Me: It's supposed to rain here for the next few days.
Mom: I don't think we're getting rain. Wait, my phone has a cloud with a lightning bolt coming out of it. What does that mean?!
Me: You're not really asking me that.
Mom: Does it mean a thunderstorm?
Me: Not at all. It means electromagnetic radiation will be very strong, so you should only go outside if you're wearing a tinfoil hat.
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And the house is sold! The situation was touch-and-go at the end, or what was supposed to be the end: on the day before we were scheduled to close, the buyer showed up at the escrow office with three checks totaling the purchase price. Two were from his own accounts; the third—the big one—was a check payable to him, which he planned to sign over. And it was an out-of-state check, even though the escrow officer repeatedly warned him she wouldn't be able to accept such a thing. He did manage our expectations well after that, first telling us that he'd need seven business days to straighten the matter out—this was while the economy appeared to be in free fall—and then somehow getting the money wired the next day. Still, for 24 hours, we were convinced we were going to have to move in.
No, we're not looking for a new house just yet. One good thing about the pandemic is that no one—touch wood—is likely to buy the house we're renting anytime soon.
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Humanity is doomed.