It goes like this: I ended my long and complicated relationship with the company I worked for and moved in to a private, for-profit job (no one likes profit more than me, my friend) which gave me almost two weeks off for Christmas (and Hanukkah) after only working there two weeks. This time off has also coincided with Beloved's regularly scheduled week-off-per-month. This is the second time this year that we've been able to have dedicated time off together. In this time, we've managed to have a fantastic Christmas (I'm proud to say my blog garnered me a fabulous vacuum, but sadly, no nose-hair trimmer) and we were able to unload the ol PT Cruiser in favor of a vehicle that won't ensure my untimely end.
What we haven't been able to do is find internet service. Every single company I've called does not provide service to our area. We live on the main road. Spitting distance from the town line into Eddington. Eddington has service. All of my Clifton jokes are coming back to haunt me. It's like living in the third world. I have started sending out "$3 a day can provide all the luxury essentials this girl would need" to friends and relatives (look for yours soon...or provide me with your email address if you'd prefer to do a Paypal transfer.)
As for the wedding front, we've secured a reception site. It wasn't without tears (me) and F-bombs (Beloved), but we took the first place that didn't make me want to punch someone. If you're going to show off and try to entice me to have "the most memorable day of my life" in your location, please clean the effing carpets. And know where the light switches are. And take down the ramshackle Christmas decorations. And take my body size into consideration. I come from big people. There is no way we would fit into the room you so confidently feel will hold over 100 people. And no one will dance on a 3x3 dance floor. My personal space is larger than that. Next up is trying to secure DJ, photographer, and a wedding dress. I'd be a cash-cow for a show on TLC if they only knew enough to film me. Mad props to Beloved for jumping into the helping with both feet. He still doesn't feel like we're under any time crunch...he's just happy he doesn't have to wear a tuxedo and that no one will make him do the Electric Slide.
Showing posts with label Perils of Adulthood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Perils of Adulthood. Show all posts
Friday, December 30, 2011
Friday, December 2, 2011
There Are No Bad Gifts (Besides Backgammon)
My intention was to post about our Charlie Brown Christmas tree. But, alas and alack, my camera and computer are fighting. As soon as I can get to a computer that's as loose as the female celebrities my age, I'll make that post happen, complete with pictures. Until then, here's some thoughtful insight on gift-giving. To me.
MSN published an article citing eight bad gifts to give, along with their reasoning. I'm here to refute that and tell you why you could give me all eight of these gifts (and my mailing address, if you aren't able to see me in person to deliver.)
1. An appliance. I am a new homeowner. I can think of three appliances I would replace this instant, gift-given or otherwise. Our dryer is squeaky, though it dries clothes like that's its function. The washing machine takes so long that I could probably beat the dirty clothes on a washboard down by the crick in less time. And my vacuum spits the dirt back. At. me. I would not pout if I unwrapped a Dyson. I would plug her in and start vacuuming up the styrofoam bits that surely piled up by ripping open the packaging.
2. The partial gift. They reference Sirius XM. Oh, how I would love this. I would pay the fee for monthly service. My boss lets me use his account (5 days and you get it back, boss) and I'm addicted to the Broadway channel. If you see IV drug users humming songs from Annie, it's because of me. AND THEY HAVE A NEIL DIAMOND CHANNEL. I do believe I read somewhere that Neil Diamond makes for a happy marriage. At the very least, he disclosed at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade that he's engaged.
3. A nose-hair trimmer. Granted, this is not something I would give, but I would take it! Beloved has no known nose-hair issue. But eventually, when he's 80, I'm sure he will (all the cute lil old men do.) So I'd be prepared (take that, lame Girl Scout troop I dropped out of!) Plus, I have totally plucked unruly nose-hairs from my own sniffer, and it killed! I'd much rather take a machine to them. Don't get me started on the chin-hairs...
4. The 'improving' gift. Ok, I can be a Judy Moody and take things to heart (just ask anyone who has spoken to me) so if I received any sort of non-cookbook 'improving' book, I'd double dose some Xanax. But otherwise, I'm a cookbook junkie with a built-in taking up a quarter of my kitchen for just such gifts!
5. The gift of exercise. I was a heavy child. I was the heaviest adult. I'm now a less-heavy adult. I have been gifted exercise often (hello, Exerslide) and it's always been welcomed. It has even been talked about this year, as my Mom and I have developed a co-dependent relationship with each other and the gym.
6. A puppy. Last year I was given a puppy. It ran on batteries and scared the hell out of me (watch for a future post of my irrational fears) and we named it Shitlet because it was a tiny Shitzu. So furry friends of the AA variety would totally be appropriate. But if the Duracell pet you give me talks, know for sure I will make you euthanize it.
7. The generic gift. When the thought doesn't count? I want it. That probably sounds a little hoarderish of me, but a gift is a gift. And generic gifts re-gift fantastically! I'm planning to have a re-gifting party once the dust settles in late January or early February.
8. The misleading box. My trust issues probably stem from the misleading box. We take nothing at face value in my family (in regards to gifts and people.) My mother suggested that my father bring home an air compressor box for me to contain one of Beloved's Christmas presents. Since he really really really wants an air compressor, I thought it would be cruel to wrap my equally awesome present in that box. I have a heart, however small and black it may be.
So, may all your days be merry and bright and all that. And know that my preference for gift wrap is pink with lots and lots of bows, but I'm not above gifts wrapped in newspaper, paper bags, old boxed wine boxes and the like.
***
1. An appliance. I am a new homeowner. I can think of three appliances I would replace this instant, gift-given or otherwise. Our dryer is squeaky, though it dries clothes like that's its function. The washing machine takes so long that I could probably beat the dirty clothes on a washboard down by the crick in less time. And my vacuum spits the dirt back. At. me. I would not pout if I unwrapped a Dyson. I would plug her in and start vacuuming up the styrofoam bits that surely piled up by ripping open the packaging.
2. The partial gift. They reference Sirius XM. Oh, how I would love this. I would pay the fee for monthly service. My boss lets me use his account (5 days and you get it back, boss) and I'm addicted to the Broadway channel. If you see IV drug users humming songs from Annie, it's because of me. AND THEY HAVE A NEIL DIAMOND CHANNEL. I do believe I read somewhere that Neil Diamond makes for a happy marriage. At the very least, he disclosed at the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade that he's engaged.
3. A nose-hair trimmer. Granted, this is not something I would give, but I would take it! Beloved has no known nose-hair issue. But eventually, when he's 80, I'm sure he will (all the cute lil old men do.) So I'd be prepared (take that, lame Girl Scout troop I dropped out of!) Plus, I have totally plucked unruly nose-hairs from my own sniffer, and it killed! I'd much rather take a machine to them. Don't get me started on the chin-hairs...
4. The 'improving' gift. Ok, I can be a Judy Moody and take things to heart (just ask anyone who has spoken to me) so if I received any sort of non-cookbook 'improving' book, I'd double dose some Xanax. But otherwise, I'm a cookbook junkie with a built-in taking up a quarter of my kitchen for just such gifts!
5. The gift of exercise. I was a heavy child. I was the heaviest adult. I'm now a less-heavy adult. I have been gifted exercise often (hello, Exerslide) and it's always been welcomed. It has even been talked about this year, as my Mom and I have developed a co-dependent relationship with each other and the gym.
6. A puppy. Last year I was given a puppy. It ran on batteries and scared the hell out of me (watch for a future post of my irrational fears) and we named it Shitlet because it was a tiny Shitzu. So furry friends of the AA variety would totally be appropriate. But if the Duracell pet you give me talks, know for sure I will make you euthanize it.
7. The generic gift. When the thought doesn't count? I want it. That probably sounds a little hoarderish of me, but a gift is a gift. And generic gifts re-gift fantastically! I'm planning to have a re-gifting party once the dust settles in late January or early February.
8. The misleading box. My trust issues probably stem from the misleading box. We take nothing at face value in my family (in regards to gifts and people.) My mother suggested that my father bring home an air compressor box for me to contain one of Beloved's Christmas presents. Since he really really really wants an air compressor, I thought it would be cruel to wrap my equally awesome present in that box. I have a heart, however small and black it may be.
So, may all your days be merry and bright and all that. And know that my preference for gift wrap is pink with lots and lots of bows, but I'm not above gifts wrapped in newspaper, paper bags, old boxed wine boxes and the like.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
I'm Thanktastic
Holidays are a good bookmark of time. Last Thanksgiving, we were at my parent's house, celebrating the first Thanksgiving in the new addition of their house. It was the first Thanksgiving without my grandmother. This year will be the first Thanksgiving without my grandfather (her husband). This will be Baby Jonah's first Thanksgiving. The subtractions and additions to our life don't stop. For that, we can be thankful.
***
Beloved has been voted into the Union. That sentence sounds a little like he's the state of New Hampshire pre-Civil War, but I've been assured this is a good thing. But it feels a little mafia-ish to me.
 |
| Picture these guys wearing Carhartts and driving pickups and it might be Beloved's Operator crew |
Now, every time I've ever seen The Sopranos, it's been all stripper poles and curse words. Will there be piles of cocaine and nighttime body drops in my future? Hopefully no more than usual. But for this secure job, this opportunity to work (and to work overtime when the Bat Signal is put out there), we can be thankful. (I'm also secretly hoping this job comes with me getting a super mafia accent and the right to stay home all day and cook for my unthankful, mafioso family.)
***
Our house has been nothing short of amazing for us. The oddity of an upstairs kitchen:
 |
| I have it decorated differently. But can you see why I fell in love with it? |
The fantastic window seats in the kitchen, living room, and upstairs bedroom. The pool. The pellet stove:
 |
| Again, it looks different now that it's ours. I don't even have a Kane. But you can see the pool through the windows. Deuces! |
And Beloved would have me mention the biggest garage in Clifton.
 |
| He will be in there in the dead of winter. Because it's his. |
Man-cave extraordinaire. Buying that little piece of heaven was hell. But worth it. And for all the lawn raking-induced blisters, the gray paint under the fingernails, the mouse traps working effectively, the hot meals, the old-school Nintendo games played at night, the quietness of the locale we picked, we can be thankful.
Friday, November 18, 2011
The Recipe For Keeping Warm
 |
| This isn't my kitchen...allegedly |
Back to topic, then: Pinnacle is from Lewiston. While I wouldn't normally support anything from such a scary-sounding place, they make whipped cream flavored vodka. And they make rebate forms. And the IGA has lowered their prices on said whipped cream hangovers. I got a vodka sized bottle of whipped, and it came with a travel-size portion of Cake flavored. All in all, with rebate form, it cost 6$. I'm a cheap drunk*, in the best way.
Now, if the cost of heating oil makes you want to day drink, here is my suggested nighttime drink:
1-2 oz Pinnacle whipped (I used 3/4 oz, because, again, I'm not a hard liquor drinker and I don't know what the appropriate amount of hard liquor per serving is...if you drink as a daytime job, it's probably more than 3/4 oz)
Mug full of milk (I used skim...if you're going whole hog (and, really, why wouldn't you? You can just work it off on Monday), use a higher fat milk)
Dark Chocolate hot cocoa mix
Heat the mug of milk in the microwave for 1.5-2 minutes (unless you have the world's oldest microwave, like Beloved's parents do (he heated their dog's METAL dish without any fiery repercussions!!), or until your milk is hot.) Add the vodka, then the cocoa mix. Stir, don't drive, and enjoy!
*All talk of day drinking and whatnotery is clearly me being humorous. I don't have a drinking problem. I don't have a vodka mustache. My stomach is too tiny to support all the joke drinking I do. Don't be worried. Don't call the AA. Oh, quick story: Beloved's uncle wanted to name our house the AA Ranch, but with us being homebrewers, I thought it implied something else, and we're on the hunt for a different name for the property...
Friday, October 21, 2011
Wicked Easy Recipe and Why I Need A Full-Length Mirror
The pictured recipe is courtesy of Kraft, which always sends me very easy recipes, which I can appreciate on a weeknight. They call it Saucy Mexican Chicken. I call it Really Good With Two Glasses of Reisling.
On to the recipe:
1 lb chicken breast (they left theirs whole; I cut mine up into smallish pieces)
15 oz can black beans, undrained (I used Turtle Beans, Hannaford brand)
1 cup salsa (I used 16oz jar Newman's Own Hot Salsa)
Mexican blend cheese and Sour Cream (and/or any other toppings you'd like)
Cook chicken breasts in non-stick skillet (I used cast iron skillet with a little bit of olive oil) over medium high heat until brown on both sides (I cooked it until it was mostly done, mostly because I didn't read the entirety of this part of the directions...)
Add the beans and salsa and bring to a boil; cover and simmer for 5 minutes, or until chicken is done.
At this point, you're done. If you make it with whole chicken breasts, they recommended taking it off the heat, adding 1 c of cheese and letting stand until cheese was melted. I brought our cheese to the table and we added it ourselves (I didn't use 1/2 c of cheese for my plate...I'd appreciate some clapping here) and added sour cream. I also made Minute Rice brand Spanish Rice and we served that and corn in a big Mexican mashup. It was so good! Could easily throw this in a soft taco shell if you needed some more carbs (and who doesn't??) For two people (with 1 1/4 stomachs total) it fed us and there's a good amount leftover for Beloved to have lunch today. The trash will not be getting these leftovers.
**********
Today I attempted to leave the house in my leggings and a longish button down shirt. I felt very "Hollywood, just thrown together, it's fall but I go for the no-pants" kinda look. As I bent down into my car to put my travel mug in it's spot, Beloved pointed out that you could see my underwear clear through the leggings. Defeated, I went inside and put on age-appropriate jeans (knowing now my leggings might not see the light of day again) and trudged back outside. Beloved declared that he thought that was the look I was going for. Why would I go to work with my skivvies shining through like the sun??? All he could do was laugh at me. It made me laugh that he sort of argued for me to keep the leggings on, because you could only see them when I was bent over. If you got it, flaunt it??
Wednesday, October 19, 2011
This Woman Is Sufferaging...
I love mail. I love getting mail with my name on it. Samples from companies, magazines, heck, throw in the occasional medical bill. It's for me. It makes me feel important. I've done a lot worse than enjoy mail in the name of low self-esteem.
Anyhow.
Poor Beloved's only mail seems to be advertisements for Important Homeowner's Insurance that he Must Not Delay in purchasing.
In other words: junk mail.
Not to be left out, I've started getting junk mail. In regards to our wedding. Beloved gets the manly things, like sway mail regarding allowing the racino in Biddeford and supplemental insurance policies, and I get the lady junk mail. Advertisements for places in Maine I couldn't put a pin on in the DeLorme, wanting us to come spend my parents' hard-earned money on for one party reflecting my Misery-style commitment to Beloved.
Having this junk mail doesn't make it any easier for me to make any plans. We've only just narrowed it down to the weekend of such and such a month because we now have Beloved's work schedule for next year (that electricity doesn't make itself, folks. And, I've learned, it doesn't come from flipping on a light switch. I could never pinch-hit as a Roving Operator. Oh well. Someone has to watch "Last Man Standing.")
But, having the manly junk mail is learning me some important lessons: when we're supposed to vote again for the Prezzy Prez. I don't keep track. I also choose to vote by absentee ballot, because voting in public is just like going to Walmart: it just shouldn't be done after 8 a.m. Because everyone is there. And have you seen Our Fellow Men recently?
So Beloved schooled me that we vote for the Prez every 4 years (that part I vaguely remembered) and we'd know which year we were supposed to vote in when it was divisible by 4. So we vote in '12 because it's divisible by 4. It was the dang 12 that got stuck in my head. I somehow thought that was the number to remember, and the number 8 came into play via the news (I only get channel 2 and we know that is NOT Maine news...Portland is barely Maine) and I texted: "8 is not divisible by 12" to a groggy Beloved on his 2nd night of night shift.
Smarty Carhartts Beloved: "I'm half asleep and I have to call to explain this to you again?"
Dumb Pajamas Me: "Well, I'm half awake..."
SCB: "Hon, if the year is divisible by 4, we vote for the President in that year."
DPM: "Oh, so 12 has nothing to do with it?"
SCB: "No. Only that we're doing some Presidential voting in 2012."
DPM: "Fantastic. I've a handle on it now."
Just wait until I need him to 'splain the candidates and their platforms to me.
Anyhow.
Poor Beloved's only mail seems to be advertisements for Important Homeowner's Insurance that he Must Not Delay in purchasing.
In other words: junk mail.
Not to be left out, I've started getting junk mail. In regards to our wedding. Beloved gets the manly things, like sway mail regarding allowing the racino in Biddeford and supplemental insurance policies, and I get the lady junk mail. Advertisements for places in Maine I couldn't put a pin on in the DeLorme, wanting us to come spend my parents' hard-earned money on for one party reflecting my Misery-style commitment to Beloved.
Having this junk mail doesn't make it any easier for me to make any plans. We've only just narrowed it down to the weekend of such and such a month because we now have Beloved's work schedule for next year (that electricity doesn't make itself, folks. And, I've learned, it doesn't come from flipping on a light switch. I could never pinch-hit as a Roving Operator. Oh well. Someone has to watch "Last Man Standing.")
But, having the manly junk mail is learning me some important lessons: when we're supposed to vote again for the Prezzy Prez. I don't keep track. I also choose to vote by absentee ballot, because voting in public is just like going to Walmart: it just shouldn't be done after 8 a.m. Because everyone is there. And have you seen Our Fellow Men recently?
So Beloved schooled me that we vote for the Prez every 4 years (that part I vaguely remembered) and we'd know which year we were supposed to vote in when it was divisible by 4. So we vote in '12 because it's divisible by 4. It was the dang 12 that got stuck in my head. I somehow thought that was the number to remember, and the number 8 came into play via the news (I only get channel 2 and we know that is NOT Maine news...Portland is barely Maine) and I texted: "8 is not divisible by 12" to a groggy Beloved on his 2nd night of night shift.
Smarty Carhartts Beloved: "I'm half asleep and I have to call to explain this to you again?"
Dumb Pajamas Me: "Well, I'm half awake..."
SCB: "Hon, if the year is divisible by 4, we vote for the President in that year."
DPM: "Oh, so 12 has nothing to do with it?"
SCB: "No. Only that we're doing some Presidential voting in 2012."
DPM: "Fantastic. I've a handle on it now."
Just wait until I need him to 'splain the candidates and their platforms to me.
Monday, October 3, 2011
More Than 140 characters can handle.
Those aren't the 140 characters in my head, mind you. There's so many more in there. It's like the town of Clifton in this noggin.
Worry: wedding planning. I can't decide where to go for dinner if Beloved and I have the opportunity to dine outside 04428. I'm worried I'll make the wrong choice (how is there a wrong choice??), so how much more does it sucketh that I have this same perception going into the planning of my Husband Bagging Party?
Worry: wedding planning. I can't decide where to go for dinner if Beloved and I have the opportunity to dine outside 04428. I'm worried I'll make the wrong choice (how is there a wrong choice??), so how much more does it sucketh that I have this same perception going into the planning of my Husband Bagging Party?
- I should be thinking: I'm having a Husband Bagging Party!!!! And it will be Somewhere! On a Certain Day! And I probably will only day drink
oncethree times to get through these 365ish days until it happens!
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
Sleeping In My Tiara
I didn't ask for it to happen.
I didn't stomp my feet, throw a fit, or pout (note: we're only talking of this specific situation and I, by all means, employ these tactics in certain other situations. Clear?)
When I moved in with my parents at the beginning of the year, my parents accidentally thought I was five. I think I used my alarm clock the first night I moved in, but every morning after that, my mom came in to wake me up for work/gym/let's-skip-gym-for-breakfast. And on the mornings I went to gym, I think I started my car myself and brought out my gym bag once. Then my dad offered to do it. Every day.
When Beloved learned of my unintentional Princess treatment, he made it clear as day that I'd be using my alarm clock like a big girl. And the muscles I was was forming at gym could bring my bag to the car and turn the key and the heater on just fine. I was touched by his gentleness.
The last few days it's been crisp outside. And Beloved has offered to start my car to let it warm up. He's usually just getting in from work, so it's no trouble to him. Hmm.
He and I work all kinds of random schedules, so there might be days when we're both up at 4:45am, or he's coming home at 6:30am and I'm just waking up, all growls and hisses from having less sleep than Fake Princess requires.
That was the case today. I was given the green light last night to "sleep until I get home...I'll wake you up!" (Do you see the Princess-creating pattern here?) Had he been able to support my girth, I think he would have carried me up the stairs to the kitchen and nestled me into the window seat to rest while he made coffee. Again today he offered to start my car, you know, while he went out to get the mower ready (he will not be outdone by my 15.5 hour workday!) for his one-of-eight side jobs as lawn boy for Shoestring Shop, the thriftiest of thrift stores in Brewer (future M-I-L totally has the hookup there and I've scored some sweet stuff!) Lastly, as I was struggling to fit the Stanley thermos full of DD into my work bag (get out of the way, coupon binder! Mama needs her LifeJuice!), he waited patiently, then took it from me and whisked it away to my car. I did point out that he was giving me Princess treatment. I heard, "yeah, well..." as he walked away. My knight in Carhartt.
I didn't stomp my feet, throw a fit, or pout (note: we're only talking of this specific situation and I, by all means, employ these tactics in certain other situations. Clear?)
When I moved in with my parents at the beginning of the year, my parents accidentally thought I was five. I think I used my alarm clock the first night I moved in, but every morning after that, my mom came in to wake me up for work/gym/let's-skip-gym-for-breakfast. And on the mornings I went to gym, I think I started my car myself and brought out my gym bag once. Then my dad offered to do it. Every day.
When Beloved learned of my unintentional Princess treatment, he made it clear as day that I'd be using my alarm clock like a big girl. And the muscles I was was forming at gym could bring my bag to the car and turn the key and the heater on just fine. I was touched by his gentleness.
The last few days it's been crisp outside. And Beloved has offered to start my car to let it warm up. He's usually just getting in from work, so it's no trouble to him. Hmm.
He and I work all kinds of random schedules, so there might be days when we're both up at 4:45am, or he's coming home at 6:30am and I'm just waking up, all growls and hisses from having less sleep than Fake Princess requires.
That was the case today. I was given the green light last night to "sleep until I get home...I'll wake you up!" (Do you see the Princess-creating pattern here?) Had he been able to support my girth, I think he would have carried me up the stairs to the kitchen and nestled me into the window seat to rest while he made coffee. Again today he offered to start my car, you know, while he went out to get the mower ready (he will not be outdone by my 15.5 hour workday!) for his one-of-eight side jobs as lawn boy for Shoestring Shop, the thriftiest of thrift stores in Brewer (future M-I-L totally has the hookup there and I've scored some sweet stuff!) Lastly, as I was struggling to fit the Stanley thermos full of DD into my work bag (get out of the way, coupon binder! Mama needs her LifeJuice!), he waited patiently, then took it from me and whisked it away to my car. I did point out that he was giving me Princess treatment. I heard, "yeah, well..." as he walked away. My knight in Carhartt.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Would You, Could You, With A Ring?
But what struck me most was one comment my uncle made. Grampy used to say "D'oh" (not in a Homer Simpson-y way, but like an Over East kinda "D'awoh") when he didn't believe something. It was striking because Beloved says the same thing. This is not a noise that I hear a lot of people make. It got me thinking about how much alike they were. I could be so lucky to find someone as patient, thoughtful, creative, helpful, tenderhearted, and sincere as Grampy. And I decided I was. Those are just six of the million reasons that I said Yes this week when Beloved asked if I would marry him.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Timeline
Thursday, August 25 (day before closing; anxiety level:6):
Noontime: Text Beloved to see if he wants me to work a half-day tomorrow in order to help him with our move.
Noon-oh-two: He replies I should stay at work and make money. Believe this is a polite way of telling me to stay the hell away while he moves all my stuff into our new home. We both know I'm more useful at work, anyhow.
My plot to escape work early has failed. Sorry, boss.
Friday, August 26th (day of closing; anxiety level: 29):
7am: Beloved meets mom and I at her house for our ritualistic Friday Bagel Central breakfast. Commence meltdown in the driveway, uttering things such as "I don't want people touching my stuff."
7:15am: Am mildly sedated by jalapeno cream cheese. Judging people who walk in looking like Lady Gaga also helps to take my mind off of today's event.
8:00am-3:00pm: Work. Boss lovingly tells me no one will unpack my stuff. They're just gonna dump my shit and ditch. Feel better. Wish I was there supervising my loving people who helped to move my many years' worth of accumulation and Beloved's one suitcase.
3:00pm: Beloved whisks me away to the Farmhouse for dual housewarming presents.
3:15pm-3:45pm: Wander up and down Main St. on foot, feeling odd to be out during the day.
3:50pm: Figure we can be early, we go in to the attorney's office. We're nearly the last ones there, so we get this show on the road.
4:36pm: We own a house.
4:37pm: Stooled at Paddy's for one congratulatory beverage.
5:00pm: Each to his own parent's house to gather belongings not scooped and dropped in this morning's move.
5:10pm: Pizza and such with our people who helped moved us. They were good people. One even ran after a squirrel attempting to enter the mudroom. But I'll have no squatters in my new home. My nephew is running round, having "adventures" and doing somersaults in the yard.
8:36pm: Bed. Only to be followed by...
Saturday, August 27th (first day owning a home; anxiety level: 2):
2:30am: Up and at 'em. Beloved sleeps and I'm upstairs unpacking the kitchen like Martha Stewart on crystal meth.
6:00am: I lay down on the couch in the upstairs living room, and hear padded steps and a tired-looking Beloved approach. "You've been up this whole time?" A girl has priorities. And her cookie sheets are one of them.
6:36am: Breakfast, half of which was on the house. Thanks, one-arm-in-a-sling lady at the golden arches.
7:00am: Lowe's. Sellers took their mailbox so we're on the hunt. We pick up a rake, new lighting for the upstairs bathroom, work gloves for me (I still laugh at that whole collection of words together), garage door rollers (I got the ricketier door of the two), and was doing my best to seem interested in the difference between 2-stroke and 4-stroke weed wackers, when I blurted out: "Crap! We need a mailbox!" Bubble bursted, we make a mad dash to the postal aisle like a couple from Supermarket Sweep (I would give my mailbox to be able to bring that show back and be on it!)
8:00am: Walmart. No one should have to go into a Walmart on a weekend past 9:00am. You're just asking for your day to be ruined. We got in and out of there pretty quick. Beloved has never spent more than $14 for groceries in one trip. I had to defibrilate him at one point. I also pointed out that toilet plungers and clothes hampers don't count as food and we weren't throwing down too much. Be a good boy. Wheel my groceries to the car.
11:00am: Converge on new house with more and more stuff taken from parent's homes. Introductions of opposite sides of family that haven't yet met (oh, Nana! My mom just loved you!) Lunch and unpacking.
4:00pm: More unpacking? It's all sort of a blur. We did hit the pool, and it was cold. We mostly just stood in it and drank champagne.
7:30pm: Out in these parts, we don't get "the cable" or have "the internets" so we popped in a movie. Just as it should be.
Sunday, August 28th (second day owning a home and day of hurricane; anxiety level: -12):
4:45am: No rest for the weary. Beloved returns to Work-work and I am left to tackle Remaining Unpacking Projects.
7:00am: Steal away to Hannaford and Walmart (remember my 9:00am Walmart rule!) to buy staple groceries before Irene swept Eastern Maine off the map.
9:00am: One more haul of stuff at my parent's house (I think my stuff mated while it was in storage and produced more and more stuffs.)
10:00am: Mom arrives and holds it DOWN in the handwashing of large items too big to be chucked in the dishwasher department.
Noontime: Last of the Friday pizza is eaten! House is 98% settled. Mom departs, between sheets of rain, and I guiltily rest.
3:15pm: No power. Means no hot meal for the Beloved who worked very hard in the nasty storm. My suggestion of PB&J via text message is not warmly met. After many calls back and forth, it is decided he will bring home to-go dinner from his parent's house (yes, I hadn't showered all weekend, and there was just no need for his parents to know me like that.)
6:44pm: Power restored. I text Beloved.
6:45pm: He rolls into the driveway.
And that is how you buy a house, avoid moving all the really heavy stuff, come to terms with people touching your stuff, and eat your first meal at home together, prepared by someone else.
Noontime: Text Beloved to see if he wants me to work a half-day tomorrow in order to help him with our move.
Noon-oh-two: He replies I should stay at work and make money. Believe this is a polite way of telling me to stay the hell away while he moves all my stuff into our new home. We both know I'm more useful at work, anyhow.
My plot to escape work early has failed. Sorry, boss.
Friday, August 26th (day of closing; anxiety level: 29):
7am: Beloved meets mom and I at her house for our ritualistic Friday Bagel Central breakfast. Commence meltdown in the driveway, uttering things such as "I don't want people touching my stuff."
7:15am: Am mildly sedated by jalapeno cream cheese. Judging people who walk in looking like Lady Gaga also helps to take my mind off of today's event.
8:00am-3:00pm: Work. Boss lovingly tells me no one will unpack my stuff. They're just gonna dump my shit and ditch. Feel better. Wish I was there supervising my loving people who helped to move my many years' worth of accumulation and Beloved's one suitcase.
3:00pm: Beloved whisks me away to the Farmhouse for dual housewarming presents.
3:15pm-3:45pm: Wander up and down Main St. on foot, feeling odd to be out during the day.
3:50pm: Figure we can be early, we go in to the attorney's office. We're nearly the last ones there, so we get this show on the road.
4:36pm: We own a house.
4:37pm: Stooled at Paddy's for one congratulatory beverage.
5:00pm: Each to his own parent's house to gather belongings not scooped and dropped in this morning's move.
5:10pm: Pizza and such with our people who helped moved us. They were good people. One even ran after a squirrel attempting to enter the mudroom. But I'll have no squatters in my new home. My nephew is running round, having "adventures" and doing somersaults in the yard.
8:36pm: Bed. Only to be followed by...
Saturday, August 27th (first day owning a home; anxiety level: 2):
2:30am: Up and at 'em. Beloved sleeps and I'm upstairs unpacking the kitchen like Martha Stewart on crystal meth.
6:00am: I lay down on the couch in the upstairs living room, and hear padded steps and a tired-looking Beloved approach. "You've been up this whole time?" A girl has priorities. And her cookie sheets are one of them.
6:36am: Breakfast, half of which was on the house. Thanks, one-arm-in-a-sling lady at the golden arches.
7:00am: Lowe's. Sellers took their mailbox so we're on the hunt. We pick up a rake, new lighting for the upstairs bathroom, work gloves for me (I still laugh at that whole collection of words together), garage door rollers (I got the ricketier door of the two), and was doing my best to seem interested in the difference between 2-stroke and 4-stroke weed wackers, when I blurted out: "Crap! We need a mailbox!" Bubble bursted, we make a mad dash to the postal aisle like a couple from Supermarket Sweep (I would give my mailbox to be able to bring that show back and be on it!)
8:00am: Walmart. No one should have to go into a Walmart on a weekend past 9:00am. You're just asking for your day to be ruined. We got in and out of there pretty quick. Beloved has never spent more than $14 for groceries in one trip. I had to defibrilate him at one point. I also pointed out that toilet plungers and clothes hampers don't count as food and we weren't throwing down too much. Be a good boy. Wheel my groceries to the car.
11:00am: Converge on new house with more and more stuff taken from parent's homes. Introductions of opposite sides of family that haven't yet met (oh, Nana! My mom just loved you!) Lunch and unpacking.
4:00pm: More unpacking? It's all sort of a blur. We did hit the pool, and it was cold. We mostly just stood in it and drank champagne.
7:30pm: Out in these parts, we don't get "the cable" or have "the internets" so we popped in a movie. Just as it should be.
Sunday, August 28th (second day owning a home and day of hurricane; anxiety level: -12):
4:45am: No rest for the weary. Beloved returns to Work-work and I am left to tackle Remaining Unpacking Projects.
7:00am: Steal away to Hannaford and Walmart (remember my 9:00am Walmart rule!) to buy staple groceries before Irene swept Eastern Maine off the map.
9:00am: One more haul of stuff at my parent's house (I think my stuff mated while it was in storage and produced more and more stuffs.)
10:00am: Mom arrives and holds it DOWN in the handwashing of large items too big to be chucked in the dishwasher department.
Noontime: Last of the Friday pizza is eaten! House is 98% settled. Mom departs, between sheets of rain, and I guiltily rest.
3:15pm: No power. Means no hot meal for the Beloved who worked very hard in the nasty storm. My suggestion of PB&J via text message is not warmly met. After many calls back and forth, it is decided he will bring home to-go dinner from his parent's house (yes, I hadn't showered all weekend, and there was just no need for his parents to know me like that.)
6:44pm: Power restored. I text Beloved.
6:45pm: He rolls into the driveway.
And that is how you buy a house, avoid moving all the really heavy stuff, come to terms with people touching your stuff, and eat your first meal at home together, prepared by someone else.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Like A Virgin
Now that we have a set-in-stone date for the closing, I'm still in baffle-mode that it's all happening. Eight months ago, when we started the process of buying a short-sale house, it was like practice purchasing. We went through all the motions of attempted home acquisition: offer a price, sign some purchase and sale paperwork, and dazzle them with some earnest money. Oh, and attend a first time homebuyer's class put on by a man WHO RENTS AN APARTMENT. Because homebuying "isn't his thing." But apparently, having a comfy little racket is.
No one told us that trying to buy a short-sale home is worse than high school. Ok, well maybe Real Estate Man said something to that effect, but he's seven feet tall, there was an echo, and I thought he was complimenting me on my outfit that day.
So when we ditched that first house and fell head-over-heels for the "Double A Ranch" (I'd type it out "AA Ranch" but with our hobby of Homebrew, that just seems...fitting?), things came together so much faster. Too fast, actually, for my experience. The other house was ok with going slow, but this one wants to go all the way. Where is an afterschool special on thirty-year mortgages when you need one?
And now we're being handed off to The Attorneys. I've had no dry-run for this part of the show. Everything in me wants to push Beloved out of the way next week, sign all the forms for both us, grab the keys to the house, and cart him away to our new zip code. Because sometimes love means never having to sign your initials yourself. This will not be the case, though. We will sit across from the very nice sellers and ping pong paperwork back and forth (I assume; this is all secondhand information gleaned from HGTV shows like Property Virgins who have budgets of $200,000. We probably get some sort of value-meal closing in a greasy brown paper bag.)
I do envision some tears (him) and some cursing (me) as soon as the last Ford is signed. And then more cursing (him) and tears (me) as we try to move my 31-gallon tote of cookbooks into our upstairs kitchen. I'll be sure to have 10cc's The Things We Do For Love blaring. Note to self: move the boombox in first.
No one told us that trying to buy a short-sale home is worse than high school. Ok, well maybe Real Estate Man said something to that effect, but he's seven feet tall, there was an echo, and I thought he was complimenting me on my outfit that day.
So when we ditched that first house and fell head-over-heels for the "Double A Ranch" (I'd type it out "AA Ranch" but with our hobby of Homebrew, that just seems...fitting?), things came together so much faster. Too fast, actually, for my experience. The other house was ok with going slow, but this one wants to go all the way. Where is an afterschool special on thirty-year mortgages when you need one?
And now we're being handed off to The Attorneys. I've had no dry-run for this part of the show. Everything in me wants to push Beloved out of the way next week, sign all the forms for both us, grab the keys to the house, and cart him away to our new zip code. Because sometimes love means never having to sign your initials yourself. This will not be the case, though. We will sit across from the very nice sellers and ping pong paperwork back and forth (I assume; this is all secondhand information gleaned from HGTV shows like Property Virgins who have budgets of $200,000. We probably get some sort of value-meal closing in a greasy brown paper bag.)
I do envision some tears (him) and some cursing (me) as soon as the last Ford is signed. And then more cursing (him) and tears (me) as we try to move my 31-gallon tote of cookbooks into our upstairs kitchen. I'll be sure to have 10cc's The Things We Do For Love blaring. Note to self: move the boombox in first.
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