Homeowner? For real?

There have been several times in the past when I have - or my then-husband and I had - considered purchasing a house.  I've met with real estate agents, obsessively watched HGTV (for ideas, and for how-to-behave-when-house-hunting) (which is to say, snotty as shit), done ride-arounds on the neighborhoods I am most interested in.

And then I always p-worded out.  Quit while I was ahead.  Never pushed the "send" button on a loan request on the internet.  And this is back when even I could get a loan.  Just shut up.

Oddly, or awesomely, in the past two years, I have worked very diligently to improve my credit score (DOING IT!) and to be financially smarter.  I've done well.  I am proud to report that I haven't bounced a check since I got my own checking account, a seriously stressful activity for me.  I have money anxiety.

Doing it.

Anyway.  So I did some math, and I realized that I have poured more than $50,000 into the (very nice, but still) house that I am renting.  I'm a good tenant, follow the rules, get along well with the neighbors, keep it decently clean and I've been there for more than four years.  In return, they haven't raised my rent, though they certainly could at any time.

In addition, a couple of months ago, a crew showed up to repair all the wooden siding on the outside of the house, paint a bunch of the outside, and fix the door. Once you get past wondering why in the HELL one would put wooden siding on a house in Louisiana, you have to wonder... why did they do all that work?

I never asked them to, that's for sure.  I can only come to one conclusion.  Looking.  To.  Sell.

It is not currently on the market, but I can see/smell the writing on the (freshly painted) wall.  Which means, this is my cue.  It's time.

I started meeting with a new, great agent a couple of months ago.  Kind of half-assed, I looked at, oh, I don't know a dozen or so houses in the school district.

And then I found one that is really pretty much perfect.  It has:  tile floors (yay!).  a pantry (omg, yay!) (says the girl who hasn't had a pantry since 2002).  a fireplace (yes, it is stupid in Louisiana but mama loves her fireplace, lights it every night that falls below 65 degrees, and besides, how else would Santa get in?).  a drinking patio.  virtually no yard (to mow.  ka-boom.)

It's much smaller than my rental, 1000 square feet smaller, which is great.  It should be cheaper to heat and cool.

I made an offer this week.  Despite my efforts, it makes more financial sense for my folks to buy this house and then sell it to me, so that's the plan.  They are all in, too.  We are all sitting on pins and needles waiting for the counter-offer (we low-balled, that's fo sho.)

I'll let you know.  Don't want to jinx anything, so I'm not going to post a picture and I'm going to try really hard to stop driving by it every single day and referring to it as "my new house."

In other news, I'm going to have to deal with moving, which totally sucks ass.

Think happy housey thoughts, everybody.  I'll let you know!

Badmin

1.  There is this lady.  She's not a client, she's like... a frenemy, I guess, of our boss.  She comes to our work, and brings her dog with her.  Her dog.  To our work.  Truth be told, it's a cute dog, but my favorite time is when that little dog runs into one of the manager's office and he kicks the dog.  She hasn't been in in a long time, but she called on Friday, tied me up for about 40 minutes.

I'm not terribly busy today, just not in the mood for that level of crazy, so when she called, I just dumped her on my boss.  Sorry, boss person.  I'm evil.

40-some-odd minutes later, my boss gets off the phone.  "Sarah, you are evil."

Told you so.

2.  I miss our temp.  She called me princess and made me coffee.  For some reason, she TOTALLY thought I was the boss of her, which I am TOTALLY not.  But whatever.  Meanwhile, we have hired a new McBaseball McSalesMcManager, and I AM the boss of him.  Only I'm not.  But nobody has told him that, so let's just keep that to ourselves, shall we?

Here's what I like about HM (ie, Hottie McBaseball).  He is a slob.  He carries crap everywhere, and leaves it wherever it lands.  I like the whole Pig Pennishness and I like that I can just collect his crap and bring it to him periodically.  No idea why this all amuses me, but it does.

Good times.

3.  I'm supposed to do the following this week:  a) find a photographer.  b) order Christmas cards.  c) re-write my boss's self-review (I know.  Seriously.).  I intend to do these things at, like, 4pm on Friday.

4.  I knitted a sweater.  This is not work-related, except in that I will wear it to work, if I can get it to shrink a little bit.

5.  Also un-work-related, but YES I DID make everybody at my work enjoy it - - - last night, the baby and I spent several minutes recording ourselves singing pop songs in the correct (ish) tune, but with only the word "meow."  "Meow, meow, meow meow meowwww meow..."  THAT is ART, people.

6.  Football is here!!!!!!  I wore purple.  With gold.  Hottie McBaseball, who went to ama-bay, wore burgandy pants with tiny little gray "A's."  Imagine.  I love the football.  I do NOT love the LSU team who thinks it is fun to jerk my cold dry little heart around.  Of course, I AM lying.  I DO love the LSU.  They just try really hard to give me a heart attack.  GRACIOUS.

And such is life.  Happy times.

Hottie McBaseball's At-Work-BFF

We hired a new Sales Manager at work.  This guy is mid-twenties, used to play pro baseball, and is 6'7".  He shall, therefore, be hereafter called "Hottie McBaseball."  For good reason.

So.  Hottie McBaseball started last week.  I began the process of acclimatizing him, teaching him how my workplace functions.  I, being the world's greatest employee, know the ins and outs of his job (of course I do) and only I am able to show him how to do it.  Because that's how I roll.

So that's fun.

But anyway.

He gets a work cell phone.  His predecessor had the same number, and so, when she left, oh, six months or so ago, I forwarded the work cell phone number to my cell phone.  So as to not miss any calls.

I forgot that I did that, though.  And this weekend?

Hottie McB's brother called.  Who sounds like Junior Hottie McBaseball on the phone.

So I sent Hottie McBaseball (sr) a text message:

"Hi!  Sorry.  Your phone number is forwarded to my phone number.  To un-forward, just dial *73, and follow the prompts."
"oh, and your brother wants you call him."

Good times.

Kryate Mom (including unicorn washer.)

First of all, let's talk about my baby.  My baby keeps a diary.  Not a journal.  He gets mad if you say "journal."  It's a goddamn diary.  Get it straight.

In said dairy, he records random musings, lists of Nintendo games and the Skylanders characters he has, stuff like that.

Occasionally, he records the lyrics of a song he loves:

"I got a filling.  I got a filling that tonight is gongea be a good that tonight is goning a good good night."

That's a funny, funny boy, is that one.  Same little boy started second grade today, only he started it with a sour face, a bad attitude, a "sore froat," and frowns.  Poor little wookie:

Second grade is going to suck.  And you made me carry my crap in a WalMart bag.

Oh, the joys of elementary school.

Same kid decided he does not want to do soccer this year, and that's fine, since his mother is not GIANTLY in love with sitting at the soccer field, being eaten alive by bugs, while wearing work clothes, and either freezing her tiny little bohonkus clean off, or boiling alive.  Because, in Louisiana, we play soccer in the winter (that's approximately 6 weeks), and in the summer (the rest of the year.)

So, instead of soccer, I asked what he WOULD like to do.

"Kry-ah-te."  He said.  "Karate?" I asked.  "Yes.  They wear cool unicorns."

Awesome.  So, my future ninja jedi has now been enrolled in Tae Kwon Do, which he will continue to call "Kryahte," and where he will get to wear a unicorn.  When it comes in.  In the meantime, he did have a private lesson.  All he remembers is that he is supposed to say "Yes, ma'am," and "No, sir," to the instructors, and he will not remember to actually say either of those things, but he WILL BE UNICORNED, DAMMIT.

I can already kick like that.

He looks like that scene in Karate Kid II (should that be Kryahte Kid II?)

Watch your nuts!

Very much on the way to falling down.  

Oh, the fun times I shall have, sitting in that Dance Moms Room in the back, behind the glass, with lady-on-her-cell-phone and various toddlers.  Oh, the fun times indeed. 

In other news, I'm a running machine, a freaking boss.  I run like the wind.  On a still day.  Well, but anyway, you get my point.  I'm running at least five days/week, sometimes six.  I'm running at least 2-4 miles per run.  The time I tried for 5, well, that was a big suck, but whatever.  It's 100 degrees here.  Seriously.  Not like, "it feels like 100 degrees," it IS 100 degrees.  And so, running ONE mile is muthafuckingrockstar material.  Right?  Right.

Here's a "before" picture from the Worst Race Ever:

Heyyyyy, cutie skinny pink girl in the middle!  Holllaaaaaa for a dolllllaaaaa!

What made it the Worst Race Ever, you ask?

Let's just say...  it was NOT the alligator:

Swear to God, there is an alligator in this picture.

Although the alligator was noted to be "aggressive," and apparently came up on the bank at one point, but not too many people were around.

Nope, not the alligator.  Also, not that I was beaten by two friends who Hardly Run Ever (fuckers) (but really, good for them) (but still, fuckers.)

Nope.

The problem was that, about a mile into the race, which was a trail race, of course, through a swamp, the rain started.  Hard.

And my shoes weren't awesome on slippery grass, anyway, so I was sliding everywhere.  And then, oh, about a 1/2 mile from the end of the race, I FELL ON MY ASS HARD. 

Yep.  That's it.

A nice guy that I was ahead of (GUY.  AHEAD OF.) stopped to make sure I was okay (I was.)  I finished the race (vs. staying in the swamp and crying.), and there were pork barbecue sandwiches (boom), but then one of my friends kind of made fun of me for being both: a) filthy, and b) a fucking crybaby (NOTE:  I DID NOT CRY), and so I was miserable.  And I couldn't leave because this was the time when they were giving out beer steins to people who had completed the series, which I had, and I NEED BEER STEINS.

So.  Worst race.  Ever.

But I got a beer stein!

And, despite being accused of being older than 40 yesterday, it's clear from the "before" picture above that I'm a fucking hottie.

So there, people.

And I still think the alligator was a cutie.

Soapbox Stander.

I'm bound to piss somebody off, but...

I have a lot of conservative friends.  And that's okay.  I live in South Louisiana, and before that, in North Georgia, and those, well, are largely conservative communities.

I have a lot of friends who know how to hunt, who wear Carhartts and camo, who own more than one baseball hat, and the hats OFTEN do not represent a college.

It's all okay.

I have friends that know the difference between a rifle and a shotgun and that make fun of me for not knowing the difference between a rifle and a shotgun.  Also, okay.

I used to be married to a conservative republican, and he liked to debate, and that was a giant pain in the ass, but, ultimately, that was also okay.

I am not these things.  I am not conservative, although I'm a fairly conservative liberal, by which I mean that I don't make my own soap or own a compost unit.

NOT THAT I THINK THERE IS ANYTHING WRONG WITH COMPOST AND HOMEMADE SOAP, mind you.

In light of the Zimmerman trial, there is currently a lot of buzz about the president - and yes, I mean OUR president, who, even if you don't adore him, your country's citizens voted for, so... - and how he has indicated that he feels like, as a young black man, he would have been similarly (potentially) targeted, like Trayvon Martin.

And as an aside, here's what I think.  I think Zimmerman should never have gotten out of his car.  I think it's wrong that he took this boy's life.  I understand that he was afraid.  There is no winning this trial.  A mother grieves her son.  That's all there is to it.  I'm so sorry that any of this happened.  I'm so sorry.

Anyway, back to what I was saying.  My very conservative friends are blasting our president, and I'm all, well?  Well?  I've never been a young black man.  I do not know what it is like to be a minority in my community.  I have really been blessed with a gilded life, where I am mostly oblivious to danger.  It is my understanding that half of our youth cannot have that oblivion.  They have been taught as children to watch their backs.  Because whitey might misinterpret their behavior, their action, their simply being.

No.

Just, no.

As a representative of Whitey, what can I say?  I'm sorry.  I don't understand how hard it is to be in that sort of situation.  It's like being whistled at when I walk by a construction zone (because, hell, yeah, mama still got it goin' on), only more nefarious.  I like being whistled at.  I would NOT like it if a construction worker decided to follow me, instigate conversation...  that sort of thing.

Hm.

Anyway, back to our liberal/conservative differences, I just want to ask one thing.  Please, will you stop posting your politics on Facebook?  I love you conservative people and it breaks my heart to think that you think I am stupid, that you think I am going to change my mind, because you are posting on Facebook.

Understand that I'm not hugely in love with the job the president is doing.  Understand that I thought W did a decent job his first several years, until I realized that the rest of the world mocked our country because he cannot pronounce "nuclear."  Understand that I don't want to continue to live in a country where 30% of the houses in America remain uninhabited as a result of the sub-prime lending catastrophe, while children go unfed and live in shelters - or worse.

Also.  Hear me, please.  I am a liberal.  I am not on Welfare.  I don't have children for extra WIC dollars.  I don't collect food stamps, unemployment, or medicaid.  I work 50ish hours every week, for a decent job.  I make a decent - but by all means, not extravagent - wage.  I'm never going to be able to retire because I planned poorly in my twenties.  I rent my home.  I don't have a massive amount of credit card debt.  I'm just living.  Same as you.

I am sure there are people that take advantage of "the system," and perhaps the current politics make that easier to do.  I don't know.  I just know that generalizations that get posted all over Facebook are ridiculous.  Not all Democrats are losers, you know?

Neither are all Republicans.

Just saying.  Now let's go drink together and talk about something that really matters, like the finale of Mad Men this season, and what they are going to name the new British Baby, and whether or not you can really dye your hair red with kool aid.

Suri's Biggest Fan

So.  There's this:

http://surisburnbook.tumblr.com/

That's pretty much all it takes to amuse me today.

Love you,
Me.

Magenta Ho

First, my brother posted a story on his webpage about his experience with bad teachers, which was inspired by this Slate article.  So I decided to chime in.

I think I was pretty fortunate to have the teachers I had, for the most part.  I can remember being in elementary school in Little Rock, and standing around with the teachers while at recess, while they smoked their cigarettes and we "smoked" candy cigarettes.  This seems insane to me, now, but it was totally awesome when I was 9.

As a little girl, I was pretty much identified as one of the *special people* who was *extra smart*, which might have been more the result of good parenting and a relatively balanced diet rather than any genetic nonsense, although my parents are both remarkably smart people (even my hillbilly mother, who offers apologetic "nice ham" to me on a regular basis), and my brother was certainly gifted.

In Little Rock, and before that, in Columbus, Indiana, we went to pretty decent - and completely un-segregated - schools.  In Arkansas, our school was in our neighborhood, and there was a big fancy wooden playground and we played dodgeball and kickball with impunity, and I did get to go to the gifted classes where we recorded movies and created log cabin villages out of card board.  I was even a little extra special, because I was a year younger than my classmates, having been elected to skip Kindergarten since I was reading Nancy Drew by that time.  Reading was easy.  Writing, not at all so much, but that's another story.

Things were good, really, until we moved to Connecticut.  In the beginning of the 8th grade.

In Connecticut, I was, more or less, average.  Not at all special. Short.  They kind of stuck me in remedial writing, because I'd never written an essay at that time.  I was 11.  Give me a break.

But then, in high school, I got the mother load of all music teachers.  Instant hate, because I auditioned for the select choir.  "I heard you have a brother," she said.  I replied that I did.  "I heard that he sings in the church choir," she said.  It's true, he did, although for the life of me, I still cannot understand why.  I replied that he did.  "If HE would like to join the show choir, then I am sure we can make a place for you," she said.

The fuck?

I told her that I didn't think he would be interested.  I don't even think I told him about this offer.  I didn't make the show choir that year.

In regular choir, I spent many hours correcting her fat ass.  "Haydn," I would say.  "H-A-Y-D-N." "Bach was Baroque, not classical."  "Bogoroditsye Dyevo" is how that is pronounced.

She hated me back.

By my junior year, I did, finally, make the show choir.  By then, the hatred was visceral.

She had a long, long, long, maybe 12 feet long, magenta scarf that she liked to wind around her neck in a very dramatic fashion.

We called her the "magenta ho."

Once, we were on our way to all state try-outs, and she got in her little red mazda as we piled onto the school bus.  She slammed her door, and a solid 5 feet of that scarf hung out the driver side door, dragging through the slushy crap on the winter street, all the way to New Haven.

haha.

That does still make me laugh.

When we were seniors, my closest music friends and I convinced substitutes - which we seemed to have, often - that we were supposed to clean out her office when she was absent.  We found weed that she had confiscated from another student, one that we secretly discussed her bj'ing.  Which probably didn't happen, but it definitely COULD have, and she DEFINITELY WOULD have.  I think that guy - who was horrible - had higher standards than that.

Anyway, at the end of senior year, with graduation approaching, I started to get excited about auditioning to sing the solo at our graduation.  I KILLED in the Senior Play.  I knew I had a fighting chance, although there was a LOT of talent in our class.  I secretly realized how incredibly scary that would be, singing in front of all of those people, but I still was looking forward to the opportunity.

One day, in class, the magenta ho averted her eyes and told us that auditions had been held, and so-and-so had been elected.  Which is to say, I had not even been allowed to audition.  I was PISSED.  PISSED.

I left class and called my then-boyfriend, who was in college at the time, crying.  He was all, "what's the big deal," and I hung up on him and found my soon-to-be-boyfriend, whose response was, "I will KICK THAT BITCH'S ASS."

You see why that had to happen.

But the best day- the best day- maybe in my entire high school career - was the day she lost her temper with us, the select choir.  There were about 15 of us, all lined up in a row, and she chewed our ass.  Through her tears, she said, "You people...  treat me...  like a piece of SHIT.  S- H- I- T.  Shit."

God, it was hard to not laugh.  It was one of those times where you thought you might cry trying to hold in the laughter.

I bet five dollars that I could look at my friend Sarah H. right now, and go, "You people... treat me..." and she would fall apart laughing.

I secretly kind of miss the magenta ho.

Oh- and by the way - she really made it clear that she didn't think much of me as a vocalist.  I went by her office once, when I was home from college my freshman year.  "Oh, what are you majoring in," she asked.  "Well, I was one of 3 freshman to be accepted into LSU's School of Music as a Vocal Performance Major," I responded.  Her lips tightened.  Clearly, LSU was no longer a respectable school of music in her opinion.

I'd still treat her like a piece of S-H-I-T, given the opportunity.