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.