Wowza!

Johnny finished the shower!

On Wednesday night, when Johnny was supposed to be putting the second coat of caulking on the shower, after which we were supposed to be embarking on our "other kitchen project," John B. showed up at the door. With a twelve-pack of Bud Light. For himself.

John B. is in the process of buying a house (cue the violins). It's not his first house. He bought his first house with his first wife. She still lives in it. He still pays the mortgage. After something like fifteen years. There is no second wife. And he's been renting.

When did I turn into James Ellroy? Gag.

Anyway, First Wife is getting married in a couple months, which means John B. no longer has to pay her mortgage, which means he can finally-finally-finally get A House Of His Own. Yay, him. He found one for something like $240,000, in somewhere like Abington. He's supposed to be closing in a couple weeks and he is all excited.

Now, Johnny and I have a policy when it comes to friends of ours buying property in general: we mirror their moods. We offer no advice, no opinions, no dampers on their enthusiasm or encouragement towards same. If they're happy, we're happy, and if they're sad, we're sad. If they're overwrought and suicidal, well, we won't tie the noose but we do let them know they're always welcome for a beer.

John B. was ready to hang, but he was tired of drinking Johnny's regular-old Budweiser and so he'd brought his own. (Me, I tend to avoid the entire Anheiser-Busch milieu, but I'm always surprised by what snobs Bud Light drinkers are -- they're always like "Bud? Why are you drinking that crap?" As if Bud Light is the goddamn champagne of beers or something. Hey, wait a second...)

Turns out the seller is splitting the property in half, and John B. didn't know that. He thought he was buying a big old yard and he was making plans for swimming pools and everything. Of course, the intent to split was probably disclosed at some point -- if nowhere else, then at least in the square-footage of the delineated property. But if he didn't read the fine print and just assumed the yard attached to the house when he saw it would be the yard he got, well, let's just say he wouldn't be the first. And they're asking $180,000 for the other half-a-yard.

Now, since he's been paying the mortgage on First Wife's house and rent for himself for whatever, twenty years, he hasn't exactly saved up a down payment. He borrowed $15,000 from his mother for it. Which, I haven't asked too many questions, but I have to assume he's signed the P&S already, in which case he won't be able to get it back. Not if the intent to split had been disclosed, which I have to believe it was.

What it boils down to is he'll be moving about forty-five minutes away, to live next door to a construction site and an eventual next-door neighbor whose house he'll be able to lay hands on from his own. Yay, him. So Johnny sat with him in the living room while he got drunk on Wednesday night, and I sat in my king-sized bed watching "Pushing Daisies" (my new favorite show) and sulking about my shower.

Hey, when I said I mirror their moods, I never claimed to swallow any tantrums of my own.

So yesterday, on my way home, I ran into Johnny on his way up the street. When he told me where he was going I got really-really mad, and I may or may not have peeled rubber away from him when he asked me for a lift. Then I got home and found his note:

"Hello Love,
Your shower's all set and dinner's ready to go. I'm going for smokes and a quick pint. It's 4:00. I'll be back in an hour."

He wasn't. He stayed for two. But can you blame him?