Crash Into Me

“James is a lucky bastard.”

It’s a sentiment you’ll hear over and over again. For James, parking spots open up in impossibly perfect places; he wins raffles; birds don’t poop on his car; dogs (except Vito) love him; his Arab haggling ways are executed with such a subtle charm that vendors practically lay their worldly possessions at his feet. Anyway, you get the gist -- things seem to fall naturally into place for him, regardless of circumstance.

I – usually clumsy and cursed -- rode on the coat tails of James’ charmed life two years ago when we bought our house for a wicked steal. Still, like any new house, ours came with the typical list of improvements: new windows, a brick walkway, expanding the back deck, etc. However, our Eastie step child a.ka. the double-decka where we lived for five years before surrendering to the gods of square footage, has been a constant impediment to our plans. We’d decided to keep the 100-year-old EB house because it seemed like a solid investment in a growing neighborhood. So far, it's kept us solidly house poor -- even with good tenants. Short story is the place needs a new foundation badly. Bleh. It’s such a hefty, yet non-glam investment -- like pouring cash into a new septic system when you really want to set up a petting zoo and Calistoga-style spa in the backyard. BUT -- true to Jimmy form -- some idiot lost control of his car yesterday, jumped the curb, grazed a tree, crashed through the backyard fence and slammed head on into the foundation and bulkhead of the EB house. While it remains structurally sound, it was fucked up enough that we’ll likely get some dough toward shoring up, if not completely replacing, the foundation of that old house. Wow.

Of course, since I serve as the “balance” in the relationship, I’ll probably be changing a tune on my iPod -- while driving -- and hit a pedestrian