Thursday, December 16, 2010
Last night I was on my cell with my aunt, Jason was on the land line with his mom, his cell was ringing, we had a realtor on her way over to pick up some paperwork, and two friends were standing on our front sidewalk in Santa caps, holding candles and belting out "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer."
We hadn't had that much excitement in our lives since we began adding Siracha Sauce to macaroni and cheese.
Well, we lost "our" house. I thought I was doing great until my drive home from work on Tuesday. I remember thinking, "Wow, I feel pretty okay about all of this, actually," and then the wrong song came on the radio and I bawled the rest of the way. I think what got me was that I'd already developed a spreadsheet of shade-loving perennials I could have planted in the yard, and I'd already picked the new colors I wanted to paint on the walls. In my mind, I'd even already remodeled the kitchen and master bath just the way I liked them.
It felt a bit like being dumped by your fiance after you'd already started naming your future children.
It's okay though; I've already identified two new houses that I might develop crushes on. But before I get too invested, I think I'll first pass them a note: "Do you like me too? Check 'Y' for yes, 'N' for no."
I'm blogging at the Girlfriends Book Club blog tomorrow...stop by and say hi! The authors that comprise the blog frequently hold book giveaways, so it's a good site to add to your bookmarks.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Did you survive the Great Blizzard of 2010? We used the occasion to watch the first season of Dexter. About nine hours in, we hit midnight—as we rolled onward, we’d turn to each other for confirmation before starting the next episode, eyeballs beginning to smoke: “Watch the next one?” And we’d nod and queue it up. You hit a certain point when you’re engaged in such indulgent, irresponsible activities and think, “Why the hell not? We don’t have kids!” It felt decadent. It felt wrong. It felt awesome. We finished the season at 3:30 in the morning.
If you’re not familiar with Dexter, it’s a series first developed for Showtime back in 2006, currently rounding the bend on its sixth season. Dexter is a Blood Spatter* Analyst who works for the Miami PD and also happens to be a serial killer who channels his bloodlust to people who deserve it. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to watch the series, and I think it’s because I knew it would be good, and I knew I’d lose myself down the rabbit hole for 12 hours if I started.
On Day Two of the blizzard, I thought I’d initiate our kitchen remodel by head-butting a sharp corner of our cabinets. Actually, I was simply being too exuberant in my attempt to stamp down the garbage, and ended up with my first, honest-to-goodness head gusher. I’d never had a head injury before, so I was unsure of the protocol—when does a bleeding head warrant stitches? I was opposed to the idea, because I had visions of a tech shaving my head and creating a permanent bald patch in an already-thin area. It hurt like hell, my bathroom looked like a murder scene, and I now have a series of disgusting, blood-crusted scabs near my part.
More good times: we just got billed for the first installment of the street work completed last year ($5,000-yippee!), and we lost our contingent offer on the new place. The house we want to buy has been listed since April, and ours was the only offer fielded…until this past weekend, when two non-contingent offers came in.
SERIOUSLY?? How does that happen? It feels like a conspiracy. J and I have to make some tough decisions tonight, see how we want to proceed. These days, it feels much too dangerous to carry two mortgages when you don’t have to.
Altogether, it really makes my head hurt. Again.
*Spatter. Isn’t that a fun word? Who wouldn’t want that in their job descriptor? “Oh me? Yeah, I’m a word spatter specialist.”
Thursday, December 02, 2010
This Sunday we are anticipating the arrival of our THIRD niece in as many months: Isabella Grace. All of these beautiful babies with their soft, powdery heads and perfect button noses and fingernails smaller than ladybug wings...they are making my ovaries surrender. "Enough! We give up!"
(Is it possible to anthropomorphize internal organs?)
Actually, I feel that way until I remember my horrid self between the ages of 11 and 17. That usually does the trick. I just can't shake the fear that if I have a child, he or she will grow up to be a complete asshole.
Last night I made myself an early birthday cake of olive oil, rosemary, and dark chocolate. It was sublime. Rich, dense, flavorful, and--I'm going to use my least favorite word in the English language--moist. I was skeptical, but it was a Martha Stewart recipe. She hasn't steered me wrong yet. So Martha, you've done it again. I'm really glad you're out of prison.
In other food news, I have a message for Applebee's. Please get some meatless entrees on your menu. Also, mozzarella logs are supposed to bind you up, not give you the runs. You're doing it wrong.
*insert appropriate segue*
Has anyone seen the commercials for the class action lawsuit against Extenze male enhancement pills? Turns out they don't work. Who didn't see that coming? Pun possibly intended.
Finally, the other night we saw the most delightful movie: Winnebago Man. I lost track of how many times I turned to J during the film and said, "I just can't get over how much I'm enjoying this movie!" Usually documentaries make me want to tie myself to the nearest train tracks, but this one made me want to give hugs to complete strangers.