  Really?” 

    I really am going to have to thank them for that laugh today.  You can’t make this s#$% up.

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    One of the many ways fantasy football is going to kill me

    September 25, 2006

    I woke up this morning to news reports that most of my fantasy football players have ailments.  A bum hamstring here, a bad shoulder there, and even a toe.  Not described as a toe injury, just a toe.  I’d like to think that he has 10 of them, but who knows.  At the rate I’m going, this team of mine is going to need that pool the old people found in Cocoon that made them young again. 

    The competition is heating up and I’m happy to say that we are still conversing here at Chateau Cookie.  Apparently things are not going so well at my sister’s house.  I looked at her lineup to find she had drafted a tight end today that only yielded her one measly point.  Thinking I was being funny, I sent her a little online smack talk. 

    My phone rang just moments later.  Apparently she had gone on a drafting spree and had only asked for her husband’s advice on one player–the crappy one.  This was after he told her to pick somebody up last week and then beat her to it.  The thing is, everyone knows he is out to win.  She is threatening divorce.  Her husband, because karma is a bitch, is going to get his ass handed to him this very minute by Cath.  Woohoo!! 

    My husband, on the other hand, is getting a little cagey.  Until now we have been “helping” each other.  We were having a discussion about wide receivers tonight and suddenly he told me that he wasn’t going to tell me who he was picking up.  I know we are going to play each other in two weeks but what the hell is up with that?  Sore losers, these men….

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    Of all the ways I love my husband, this is what I love the most

    September 23, 2006

    We are less than 72 hours from closing on the condo.  Or so we think.  I just know that when Tuesday comes, they are going to try to pull a fast one.  These people buying the place are crazy.  They have gotten a little heady about this being a buyer’s market.  After agreeing that we fix a certain number of things, they changed their minds and said they would walk if we didn’t make the shower handle easier to pull out. 

    A shower handle that has tightened up a little because it hasn’t been used in 16 months.  They are going to blow a deal for a shower handle.  A 30 year old shower handle which is connected to a pipe that runs water to 8 floors.  Not the kind of thing you want to mess with just so someone can use a little less energy to turn on the water in the morning.  Which of course made me want to tell them to pound sand.  Unfortunately Mama’s all out of cash and the next step is foreclosure if the dynamic duo don’t buy.  Their real estate agent just called to say that they want receipts to prove that we fixed the things on the list.  Why actually just push the test button on the smoke alarm during walk through when you can demand that a professional change a battery instead?

    I’m starting to feel like these people are worried that they will sign the final paperwork and then show up and find that we have absconded with a bedroom and the front door.   This a condo, for heaven’s sake, not an adoption.  They also let us know in passing that if we wanted to leave all the kitchen utensils, dishes, glasses and pots that I left, they wouldn’t mind it.

    That’s shocking since they are planning to use the place to rent out as a fully furnished apartment.  How kind to offer to keep an entire kitchen so they wouldn’t have to purchase anything other than a couple of beds and a couch for the living room to call it a day. 

    The vindictiveness has set in.  I told Derek that I would sooner send every single dish down the trash chute from the fourth floor to shatter in the dumpster than let them have anything.  As we packed things up, I directed him to remove the shower curtains from the rods and even the toilet paper from the bathrooms.  He told me that I was required by law to leave the light bulbs.  Damn.  I then asked if we could put a dead mouse in the vent.

    He suggested shrimp.  That’s why I love this man. 

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