It was five weeks ago tomorrow I broke my finger, and I have to admit it has taken longer for it to heal than any other bone I have ever broken. My finger is still swollen to one-and-a-half its normal size and I still can’t do anything physical.
We’re making an odyssey today to find some “resort” property that Jimbo’s girlfriend owns a hundred and fifty miles away from here. We’ve never driven anywhere together outside of the metro, except to go to my house, and my house is only a half-hour away. This should be fun. We’re going to look at this place because she hasn’t seen it for a decade and we are interested to see if it’s worth anything.
“Oh, Jimbo, you gold digger,” many of you are probably saying now. “At the mere mention of valuable property, your eyes light up like a cash register ringing up a sale.”
No, it’s not like that. After paying the property taxes faithfully for the last decade, Jimbo’s girlfriend has received a letter advising her she has been inducted into a landowners association, and requesting she pay the annual dues, which exceed the annual taxes on the place. We’re not “joiners.” It is time to “opt out.” Today, we see what we are dealing with.
So as the sun rises over the hood of her red 2005 Toyota Corolla “S” and we begin our journey, I bid you a fond “good morning,” and if anything of interest happens on our trip, I will faithfully report back to you.
Until then, bon voyage.
At least, that’s the way we say it in Jimbo’s world.
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