My brain, normally full of ferrets, is now filled with pinching, angry crabs all screaming the same thing.
“YOU’RE GOING TO BE HOMELESS IN A STRANGE CITY!”
Fucking brain crabs.
You know what? Let’s not talk about them. Let’s also not talk about how I actually found the perfect house, only it was not a rental and the sale price was just over a million dollars—in case you’re wondering, the thing that made it perfect was a clause: the bed in the third floor bedroom must stay with the house and must not be removed from the bedroom.* But still, I do not have 1.2 million going spare to blow on a house that still needs work.**
Let us instead circle back to a thing I mentioned to you in a recent post. About how I’m a shit local friend?
Because I am. We are. We’re terrible friends to run into, say, at Target.
We were there picking up a card to go with the gift for a wedding we were attending that day, because we are also crap friends to invite to your wedding. I carefully picked a card that had just the right message and would fit in an envelope that matched the paper on the gift I’d already wrapped, then graciously let Husband pay for it.
ME: (walking away from registers) You used the card for that? Why would you—
ME: (looks) Oh. Kira!
KIRA: Hey. You guys left it to the last minute too, huh?
ME: We were just getting the card.
HIM: Ours is all wrapped and everything.
ME: I made the bow last night.
KIRA: Oh. Well. Shit.
ME: I wondered what you were pointing at. I was like, “I’m not gonna apply here—we’re moving!”
HIM: (laughs) Her reaction though. “Oh, did you guys forget too?”
ME: We just kept (poking gesture)
HIM: We really piled on.
ME: We are shit friends.
HIM: We’re shit local friends.
ME: It’s true. Well, I’m an EXCELLENT LONG-DISTANCE FRIEND. For all I know, you’re crap at it.
* Someone absolutely died in that bed and the room is 100% haunted now. How could I not want that house with every fiber of my being?
**Especially since ghosts are notorious for shirking their fair share of the DIY duties.