Well, just when I thought life had calmed down a bit, G-d snickers and Moisha the Hip-Hop Hebe has made a new friend.

Well, I say friend, mostly because "equally guilty party and co-conspiritor" is too much of a mouthful. If Moishe is the guy wearing the yarmulke with the propeller on top, D-man is the goy next to him- the one in the Viking helmet.... with horns.

Why me?

Moisha and I have bought a house.

What kind of house? the sensible among you ask. Surely a nice ranch with fireplace and hardwood floors. Or perhaps a delightful Cape Cod, with cozy nooks and...

You do know us, right?

130 years isn't old for a house? Right?

Guys?

It really isn't as bad as you think.

It's worse. Much much worse.

I should have known we were in trouble when our lovely realtor, carrying the briefcase he made during arts and crafts at a local mental institution, got out of his car with a grin.

He was warm; he was personable; he was friendly. I didn't ask why his case contained a bid offer, two sets of handcuffs, a gold pocket watch and those syringes of sodium pentathol. I'm sure there was a reason, really.

I'm getting very sleepy.

Now where was I again?

Anyway, I'm sure I believe him when he says we spontaneously signed the papers while dancing with glee. I was doubtful about the glee at first, but he was quite firm on that point. He is such a nice man, but he does have a rather odd medical condition- he apparently is overcome with fits of maniacal laughter at absolutely random intervals.

The suffering some people have to endure.

Anyway, the house.

2FB, 4BR, galley kitchen, mud room, spare kitchen, shutters nailed to the bathtub....

Shutters?

Oy vey.

I have lost my flipping mind.

Along with Moisha, whose real name is Hebrew for "Does that look crooked to you?", I bought a house.

Of course, it's not just any house.

It's a 130 year old farmhouse, in a town where if ya see four Jews it's me and Moish and a big big mirror.

My friends are a bit divided on this move.

Some think we're nuts, others lean toward dumb and nuts. A few real rebels are going for "insane"... and dumb.

One of my dearest friends actually wrote a small skit detailing her worries about the move- she took the part of "Best Friend Wearing Body Armor and Microbraids." In a moving scene BFWBAAM attempts to get directions to my new home from a local gentleman. As I recall the dialogue was as follows:

"Excuse me Mister, can you tell me where them Jews went?"

"Yeah, sure Missy. First you take three lefts and then a zig zag at the place where the farm used to be. No, wait. It's easier if you turn right where that cow got hit, then... Aw, forget it. Just grab a'holt of this white robe and follow me- when you see the burning cross you found it."

I told her to shut up and bring marshmallows.