At my condo closing on Friday, things were going swimmingly well. My hand wasn�t hurting from any excessive signing. Everyone around was in good spirits. We had a small snafu with the tax ID number, as the city decided only two years ago that condos receive their own ID numbers instead of the entire building just splitting up the tax. No big deal.

We�re signing away while others are on the phone trying to resolve the numbers, talking about Texas and Benito (we used the same lawyer and broker in our transactions) and other such things, when my lawyer and I get to the last page to sign. We�re all �all right, looking good, that was fast� when she asks the other lawyer about something she found on an Internet search at the county tax collector�s office.

PROBLEM NUMBER ONE.

The butthead didn�t have much to say. So onto the cell phone my exceptionally nice but oh-so-kickin�-ass lawyer went. Come to find out, the developer who owned the building in 2001 neglected to pay $750k in taxes. Either I could cough up that amount, or I would have to wait until the developer paid or promised to pay that amount.

We broke up, my lawyer saying things like, �This is bullshit. You should have known about this already,� to the other lawyer, my broker announcing that my mortgage was only good until Monday, and me sighing, saying that whatever happens, happens.

In the worst case scenario, the deal doesn�t go through, I sue the fuck out of these folks (rates went up considerably, so my loan would be tres difficult to match at its current rate, I have to move in 11 days, I�d have to pay for painters and movers, etc., etc., etc.) and get an even bigger down payment on another place.

[sigh]

I picked up my dad and brother from the blue line el stop, took them back to the old apartment (which they ooh-ed and ahh-ed over), charged the cell phone, and then took them out to a late lunch of the crappiest Chicago-style pizza I�ve ever had. Sometime after 3 p.m., I got a call saying that things finally went through and all was cool to get my keys.

At 4 p.m. I got said keys, and I walked my dad and brother up to see Ch�teau de Jo (Jeau). They ooh-ed and ahh-ed a lot more, calling it an adult�s house. With our painting supplies and tard cart (that�s one of those city carts that you look like a real dork pushing around) in-hand, my dad got started while my brother and I went on Goodwill detail. The end of our efforts resulted in a painted hallway (robin�s egg blue), two coats in half of the living area (dark red), and $500 in tax write-offs.

We slept the sleep of the zombies, as I had been up since 4 and they had been up since 5. Zzzzzz...

The next morning Dad and I got up as Boy slept in, and he got another coat of dark red on the walls and I kept him company (a.k.a. lounged in the sun). We talked about the other required painting, and I realized that my leftover khaki from September�s bedroom painting wasn�t going to cover the walls correctly. We headed out to Home Depot for cinder bricks for my fish tank, more khaki paint, and a better ladder since I have 10-foot ceilings instead of the nine feet I thought I had.

Two and a half hours and $70 later, we made it back. I scored some $5 Oops! paint in a light mauve to replace where I thought the khaki would go, and if you�re in Chicago and ever need a 6-foot ladder, you know who to borrow one from so you don�t have to spend the $40 and take the bus ride from hell to get one.

I fed the guys, and we went back to painting. I got some stuff done at the old house with my brother in-tow. All is moving along well until I ran into my apartment assistant manager. Come to find out that the b!tch a$s cun+ wh0re who�s supposed to move into my place on the 15th has yet to come in to sign the lease, has neglected to return phone calls, and has put in an application to sublease another unit with a neighboring property that my complex just happens to share a corporate office with. (She doesn�t know that they know that she�s put in multiple applications.)

PROBLEM NUMBER TWO.

Someone named Katie Stangel screwed me out of $400. If you know her, please deliver her a beating so I don�t go to jail for it.

A simple phone call would have resolved all of this. A quick �I�m sorry, I�m going elsewhere� would have been all that was needed. She didn�t even need to call me to deliver the bad news, as all was being handled by the office at this point. But instead of making that simple phone call, she�s screwing me out of my lease, my $400 for the last two weeks of this month, and out of the charge for the Reader ad I placed to get her in.

I had five calls on my place the day after she signed. I could have at least gotten someone reliable in there to get the stuff done. But instead I�m wasting time that I don�t have, money I don�t want to spend, and worry that I shouldn�t have to emit.

Luckily, though, my apartment assistant manager has agreed to show people my unit so I don�t have to keep up a dog and pony show now that I don�t live there anymore. All should be done soon, but it doesn�t make Katie any less of a bitch.

Fuck you, Katie. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!

By time I got back, my dad was finished with the accenting mauve in the living area and had my entire bedroom finished (yellow). All looked great, and we took a much-needed rest before showering and getting ready to go out to dinner.

Benito came over to check out the place and join us for dinner. He was amazed by the amount of paint on the walls, how my rainbow of colors didn�t look retarded, and at how much better a painter my dad is than I am.

Dad, Boy, and Benito bonded over making fun of me, which went pretty well for the no-pressure-but-here�s-my-dad meeting.

The next day I went into work to find my U-Haul reservation number. Dad encouraged me to call to confirm my reservation, so I called the folks 6 blocks away to make sure that all was cool. After being on hold for freaking ever and having someone pick up the phone three times to ask when I was holding for, someone finally got my reservation number, cheerily said that all was ready to go. I confirmed the store�s location, and got a response I didn�t want to hear.

PROBLEM NUMBER THREE.

�No, that location is closed. They give us all of the weekend business instead. They should have told you that when you made your reservation.�

Much like when I heard about K@tie screwing me over, there were all sorts of veins popping out from my forehead and bad words on my tongue. This place was six miles away. If you live somewhere like Austin, that�s the trip to the grocery store. If you live in Houston, that half a trip to the grocery store. But in Chicago, that�s three neighborhoods and an hour-long bus ride.

Twenty minutes after my time reservation, Dad and I arrived for the truck. The lady working there was awfully nice, saying that she�d credit me 15 miles since the Lake Street store screwed me over. I got my truck, and I headed to the old place.

Benito, Dad, Boy, and I moved all of my shit out of the old place and into the truck. I lost a couch in the process, so that�s now top priority in my furniture-buying. I�m thinking something along these lines, but it doesn�t look as comfy as I want my couch to be. Argh.

When I bought my last couch, it was quite the process. It took for-freaking-ever to decide on what I wanted and then to actually find it. I ended up finding it in some unclaimed freight store in north Fort Worth.

Hopefully there won�t be a repeat of that.

But however it works out, it�ll work out.

This is not PROBLEM NUMBER FOUR. I refuse to set it that way.

I will not let two other bad things happen.

I will not let two other bad things happen.

I will not let two other bad things happen to round out the second trifecta, unless you want to count Ronald Regan�s death and J-Lo getting married again.

Time to go home. G�nite all. �