Let’s celebrate, bitches.The weather here is balmy with partly clothed boys popping up everywhere. Saki the cat got out, but came back and his new vet’s stunning good looks are absurdly like what a soap opera veterinarian would be cast with. Jason is still puny, but didn’t die. Yet. So Celebration.
Not last, Secret Agent Fred’s house in Baltimore sold finally and the check is, as they say, in the mail. This whole ordeal has been bruising and the only reason we got through it was Ask the Cool Cookie who has dealt with months of madness, mayhem, mould and contractors. He is, as his people would say, a mensch.
The very last day as the deal was stumbling through the byzantine process of unloading a house, a mystery line of credit popped up and we had to scramble to deal with it cause unless it was closed, no deal.
Fred had taken to his bed at his apartment, like some frail in a mediocre Tennesse Wiliams’ play and was not answering his phone. I wound up begging a friend of ours, Rascal, who has a key to Tim’s building and lives nearby, to go over a roust the little miscreant and urge him to call the realtor ASAP. It’s possible I also might have dropped a hint that kicking Fred could be a swell idea, but I don’t know how all that went over.
I do know the incredibly patient realtor emailed this afternoon to confirm the check is on its way.
Also, chez peenee’s back yard is winding up for what looks like a stunning late spring.