:: Injury, meet Insult ::

Remember this?

Of course you do - it was less than a month ago. And because it was only a week ago, it makes this story all the more hilarious.

Go read that (if you haven't already) and then come back. It's OK, I'll wait...... OK, you back now? Good. Here's the post-script to that story:

This week, my old strata council – the one that was rife with idiots, infighting, and low-income tenants – passed by majority vote to have the entire roof of the townhouse complex replaced. Yes, the very same roof that my $4,500 was being held in a contingency fund to help replace.

Since discovering that the roof needed to be replaced, the strata council had, approximately, 16 months – dating back to when I still lived there – to propose and vote on a special assessment to replace said roof.

Yes, 16 freaking months. Ten of which passed after I'd already moved out. And despite this extended period of time, when does this strata council finally get their act together enough to procure a "yes" vote?

Well, a mere 19 days after the deadline to spend my money had passed, of course.

One monthly strata meeting. Not even three weeks.

Ahh, what wonderful timing. Thanks for the cash, morons. Enjoy your new roof.

:: A long-winded post where first I get mad and then I get money ::

I thought for sure I mentioned it before on this blog, but a quick archive search turned up nothing, so lemme fill you in on something that I've probably already told everyone anyways: When I sold my townhouse last year - 11 months ago now - it sold very quickly (4 days), but there was, as there usually is, a caveat near the end.

You see, my place was 18 years old and - according to some - in need of a new roof. And as anyone who's ever lived in a strata building knows, that ain't cheap. The words "Special Assessment" are enough to make most condo/townhouse owners shit themselves. Because that usually means each owner is on the hook to write a big cheque.

Of course, at the time, this roof situation was relatively new and, I figured, months if not more than year, away. I really didn't think much of it, except to think that I was getting out at the perfect time.

Trouble was, the roof problem - and the announcement of said problem and a possible vote in the future - showed up in the strata meeting minutes. And any prospective buyer who is not mentally handicapped is, of course, gonna notice. But they made the offer, I accepted, and then handed over 2 years worth of minutes at once for them to read.

I knew it was a longshot, but I secretly hoped it would slip by them - I mean, really, one sentence in 24 months worth of meetings could sneak by ya. At first, as a day or two passed, I thought it actually had.

I was wrong, of course. The evening before subjects were to be removed - hours away, literally - they called my realtor with "concerns." They changed their offer and demanded that, though they would still pay the agreed-upon price, some of that money would be held in trust, and would be used to cover the special assessment that was surely on its way.

Now, I certainly don't begrudge them for asking for the holdback - it's common practice, and I would've done the same had I been in their shoes. (Either that, or I'd never buy the place at all, to be honest). So that wasn't what bothered me.

What bothered me were some other things. For starters, the way it was presented by their smarmy little realtor, who came into my home and gave us this "aw-shucks, they're tapped out and this is the absolute limit of their budget, they could never afford an assessment" speech. Total guilt trip.

Needless to say, I was not moved. (I'm sure you're shocked.)

If they couldn't afford it, then somebody else will, so get outta my house. I care not for sob stories.

And then, were their terms.

They wanted $8,000 in this hold-back account, and they wanted the holdback to last until the end of the calendar year, Dec. 31, 2010.

Yes, $8000.

Now, that amount was, to the penny, the exact amount that the special assessment was to be. (They called to chat with our strata prez, and this is what he told them. I called him and he said the same thing.)

So these assholes wanted me to pay every last dime of their brand new 30-year roof that they'd live under for, well, for as long as they damn well pleased.

Upon receiving this news, my realtor - a kindly, sweet, older guy who has probably never said a bad word in his life - turned to me and asked for my counter-offer.

"Tell 'em fuck you' - that's my counter offer," was my reply.

My nice, kindly realtor was taken aback, to say the least.

In the end, I lowballed 'em right back, and said they could have $1,000, and after some not-so-friendly back-and-forth, in the end we agreed on $4,500 because I just wanted it done. The end-of-year deadline also stuck.

And because that deadline was 10 months away, and I knew the roof was in need of repair, I basically kissed the money goodbye. My realtor suggested I do the same. And considering I was already making a good chunk of change on the house, I really wasn't that upset in the end.

I mean, I wasn't thrilled with how it went down - I felt like I got bent over a little bit, and didn't like the other realtor's smarmy ways, as I already mentioned, but still, it was done.

And then I moved to Cloverdale, and then finally into our new house, and had little to no contact with anyone who still lived at the old place, although the rumours trickled in. First, a few months later, my realtor called to say he'd spoken to a fellow realtor whose son lived in my old complex, and the money was gone. Assessment passed.

Then my day ran into the father of another guy who lived there - a guy I used to play ball with as a kid - and he said "Don't worry, you'll get it back. Nothing's happening."

And through it all, I just waited. Sort of hoped, but mostly didn't worry about it. The money's gone, I'd say, so stop thinking about it.

'Cept it wasn't.

First, there was a meeting that allegedly nearly ended in a fist fight, and a vote that got shot down as quick as it could be proposed.

(Funny sidenote: Apparently, the only pro-assessment person at the meeting - the only guy to really get up and give an impassioned "Let's just do it" speech, aside from council members, was the guy who bought my house. He, of course, was on the clock, although nobody else knew. He was, I was told, shouted down fast with cries of "Shutup, new guy!" which is truly fantastic.)

And then along came some more meetings, and after some research, it was decided the assessment would only be $4,500. Conveniently the exact amount they were holding back, which meant I was still out of luck.

Of course, because my old complex was run by a terribly dysfunctional strata council (complete with warring factions, and wasting time and effort on important issues like "where is the community snowshovel?") and there are a number of older, fixed-income seniors who can't afford assessments, that revised plan didn't fly either.

And then Dec. 31 came and went, and I immediately started making calls to get my money. If the other side thought I'd wait, or thought I'd forget, or thought I'd be lenient and sympathetic and making agree to some kind of revised deal, well, they were wrong.

I wanted my money, I wanted it right fucking now, and I told them as much.

Of course - of course - the other side stalled. My notary called their lawyers, they stalled. Called again. Stalled some more. But today, I called for an update.

"Your money is ready, it's at the other side's lawyers. We can courier it over and you'll have it on Friday."

Victory.

So after all that bullshit, after their douchy realtor and their ridiculous demands, after the 10-month wait, and after meetings full of fistfights and leaky roofs, I get my money.

My only regret is that I can't pick it up from them personally. I would've liked them to see the little jig I would've danced in their courtyard outside their front door.

That'll learn ya, assholes.

:: Handyman ::

One of the benefits to not living in a townhouse or condo is the absence of a strata council ruling the roost. By the same token, one of the benefits of living in a townhouse or condo is that you have a strata ruling the roost.

By that I mean, even though strata councils have their numerous downfalls, the one good thing about them is that you, the average townhouse owner, don't have to worry about much if you choose not to.

You don't have to paint the fence. You, personally, do not have to fix the drafty window or the leaky roof. Sure, you have to pay for it – Hello, $200/month strata fees – but still, for the person either not able, or simply not inclined, to do these things themselves, the strata is a good thing. Shit, they even cut your damn grass.

And I imagine that ever since I announced I was selling my townhouse and moving on to a strata-free existence, at least one of you – Ian, Bucholtz, Jeremy, I'm lookin' in your directions – thought to yourself, "How in the hell is Nick going to survive in a place like that?"

Fair question. I'm not exactly a Handyman, you see. And it's not really that I'm more Tim Taylor than Bob Vila – ie: more likely to ruin something rather than fix it – it's that I usually don't even bother trying to fix anything in the first place. It's not my thing, and I've never felt that motivated to make it that way.

(And while we're at it, I haven't cut any grass since I was about 13. I milked the "hay fever allergies" excuse for all it was worth as a kid.)

But I live in a basement now, which does not have a strata, and have already had to make a number of improvements all on my own. For starters, I put up a shelf. 

And just the other day, I replaced a broken toilet seat with a new one. And though the installation of the seat took less than five minutes and did not actually involve any tools, I still felt a sense of accomplishment.

And this weekend, I might even tackle the problematic squeaky front door hinges, which are incredibly loud and seem even louder at 5 a.m., which is when Christene leaves for work. 

We'll see though. Don't want to get too far ahead of myself.

:: Sitcom ending ::

Unlike Christene, who has an encyclopedic memory for all things TV (I mean, as a baby, her first word was - no joke - "Scooby-Doo") I don't remember a lot of specific television moments from my childhood, The Simpsons notwithstanding, but one I vividly recall, for whatever reason, is the series finale of Growing Pains.

In that episode, the Seaver family uproots from Long Island, NY for Washington, DC because the mom, Maggie, takes a new TV anchor job there. It's an episode filled with sap and nostalgia, not to mention the typical Family-Moves-Away plot device as a way to end the show (copied by a million shows before and since, notably Friends).

The final scene before the end credits roll sees Maggie taking one last loving glance around the now-empty living room. Conveniently, the family has forgot to pack one last family photo, which is framed and sitting on the mantle above the fire place. Maggie moves to pick it up, and behind it, carved into the brick facade, are four words: "Mike Seaver was here"

She smiles, walks back to the front door, does the slow-dramatic-one-last-glance-half-smile-turn-off-the-lights thing, and then you hear the door click shut.

/scene.

Tonight I had to drop off all my keys and garage-door openers back at the now-empty townhouse, because tomorrow the sale closes and the new people take possession. Christene had joked with me before dinner about doing a "sitcom ending" where I do the same slow turn-out-the-lights routine, or perhaps say something sappy, sad or profound as I turn the key for the last time. But I figured I'd probably just lock the door and leave.

But after I put the keys on the kitchen counter, and slowly took one last tour around the place, I suddenly felt a little sad - I honestly didn't think I would. I shoulda known better.

So I did what TV had told me to do years earlier. I took my keys, opened the accordian door to the hall closet, and on the one-inch wide edge of the door, carved a medium-sized 'N'.

I was there.

Christene, of course, was impressed that I'd finally decided to over-dramatize our exit. She carved a 'C' right below it.

"Are you gonna turn the lights out really slow and say something as we go?" she asked.

No, I wasn't. I didn't.

But I did take the welcome mat back, which at one point I figured I'd just leave for the new owners. But I took it. It was my mat, after all, and they weren't getting it.

No, they weren't getting it.

:: One more long-winded, house-related thought ::

I'm sure you're all getting sick of me blogging about the house and the move, but indulge me once more, alright?

I was thinking about money this morning. (Well, actually I was day-dreaming about Las Vegas, which led to me thinking about winning a lot of money, which led me to thinking about what it would be like to live in a solid gold house and have a rocket car).

But anyways... back to real life.

I remember eight years ago when I bought my Honda Civic (now Jenna's Honda Civic) from the dealership. I got a loan from the bank for about $18,000 or so, and how it worked then was the bank actually deposited that money in my account, and then I wrote a cheque to the dealership. I was 21 years old at the time, and I remember looking at my bank account online and thinking how amazing it was that I had that much money in my savings account.

Of course, this lasted all of 48 hours or so, as the money soon changed hands. But I was a college kid with only a part-time job delivering truck parts for barely above minimum wage, so for those two days, I felt like a king. Richer than astronauts. I remember actually taking a screenshot of my bank account to prove that I actually had that much money.

What a time to be alive.

So, you can imagine my confusion last April when I bought my truck. Having not purchased a vehicle since the day I bought the Honda, I just assumed the process was the same. And though $18,000 (or in the truck's case, a little more) isn't quite the same awe-inspiring amount it was when I was 21 (but it's still a helluva lot of money, don't get my wrong), I was disappointed to learn that the money would never, not for a second, be in my bank account. The bank instead just wrote a bank draft directly to the seller.

And on a much larger scale, it's the same way with mortgages. You never actually "have" the hundreds of thousands of dollars that you spend on a house. I mean, it would be pretty foolish for the bank to cut somebody a cheque for $500,000 and say "There ya go, Champ. Go buy something nice."

But the point I'm trying to make – you knew I'd get there eventually – is that in three days, when the sale of my house is finally final, I will actually have the money in my account.

Granted, it's temporary again – I have to pony up $20,00 immediately for a deposit, and the rest gets spent on the down payment in September – but still, it's exciting for the time being.

I am not a rich man, as you are no doubt aware (I just wrote a bunch of paragraphs about buying a Honda Civic for crissakes, not a Bentley). But for approximately six months, I will have in my account a substantial amount of money. Of course, I can't do anything with this money. I can't – or should I say, shouldn't – take this money with me to Las Vegas in April and put a five-digit figure down on black. I can't buy a Porsche. I can't develop a $1,000-a-day Faberge egg habit, either.

Really, there's only two things I can do. One, I can withdraw all the money in loonies, and fill Christene's parents' basement with them and swim around Scrooge McDuck-style or I can do what I did eight years ago, and log into my online bank account every day – even when I have no reason to – and look at it. Stare at it. Marvel at it. Maybe even take a screenshot.

I'm considering both.

:: Over and Out ::

It is done.

The move, that is.

I am now – save for a beer fridge I still have to pick up and an entry-way I still have to sweep – finished with the horrible, horrible experience of selling and buying, packing and moving. If this experience lasted any longer, I'd add "drinking and screaming" into the mix, too.

I am also now a (temporary) resident of Cloverdale.

And though I've already written about the things I'm going to miss about my townhouse – and my fear/hatred of change – I have found a solution to letting those sad feelings overwhelm me, and it appears to be working. (Although as my mom pointed out to me yesterday, during a brief "I hate this, it sucks" mini-fit, it doesn't always appear to be working. But I'm doing better than my previous moves).

Here is my method: negativity. (And believe me, being negative isn't a stretch for me.)

One day, of course, I'll only think fondly of my little house, but for now, rather than focus on those positives, I'm only thinking of all the things I hate. It makes it easier to leave.

And after talking to one of my neighbours on the weekend – who happened to mention some interesting opinions/facts about the impending roof/balcony/strata situation – I left Saturday night feeling pretty good. That feeling was boosted further after speaking to a few more neighbours.

You see, the general response when I say "I'm moving," isn't what you'd expect. By and large, it isn't people saying, "Aww, that's too bad."

It's people saying, "Good for you. Get out. Get out now."

Now, that could be because people aren't unhappy to see me go, but what's more likely is that other people can see things crumbling around them, just as I did, but for whatever reason can't get out.

So yeah, maybe I am living like a hobo with three-quarters of my life in storage and the other quarter in a suitcase or carboard box, but that's OK.

At least I got out when I did.

:: Moving Weekend ::

We are moving the last of our stuff, including the big furniture, this weekend. The No. 1 way you can tell that Moving Day is fast approaching is by looking in our kitchen.

If you were, say, trying to whip up a good meal today, here are the ingredients that would be available to you in our kitchen: Coke Zero, four granola bars, lettuce and a calculator.

(No, I don't know why the calculator is there, but I found it in a drawer.)

So, yeah... It's moving time.

:: Depressing story of the day for home-buyers ::

On the heels of our recent purchase of a home in the $400,000-range, and with Kelsey and Scott's possible/probable purchase of a $700,000 place in the alternate universe known as Fort McMurray (Sorry Kels, I still cannot wrap my head around that place... It's just too insane), comes this very depressing story...

Last weekend, my mom's cousin Terri came to visit from her home in Florida (She had to be in Seattle for business and hadn't visited her Canadian family in 25 years, so she drove up). She lives in Fort Myers, home of sun, sandy beaches, and the spring training parks of both the Boston Red Sox and Tampa Bay Rays.

She lives in an average-sized house, with a yard and also a pool.

Now, her daughter - who is the same age as me - is also looking to buy a similar house in the same area, so they both have gotten a feel for the market in Fort Myers. And you know what a house near the water, with a pool, is going for in this lovely little sun-drenched paradise?

$65,000.

Told ya it was gonna be depressing.

:: Goodbye house ::

There's a scene in an episode of The Simpsons – the one where Homer takes a second job at the Kwik-E-Mart in order to pay for Lisa's horse – where Apu, upon seeing Homer quit and walk out the door, looks on wistfully and says, "He slept, he stole, he was rude to the customers... but still, there goes the best damned employee a convenience store ever had."

And as my moving day fast approaches – this coming weekend is my last one before the big day – I realize that I feel the same way about my townhouse.

Like Homer's employment term at the Kwik-E-Mart, the townhouse has its problems and its inconveniences – things I just don't like about it. For starters, it's always felt more like an apartment than a townhouse, owing to the fact that, as a carriage-style place, it's really only one floor. And having somebody live below me really makes it feel apartment-style, too. And I share my garage with four other people – one of whom is an old man whose giant truck blocks access from one side of the garage to the other, which has been extremely annoying for the last three years.

And my balcony is small and gets filled with bits of the roof – which needs to be replaced, and will be the subject of a special assessment later this spring – whenever the wind picks up.

And my neighbours below me fight often and loudly.

And I don't have a yard.

And with a one-in-front-of-the-other parking situation, Christene and I have spent approximately 25% of the last year jugging cars.

And my strata is run by monkeys.

Monkeys who charge me almost 100 dollars more than any other townhouse owner I know.

And my doorbell is shrill and loud and heart-attack inducing.

And I've run out storage space for a lot of my stuff.

These are all things that never used to bother me – either because four years ago when I moved in, these problems did not exist or because I just didn't care. I mean, I still don't really care that the doorbell shrieks, or that my neighbours fight. But things like the parking situation have come about because four years ago I lived by myself.

The roof was in better shape then, too. And I had less stuff.

But problems aside, it was my first place, and first places aren't supposed to come without some warts. If everybody had their dream house on their first go-around, nobody would ever move. That's just how it is.

But you learn to live with these things, and when it comes right down to it, I'm sort of sad to be leaving. I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm extremely excited about our soon-to-be-built new house – it has a small yard, its own garage (single-car though, but whatever. There's still a dedicated outdoor spot), no strata, nearly 1,000 more square feet than the townhouse; a basement that will be turned into a man cave; and a big, open kitchen with a granite-countertop island.

But I'm still a little sad. I don't like change in the best of times, and I'm actually still shocked to realize that I've actually gone through with this whole move – it sort of seemed like the kind of thing I'd talk a lot about but never actually do. But it's done.

I'm moving.

And I'll miss my little 1,200 sq. ft. house a lot. When I moved back from Alberta six years ago, I made a promise to myself that I would buy a house by the time I was 25. So for more than a year, I saved and saved and saved, and I bought the townhouse two weeks before my 25th birthday (Even if I didn't move in until the summer).

It was, obviously, the biggest purchase of my life up until that point, and it was something I was pretty proud of, so there's some sentimental value there. I still remember the day I moved in, the first night I stayed there, or the Friday afternoons Bucholtz and I spent drinking while everyone else was still at work... which coincidentally led to one of my other favourite townhouse memories – Bucholtz rapping into my intercom, which was broadcast loudly into my townhouse courtyard, which upset my neighbour because it was "fucking loud."

And then there was the time, with a few hours to kill between Cannons' playoff games, Jeremy decided he needed to cook about seven boxes of Kraft Dinner (carbo-loading, I guess) and then proceeded to eat as much of it as he could, right out of the pot with a giant plastic spoon.

Or the time I woke up at 5:30 a.m. because a giant Canadian goose was thrashing about on my balcony.

Or the time I woke up, saw Christene's stuff all over the place, realized she lived here now, and said, 'Holy shit, how the hell did that happen?'

So yeah, some good times were had there.

I'll miss it.

:: Indulging the Id ::

id. noun: the part of the mind, residing in the unconscious, that is the source of instinctive impulses that seek satisfaction in accordance with the pleasure principle.

I don't like change. I don't know why exactly, but I don't. Never have. Part of it comes from my being a very organized person – I like to know where something is, when something is happening, what is about to happen. Essentially, I like – I need – my world to be in order. I'm borderline obsessive-compulsive, in this regard. It's not my finest quality, and it's annoying to be point of being quasi-debilitating, but I've learned to deal with it.

The other part of this fear, I figure, stems from my rationality. I am not an irrational, spur-of-the-moment person. Sometimes I wish I was, but I'm just not wired that way. It's been like that all my life, really. I went to school and did my homework because that's what you are supposed to do. And then when I was done that, I went directly to university – did no pass Go, did not collect $200, did not go to Europe, or join a garage band, or a travelling band of gypsies.

And four years later, I did the expected again – I got a job. Surprise, surprise.

The point is, I have almost always done the safe thing – or if not the "safe/smart" thing, then at the very least, the thing that will cause the least amount of upheaval in my life.

But this year is shaping up to be, well, pretty much the opposite because, as of this week, my house is for sale.

Why did I decide to do it? Well, there are plenty of rational reasons – I don't really like my high strata payments nor the strata council itself; Christene lives with me now so more space makes sense; I can make a tidy profit; my place is older and needs a new roof, etc etc etc.

I could go on – and in my head I usually do, considering I tend to need self-reassurance 50 times a day, to convince myself I'm doing the right thing. But here's thing – I might find problems with the strata no matter where I live; Christene insists she has no problem staying where we are; roofs get fixed eventually, and profit or not, a lot of that money gets sucked up in the process of buying a new place.

So... why am I moving? Well, that's what's odd:

I'm moving because I feel like it.

At its core, that's really all it is, I think. I just want something newer, bigger, better. And even though the rational-thinking part of my brain is telling me "That's not a good reason," the other half says that there is nothing wrong with wanting that, whether it's selfish or not.

I mean, sure there is something to be said for being content, and not adopting a grass-is-always-greener philosophy, but if you can make it work, and want it, why not? It's that same reasoning that led me to buy my truck last April. Sure, I didn't need a truck. My car was perfectly fine. But I wanted one, so I bought it – my id run amok after nearly 30 decades of being caged.

And though I've waffled back and forth (much to the chagrin of Christene.. just ask her), it was only this week that I've accepted that this reasoning is perfectly acceptable, perfectly sane.

So yep, time to sell the house.

Now enter that fear of change again – the moving stage.

This entire year – or at least until August – is going to fly in the face of how I like to run my life. You see, the plan is to sell my place first, get the money in hand, and then go about finding another place – about the most irrational thing we could do this side of selling the house outright for $6 and an old boot (Believe me, there were offers).

Partly, this is because many new housing developments require huge deposits/down payments, which of course, are hard to come by unless you've sold the first place first. It'll be OK – we won't be homeless or anything. We're just going to move into Christene's parents' basement, which is where Christene lived before.

And though I know it will be fine, it's completely out of character for me. There I'll be, in a new town (Cloverdale), living out of a suitcase and a couple drawers, all my stuff in storage and scattered around, trying not to go completely batshit crazy until we move again. And the going crazy part isn't a slight against anybody – Christene's parents are awesome – but more an indictment of how neurotic I truly am. I fully expect to get the shakes at some point.

On the plus side, perhaps this will be an opportunity for me to grow as a person – to overcome my crazy fears and realize that the world won't actually come crashing down around me if I haven't done laundry in 2 weeks, can't find any of my stuff, and find myself watching TV on an old couch in the basement, next to Little Mo the family cat.

Or it'll kill me. Guess we'll see.

:: Me fail English? That's unpossible ::

As some of you know, I have started scouring the MLS listings for houses, because I would like to – in an ideal world – sell my townhouse and buy a house in the spring or summer.

Over the past month or so, I have spent far too much time reading all the listings, and after awhile, the descriptions all begin to blend together and sound the same. It seems like every house is in a "great neighbourhood" or has "wall-to-wall laminate" or has a "great backyard for entertaining."

And while all these different blurbs are not exactly original, at least they make sense. I know what is being offered. As opposed to this one listing – for a delightful little rancher – that I found today. This realtor (or whoever wrote the blurb) describes the house in the following way:

"Quiet street, hardwood floors and big lot blend together for a very good time."

Really? That's your sales pitch? Really?!

Let me get this straight. This house is on a quiet street? Excellent. That's good – I'm with ya. But it also has hardwood floors that - and correct me if I'm wrong – blend together with the lot?

Are there no walls to this house? Are you selling me a circus tent? I don't understand. If I'm about to fork over $474,000, I better get some damn walls, that's all I'm saying.

And one more thing. This hardwood-to-lawn-because-there's-no-walls concept makes for a very good time? This statement is truly the most baffling of the bunch.

I don't get it – I thought I was buying a house. I don't necessarily want a good time, I want a nice place to live. You know, a spacious backyard, updated kitchen, maybe a nice deck. Advertising a house as a "good time" just doesn't make a lot of sense to me.

Are you selling me an event? Are you telling me that I am going to have a lot of fun buying this house? Or do you mean that I'll have an excellent time in the specific area where the hardwood meets the grass?

You've got a lot of questions to answer, real estate agent.

For starters, you can start by telling us why your MLS posting reads like it's a classified ad for an escort service that's been translated from English to Mandarin and then back to English again.

:: House hunting ::

Lately, and with increasing regularity, I've been browsing MLS.ca for houses, and Christene has since become as addicted to doing it as I have. Today, she found a nice rancher in Walnut Grove, and messaged me to tell me about it. After I checked it out, we compared notes.

Christene: It's a nice little house, and there's even a big wall for your TV.

Me: Yeah, it looks pretty nice.

Christene: Backyard is a pretty big, too.

Me: Yep. You could build a nice deck back there.

Christene: Or even a wrestling ring!

This is why I keep her around, folks. For brilliance like that.