Johnny and his hot veterinarian wife would have been living the high life in New Mexico all this time were it not for one wriggling fly in the financial ointment: the old house, it would not sell!
Accursed New Hampshire house to close tomorrow. All pieces seem to be in place. Seems too good to be true. LIke the other three times we thought we had a buyer. Crossing fingers. Gobbling tranquilizers. Praying. Actually honest to God praying. I don’t even know to whom, but I’m praying.
Don’t worry, sweetheart. God wants you to wear silk bowling shirts to work! Well…? Is that fucking house sold or what?
The round table assembles at one your time, three our time. These things can be time-consuming, so who knows when we’ll get word. The wife’s dad Big A, the ex-Marine, is there on our behalf to kill some people if need be. This is going to be a long day. The Longest Day, you might say. That had Marines in it, too. I feel pretty sure that the wife’s dad could beat up my dad, a milktoast MP in Japan after the war was already over, and not even man enough to come home with a tattoo. Jesus. What time was it again?
Darling, three my time is one your time. So is it three my time or your time?
It’s like the survey where they ask the young guy do you think the problem with youth today is ignorance or apathy, and he says I don’t know, and I don’t care. I never was good at math.
Don’t kid yourself, sister. We all know that ONE LESS house = MORE Armani for Johnny. That’s all the math a pretty girl like you needs.
THe[sic] house back East sold. It will be nice to see what paying one mortgage is like. As God is my witness, I didn’t know what I was going to do if this sale didn’t go through. NOw[sic] I don’t konw[sic] what I’m goign[sic] to do now that it has. But I must say, I prefer the second problem. GOd[sic] help me.
A triumph of the American pharmaceutical industry: the house sells and Our Hero lives to make crosseyed typos another day!
Monday, Siobhan told me I’d make an excellent real estate agent. I don’t need another job. No, I think what I need is a more accommodating doctor with a chemical bent.
Yes, I said bent. You heard me!
Siobhan: …remember back when I wanted to be a webmistress in 1996? When it was all new? And I told my manager that I knew how to make a web page?
S: I can do it, here’s a URL for my personal web page “All Siobhan, All the Time.” Just don’t click on the word “Somewhere,” that’s a link to the naked women.
Manager: OK, I’ll check it out.
(Five minutes later, Manager, with a face the same shade as a ripe tomato comes rushing over.)
Manager: I thought you were kidding!
Tata: That NEVER gets old!
Siobhan: I know! And it’s 9 years ago, already!
Tata: Now tell me the one where we sat in cribs in a punk poetry club and almost died on the Pulaski Skyway!
Siobhan: Can’t I instead tell you the one about where you protested at a cable station and played kickball while wearing a clown nose? It’d be funny if I told you about it because I wasn’t there!
Tata: Will Medicare pay for visiting nurses and a therapeutic raconteur?