We’re on it
I got an emergency call from the French Connection last night. She and CC are trying to buy a house – like… immediately.

I guess they found a great place and are on fire with excitement and burning to hand over all of their money to a guy for a small 2 bedroom condo.

I will not share the cost – needless to say, it is too much. Not too much for Cambridge, but just too much. Does that make sense?

Boston is – as my mother-in-law would say “’spensive.”

Word.

I talked to the French Connection at length about their ideas, their hopes, and the location (our old neighborhood). We talked about costs, parking, affordability, the prospect of a porch and the excitement of central air.

Then Deeps took over when the FC called back to get more information about looking up property values online (Cambridge is on fire with some of their online features). Satisfied with the results of her discussion, FC promised to keep us updated about the purchase.

The side effect of such a conversation with the always-excited FC is that the excitement over home buying is contagious and now Deeps is highly motivated.

Highly.

“We need to get on this,” he said.

I was filling out our taxes and then I unleashed – which was totally unfair, but it happened. I’m human – a mean human.

“Look – I couldn’t even get you to give me a list of requirements like two weeks ago. I couldn’t get you to even look at the list I made. Getting started means, ‘Alyssa – you get started.’ That’s not going to fly, dude.”

Yes I call my husband dude because it is better than calling him dirty, filthy, foul profanities.

“I – but – no!” He started to protest.

Then I told him he hadn’t read the book, hadn’t done any research and I might have blacked out or something. Oh the yelling – it keeps me young.

This is what our fights are like – totally one sided. And arbitrary.

Before I sacked out with cough medicine – because the cough is mysteriously back, and I think contributing to my overall crankiness – Deeps delivered a small file folder to me.

Inside he’d collected important bank documents, a few lists of brokers, some mortgage information, and he put checkmarks on the list next to the “requirements” we established for the house.

“I’m sorry I yelled,” I said.
“I know – I’m sorry I didn’t participate more,” he said.
“I’m sorry about saying you don’t do anything, because you do lots of stuff,” I said.
“I’m sorry I called your cat fat,” he said.
“I’m sorry that she is fat,” I replied.
“I’m sorry that I told you that you stick your tongue out when you dance, because now you never do it and I thought it was hilarious,” he said.
“I’m sorry that I make chicken sounds when your parents call,” I said.
“I’m sorry for laughing at you when you fell in the snow at Williams in 1994,” he said.
“I’m sorry for hitting you with a face full of snow when we were shoveling on New Year’s in 2000,” I said.

Please commence your vomiting.