The Feher's are Moving: Part 1

So, the cat's out of the bag. The Feher's are getting a new address! Lucky for me, this without-a-doubt, highly expected shit show will provide quite the material for this here blog. Let's be real, it already has.

The beginning of this saga started out relatively normal. You know, they researched properties, obtained a realtor, went to some open houses and put in an offer. But that didn't last long.

First of all, the Feher's new neighbors, who C just happens to already know, caught us creeping around the complex at midnight. As we headed over to check out the new place, C was worried about being discovered. Lo and behold,  as we're standing like a bunch of idiots outside the new front door, said neighbors come walking up. So much for a good first impression. At least C and I previously warned M that, under no circumstances, was he allowed to look in the windows of the house, which still had tenants. Thankfully, he complied, because bailing him out jail for being a peeping tom wasn't how we wanted to spend the wee hours of the morning.

Next, there was a home inspection. Which ended up just being weird and pretty dramatic. The Inspector basically told the Fehers that they had death mold sprouting up under the house and that the foundation was being held up by a couple of rusty jacks. He then proceeds to tell M to come take a look. But of course, M had to go home first to change out of his fancy work clothes. Leave it to M to come back wearing his whack basketball high-tops and spiderman board shorts. Then, as M climbs into the crawl space, the Inspector warns him that he could get Lou Gehrig's disease from the mold. Say what? Yeah, your making everyone feel pretty great right about now, Mr. Inspector. The house, apparently, is about to fall down and kill everyone, but, don't worry, cause M is going to die anyways.

What happens next is standard Feher.

M just stands there in his Nikes, looking like he's about to burst into tears and, C, after staying awake night after night, furiously copying their entire financial history and reading escrow papers, just gets mean and runs her mouth, spouting off all sorts of garbage. Meanwhile, M's parents, who came along for support and were only trying to be helpful, were being ignored by the hot mess that is M and C.

The icing on the cake? In the midst of this breakdown, a teenage girl wearing a cheerleading outfit and high pony tail comes bouncing out of the house, past everyone in the garage and down the street. The current tenants don't have children, so we still don't know who that person is....

Don't worry, dear readers, M and C brought in an engineer for a second opinion, who labeled the inspector a quack and settled everyone's fears. The house was good to go!

As of late, C, in her new home owner elitism, has been walking around grumbling about how small her apartment is and going on and on about what a dump the complex is. Talk about biting the hand that feeds you. All the sudden, she's too good for a measly two bedrooms. Trust me, she was perfectly content 4 months ago. And M, thinks he's turned into some master home decorator. His brilliant idea is to paint all three bedrooms yellow, orange and red, respectively. What is this, McDonalds? Furthermore, he has decided that he is not allowing the use of the color black anywhere in the home and thinks that it would be so much better to cover up his (real) hard wood floors with carpet.

Moving day is now only about a month away for Ebenezer Scrooge and Martha Stewart. Who wants to take bets on how that will turn out??

My Favorite Story Ever

Here’s a short one for today. But its one of my favorite Feher stories of all time. 

Sometimes, C goes out of town. When she does, M usually reverts back to bachelor mode. You know, nothing gets done and he becomes helpless. He runs out of toilet paper and just steals a roll from his parent’s house. C plans out meals for him, but he still gets chipotle. Everyday.

 Anyway, this one time C hit the road, M needed cash for the week. So C tells him to pull cash from the ATM from their savings account. ( I don’t know why she told him this. But she did).

She asks M, “ You DO know how to pull cash from savings, correct?!?"

“Of course I do!”, he replies.

M is a financial analyst. He knows money and he knows it well. But only if its in the millions. He basically tells CEO's whether they can or can not spend millions of dollars. However, in the Feher home, C definitely controls the funds. She pays the bills, solely knows the passwords to all the accounts and holds the credit cards. The running joke is that if C left M, she would leave him in the dust and take all the money. So one might assume he'd know how to take cash from his savings account. But alas, he does not. 

Two days into her trip, C asks her dear hubby if he had gotten cash from savings.

He replies, “ Yes, C. I went to the grocery store, bought some gum and got cash back”.  

Well, as we all know, that cash didn't come from savings. Oh M. What are we to do with you?

M's Job and C's "job"

So, this is a matter which comes up in conversation from time to time. A topic that I have discussed (that's a loose term because a "discussion" usually entails heavy sarcasm with some raised voices and a profanity or two) with each party separately and one that we have all discussed together.

During these discussions, M usually giggles (yes, giggles) and C puts on her F-you-I'm-not-really-mad-but-I-want-you-to-think-I'm-mad face. And she pouts. Because here's the deal:

M has a Job, with a capital "J". He wears a tie daily. He has special, shiny oxfords and loafers (that he still keeps in their original boxes. ooo la la). Rarely does M leave work before 8 p.m. He attends company picnics and baseball games. His job entails sitting at a desk crunching numbers, lots and lots of numbers.  He worked really hard in college, graduated top of his class and is now getting an MBA, to boot. In the Job department, he's got it going on. The guy may be a little prissy, but he sure is smart.  M has an A+, bona-fide, good and proper Capital "J" Job.

(I write these things because they're true, not because I necessarily want to. You see, when M reads this, I guarantee his ego is going to inflate to the size of Canada and he'll float around gloating his little heart out. He's kind of unbearable when he gets like that.)

Now, let's move over to C. In this "job" of hers, she "works" from home. Glued to her computer. Parked on the couch. Most of the time she doesn't wear pants. Bra's are a rarity, as well.  Sometimes I hear her on the phone, but I swear to God, once she was talking to someone who's child had a name that sounded freakishly close to Honey-Boo-Boo. Oh, and the TV is on. All day. And she burps. I know that has nothing to do with this. But I just wanted to throw it in.

Ok, so I did meet two of her coworkers. They were really nice. That should put a little validity to this "job" thing, right? Interestingly enough, I met them at pool party. In the middle of the afternoon. On a Thursday. Hmm. Its also been reported that they plan shopping days, eat out together multiple times a week and enjoyed a Palm Springs weekend, too. Those are some convenient coworkers.

Look, I'm not going to just come out and say that her job doesn't exist. I'm not going to actually say that there's some sort of triplet conspiracy going on. I'm not here to pass judgement on the legitimacy of C's employment claims. However, I am going to say that regardless of its authenticity, it's just not a Capital "J"job. It's just not. Sorry.

Bring on the giggles. And the F-you glare.

Ketchup, anyone?

"We need Ketchup"

I hope this post doesn't really need an explanation. Because I'm almost positive you can guess who wrote that brilliant note. But for those of you who would like a back story, its not very long. It goes like this:

C arrives home one afternoon. She sets her things down and goes into the kitchen. Whereupon she finds this bottle of ketchup with a note attached. Initially, she thinks fondly of her hubby, silently thanking him for the helpful note and for not putting an empty bottle back in the fridge. However, C's wifely memory is nudging her that there just might be more ketchup in the fridge. Perhaps, her sweet husband just didn't see it. Upon further inspection, her warmth is replaced by scorn and full-blown mockery. She finds not one, not two.....but THREE more ketchup bottles. Three!

M struck out so hard on this one. There aren't many words. Two will suffice. DUMB. ASS.

At least "ketchup"is spelled correctly. But raise you hand if you think he had to double check :)






....Wait. What kind of dumb ass wife keeps buying that much ketchup.....