untitledhusband and I have decide to move into a bigger home and impale our monthly budget with a completely ridiculous mortgage. Cause what kind of people would we be if we weren’t pushing the boundaries of our budget and tap dancing on the edge of financial disaster? It’s the American way, people. The only way I could be more patriotic would be by slapping a “Let’s Roll” bumper sticker on my earthfucker alongside my “Support Our Troops” ribbon.
One of the reasons we’re moving is to gain more backyard privacy. Right now, we can look out our sliders while eating our Fruity Pebbles and see our neighbor running around in his kitchen, wearing nothing but his open-ass chaps and Carmen Miranda fruitbowl hat. Even more troubling is the fact that all our neighbors were able to witnes untitleddog pooping out that tampon in our backyard a while back. They probably thought he was giving birth, with his body wretching and contracting like a Boa Constrictor digesting its prey.
The other reason we’re moving is that untitledhusband and I both grew up rather poor. We remember watching movies like “Poltergeist” and “Home Alone,” and we’d wonder if most other children grew up in houses like that. I just knew that if I woke up to a pink and white princess bedroom and banana pancakes cooked on a Viking range, by god, I would be more than happy to do water aerobics with Native American corspes in the unfinisehd backyard pool every night. This house, it’s going to be our Poltergeist house, and we’re fucking psyched. untitledson is going to grow up in this house and think this shit is standard. And that is exactly how I want it to be.
Now everyone I talk to says building a house is a nightmare. I think to myself “How bad could picking out kitchen cupboards and carpet really be?” But now, I see they are referring to the financial and legal side of things. Today, I swung by my attorney’s office to have him review our lot purchase agreement. I have a hard time digesting legal mumbo jumbo, so he proceeded to dress me down as if I were Gomer Pyle. Well GOLLLLLLYEE! Dude, you may be a lawyer. But right now, you are on MY dime, so do that little circus monkey dance and shut up. I’m not stupid — I just don’t care to engage my mind in legal drivel and indecipherable jurisprudence. In fact, I would rather pierce my own clit with a potato peeler than read this stuff. Now Cliff’s Notes this schtuff for me, and let me get back to my desk so I can expend my mental capacities reading Celebrity Baby Blog, for fuck’s sake.