Today at 3 p.m. Central Time (Is it standard or daylight now? I can never remember.), we are closing on the house. The inspection is done, the radon test is scheduled for later this week, the hubby has booked a general contractor to make some repairs after Christmas, and the money is about to be released to the title company. Deep breaths. All of this minutae, and it will be over in a matter of hours. The toddler will grow up in this house. We may have another baby there. All of my friends can finally enter my address in ink. Wow.
Sometimes, It Does Pay To Be A Packrat December 13, 2007
Last night, the hubby and I went to THE local bar (yep, there’s only one in this burg) to have some drinks. Since only persons age 21 and up are allowed in this establishment, you can smoke in there. Um, okay!
My first stop was the ladies’ room. As is often the case in public restrooms, there was no toilet paper OR paper towels. Gross. Thankfully, I had only half-heartedly cleaned out my purse because I still carried a travel package of Kleenex with me. Toilet crisis averted!
I reported the outages to the female bartender. She did nothing, as I discovered on voyage #2. Strangely, her replacement, a smallish and quite squirrelly guy, tended to the restroom immediately after I mentioned it to him. Wouldn’t you think the female bartender would care more? You, and I, would both be wrong.
