LOVE LOVE LOVE

I swear I'm going to write about this move soon. For now, I'm just so addicted to this house and the excitement of it all. I love this house!

Moving starts tomorrow!

I'm so excited!

Can I say that a few more dozen times to get my point across? I'M SO EXCITED!!!

I love him because...

...he kisses me when he comes home.

...he agrees that we've worked very hard, and can take a break for a night.

...he lets me commandeer his laptop to internet and play Sims 3.

...he agrees to run to Kroger to pick up dinner, including a little chocolate for dessert.

...he gets that I don't want to leave the house again after I've gotten home from work.

...he doesn't question my crazy. Much.

...he loves me. So much.

...he's the most wonderful, brilliant, beautiful, kind, amazing man I've ever met, and I'm so lucky he's mine. :)

(Okay, you can go puke now. It's cool. I get it.)

Sundays make me sad because Monday's just around the corner.

We're closing on Tuesday. WOOHOO! We should be closing Monday, but she didn't call with that date until Friday, and Jimi just can't do it. If he calls in on Monday, he won't get paid for Monday, Thursday, or Friday. I mean, how's about some notice up in here, yo?

So Tuesday is the day. The living room is completely packed. The kitchen is getting there. Laundry is being done slowly but surely. Today, my goal is to pack most of the bedroom and finish up the middle room. Sometimes I wish I wasn't such a horrible procrastinator, but that's just how I am. It'll all get done. And it seems excruciating to drag out the packing thing over weeks and weeks. Who wants to look at boxes for all that time? Get it done in one fell swoop and be done.

Yesterday was Momma's birthday. We took Stacy to Shalimar for her Raincheck Birthday Dinner Re-do (cause I was sick on her actual birthday), and after dinner, we got a cheesecake and some candles at Liquor Barn, then went to Momma's house to sing Happy Birthday and give her the Bath & Body Works stuff we'd braved Black Friday for to obtain. None of us had room for cake, so we each held a candle, lit them up, sang, then put them in her face and told her to blow them out. We improvise. :)

My friend David finally joined Facebook. I only hear from him every couple years; at least now I can internet stalk him.

FINALLY

We're closing on Tuesday. YAY!

Obligatory Thanksgiving Post

Happy Thanksgiving!

I assume no one is interested in reading all the things I'm thankful for this year; that works well for me, cause i'm not interested in listing them all. I'm thankful; let's just leave it at that.

I got a free turkey from work Monday. I called Momma and was all "Hey, you need another turkey for Thursday?" and she's all "Yeah, why don't you fix that instead of the green beans."

Fuck.

I hate preparing turkey. I prefer my meat to come asshole-free and to not be immediately recognizable as what they were while alive. Steak, ground beef, cold cuts, chicken breasts - all asshole-free and not typically prone to calling up images of the animal running around on a farm. Turkeys have legs and wings and an asshole. (We're not going to talk about the neck or the bag of gizzards because my stomach isn't quite strong enough.)

I've got that gobbling gobbler in the oven, though, rubbed down with butter, stuffed with onion and celery, getting hot & delicious. I'm such a good daughter. :)

Yes!!!

Finally!!! An upgrade!! I bought The Sims 3 as soon as I knew it existed, and after some trouble downloading it (it should've taken an hour, it took a full day), I spent weeks learning the different cool shit you could get the Sims to do - like having 8 babies. YAY!

So tonight, I learn there's an upgrade available - World Adventures Expansion Pack. I'm downloading it now, because this company I bought it from doesn't suck. God Bless the Internet and downloads.

Guess what I'm doing for the rest of the night? I've kissed sweet Jimi and told him goodnight, that I'll see him in the morning, I have some Sims to play.

I forgot to mention my trip to Kroger.

Ice cream.

Cookies.

Pop Tarts (cherry frosted).

Doughnuts.

Do I really have to say it? I'm not going to say it. No need to point out the obvious.

Good Intentions with a touch of Procrastination

I've been meaning to blog all week. Every day, I'd think, "I should blog about this", but then I didn't. Obviously.

It was a rough week.

That's not really true, in the grand scheme of things.

Work was hard, but work is always hard. I got three phone calls from one driver over the course of 3 hours Tuesday morning, starting at 2:30 a.m. That was fun. It took that same driver 2 full days to make a delivery to Atlanta and get back home because of a nasty string of mechanical failures. Last minute orders, emergency swaps needed, some fancy scheduling - if I'm honest with myself, I was on my game this week. I can puff up my chest a little and say I did a good job as a dispatcher this week. I felt pretty good as a manager, too; with maybe one exception, each driver seems to accept and respect me. I had a conversation with ____ on Friday afternoon; when I started this job a year and a half ago, he was lazy and not far from losing his job because of poor job performance. In fact, Bossman and I sat him down and said "You suck, and you need to improve." He has, dramatically. That was the topic of our conversation Friday; I thanked him for his turnaround and hard work. I told him it's been noticed by many. He left my office with a smile, returning to tell me that in his 15+ years of employment, this was the first time he'd been told he was a doing job, and he thanked me. It felt good, in a lot of ways. :)

So yeah, for a hard week at work, mine sure could've been a whole lot worse.

Finnegan got to go to work with me Tuesday and Wednesday because Bossman was in a budget meeting and then Court. He managed to not shit on the floor, for which I was grateful. He did learn a new trick - Stand On Kim's Desk While Mommy Goes Out To The Plant In The Afternoons And Whine Until She Comes Back Across The Parking Lot Then Jump Off The Desk And Scatter Kim's Paper's Everywhere. That was a fun trick. Every time. Wednesday morning, he caused me to be 20 minutes late, after he decided he REALLY wanted to go to the park instead of getting into the car, jerking my hand that held the leash, and also my smoothie - which ended up all down the front of me, in my shoe, in my purse. Anger!!! By the time I'd changed clothes, purses, shoes, I'd mostly forgiven him. But dude. What an asshole.

We still don't have a close date. We know it will be on or before 11/30. HOLY SHIT CAN YOU HURRY THE FUCK UP PLEASE?! I'm getting a bit impatient. We can't arrange for a moving truck. Jimi can't schedule a day off for the close until he knows which day, which will be one of the next 4 business days. How's that for notice? Looks like he'll be using a sick day, which seems a little fucked up cause you'd think they'd want to insure that your job is secure so you can pay your new mortgage payment. But whatever.

We started packing today. I've packed almost the entire middle room, and manoman do we have a lot of books! Jimi's designated room is the kitchen, which I assume he will tackle tomorrow. We started with good intentions today, but breakfast of pancakes at Denny's ended up being lunch at El Nopal, then a walk through the park (where Finn encountered his first horses, which scared him to death), then a stop off at the new house to check out the property line. Looks like the fence will be about double the size we'd anticipated. Which is awesome. Except that the cost will double too. Shit.

I'm ready to move. I'm so excited to start this next new adventure with Jimi.

Stacy's birthday is Monday. We're taking her to dinner at Sitar because, well, who DOESN'T love Indian food? Then we're going to go buy art supplies; she's not had a lot of disposable income to throw down on paint and brushes and whatever other sort of artsy stuff she's wanting, so i told her I'd take her shopping. I'm wanting some canvas and paints for myself. It'll be a fun night.

Tomorrow we were supposed to get up and start packing the bedroom. Maybe that's what I'm still supposed to do. I just want it done, man. But a walk in the park would be nice too.

Sunday Dinner

Tonight, Casa de Fowler y Anderson is serving up a lovely cornish rock hen, oven roasted to crispy perfection, with a side of red cabbage & carrot apple vinegar slaw. Dessert is leftover peach pie topped with butter pecan ice cream and spray whipped cream.

I love eating.

Edit:

He's making couscous, too. I guess that's awesome. It certainly doesn't detract from the meal at all.

I love him. LOVE.

Dear Santa,

My mom doesn't read this blog. I'm pretty sure my boyfriend doesn't either. So, it's up to you, Jolly Red Guy, to bring me the things I want this year. The list is short so far, and I'm not real particular about the details.

1. Digital Camera. I want to take pictures of things again. I want to have cool pics to upload onto my blog like everyone else. I want to have some new pictures to use as my thumbnail on facebook.

2. MP3 player. Because maybe it's time I joined the 21st century and got one of those little contraptions that plays music and doesn't even need a CD!

3. Laptop. I'm just throwing it out there, in case you're feeling extra generous.

4. Pedometer. Check back before you get this though - it's possible I'll pick one up myself rather than waiting to see if you remembered to leave one under the tree a month and a half from now.

5. New bras, in that "nearly-C" size. My girls aren't quite there yet, but a B is too snug.

6. A facial and a massage. They don't even have to be professional ones. Come over with your face washes and masks and some scented oil and I will SO take my top off and lay under a sheet.

7. Soft clothes - long-sleeved jersey knit cottons and sweaters and wool pants and slippers. As long as they're soft, I'll wear them.

8. Orchids.

9. Pots and soil for orchids.

10. Plants, indoor and outdoor.

11. Home Depot/Lowes/WalMart/Target gift cards. We're moving into our first home. We need to buy a lot of shit.

Okay, I'm getting carried away. So yeah. There ya go. If you're in the neighborhood, ya know?

Love,

Nat

What a completely fucked up day.

A friend of mine was found dead today.

And I thought, for a brief time, that one of my drivers had been killed in a fiery crash.

Fuck, today has been rough.

My boss called just before 8 this morning, asking who'd been on his way home on northbound I-65 last night. No one, that I remembered. He said whoever it'd been, he'd rear-ended another truck and had burnt his truck to the ground.

My heart stopped, then jump-started, beating too fast and causing me to shake. Over the next hour, Bossman and I called every driver on our roster, asking, "You okay?" to each one, knowing just by their answering the phone that they were. Eventually, we learned the driver was from our Cincinnati location, and that his injuries weren't serious; in fact, he was released before lunchtime. Thank God.

A Caddy cut off the truck in front of him. That truck slammed on its breaks, and our driver had nowhere to go but into the trailer in front of him. When emergency services found (empty - but they didn't know that) drums on the rear of our driver's trailer, they tried to reach us to find out what sort of chemicals we were carrying. When they couldn't reach anyone, they dispatched a foam truck from the airport to extinguish the flames. Meanwhile, the truck and trailer burned. To a fucking crisp.

But the driver's okay. The truck can be replaced. No one was hurt. Thank God.

And then my friend.

He's an internet friend. We met on www.louisvillemojo.com, via the forums, years ago. We met in person at either Petrus (nightclub) on a Thursday night, or at an Ale Club meeting. I can't remember. I do remember the night I got him high in front of the Mag bar. He's all, "Nattums, um, we're standing on the corner of Magnolia and 2nd. In front of a bar. With a big window. Are you seriously going to smoke pot here?" "Yeah. Want some?" "Okay." Later, in the back yard of the bar, while sitting on a stump that served as a bench, he says, "Nattums? You do this regularly? HOW?"

I'll miss you, Chris. You had good humor, and I wish you'd come out of your shell more. I wish you'd come over one of those random nights I offered to save you a seat next to our backyard fire and get you high. You were fun. I'm sorry your time was so short. It makes me sad.

I posted a message on Facebook tonight, after reading the dozens of posts left on Chris's wall; the RIP's, the "we'll miss you"s, and the " I remember when"s. I suggested we get together, at the local (Ale Club) watering hole, and have a drink in honor of our friend. A lot of people came. I was surprised by the turnout. I hope Chris know about it, somehow. I hope he is/was aware of how much people thought of him. I hope he didn't feel alone.

I hope these things for him, because I hope them for myself. Dying alone and unnoticed is the scariest thing in the whole wide world. I want tears to be shed for me. The idea that no one would notice is awful. We all deserve recognition, if for nothing more than the fact that we survived ____ years with all the bullshit and ridiculousness and insanity of the world. We all have something brilliant to offer. We all deserve to have someone notice our brilliance.

Chris's brilliance was his humor. He was witty and dry and acerbic and just fucking funny. At the same time, he was sweet and innocent and naive and kind. I liked him. And I'll miss him.

RIP, Chris. I hope you've found happy.

How often do you hear "Fuck you" when you walk through your neighborhood?

We just got home from taking puppy face Finnegan for a walk through the park. I was terrified of Shelby Park when we first moved in - all I knew was the area was rough and it was best to stay out of the park. Indeed, a lady was murdered in the picnic area last summer; it turned out she was an informant for some drug case and she got silenced, and while I find it slightly reassuring that it wasn't a random hit, that sort of thing doesn't happen in the East End. The rent was cheap, though, and the landlord wasn't going to run a credit check for me to live here, and it's like a heartbeat away from work. So I stayed in my house and avoided the park.

Then we got Finnegan. I firmly believe that a tired puppy is a well-behaved puppy, and since I'm terribly messy and lazy and refuse to pick up after myself, I knew that I'd have to walk this dog if I wanted to not have to replace all my things that the dog destroyed. So that first morning after Finn moved in with us, I got up early, put on his new harness and leash, and we ventured out to Shelby Park. And you know what? It's beautiful. This inner-city park is about two blocks wide and a block long, with a nice walking path all the way around and down the center, gazebos, picnic areas, play areas, tennis courts, a baseball diamond, and two basketball courts. The grass is lush and green and the trees are mature and there are squirrels OH THE SQUIRRELS!!! Finn was in love, and I enjoyed the exercise and the very-quickly-noticed weight loss that came from moving my ass only 15 to 30 minutes a day.

The park wasn't scary at all. Kids play football and t-ball and baseball and cheerleading and swing and slide and have a merry time. Their parents sit on benches socializing with other parents, or talking on their cell phones. And at least one person, be it adult or child, in every group, has a filthy, dirty mouth. Tonight, we came upon a group of children, girls mostly, aged 3 to 12 or so. "Fuckin' bitch ass ho! Fuck that bitch! I'll kick her ass!" Whoa. A few more steps, and from the corner store across the street, a group of men sitting out front are talking about "fuuuuccckkkkk, man. You know that nigga be lyin'!"

I use bad words too. Often, and usually not in the most appropriate places. I'm not offended at hearing these things while walking through the park, in my neighborhood, a block from my home. But I remember East End living. Those bitches would freak the fuck out, man. :)

Fall Camping

We spent Friday night packing and shopping and washing and loading. Our goal was to wake up early Saturday morning, hop in the car, and head up to our campsite on Blue River. I finally crawled into bed around 2 a.m., thinking "Oh, we'll be on the road by 8." Yeah, right.

This end-of-season trip is something we'd planned all summer - it was originally Steve's idea, and then Jimi was all "YEAH! We can roast a goat!!!" and so the plan was hatched. We were going to take a few days off work, construct a roasting spit over Karen's lovingly built fire pit, somehow acquire a goat, then spend 4 days camping and roasting and eating and drinking and laughing and talking and shooting with our 20 or so nearest and dearest friends. Here's how it really went:

Karen started sending me facebook messages 3 weeks ago, reminding me of our First Weekend of November Camping Extravaganza. The goat-roasting idea thrown around with such enthusiasm in June had long since been discarded, but we were still hoping to head to camp on Thursday for a nice long weekend in the woods. As of a week ago, I told Karen we'd not be able to get time off from work, so we'd be up after work on Friday night. By Thursday, Steve and everyone else who'd been planning on going, except Karen and Gary and some of Gary's friends, had backed out, and I was sending Karen the news that we now weren't going to arrive at camp until Saturday morning. Karen assumed we wouldn't show at all (because we do that sometimes).

We woke around 9:30 Saturday morning, and despite waking in a good mood and then sharing that special grown-up hug, by the time we were finishing our last minute packing details and piling into the car, we were bickering like a couple of 5 year olds. We did a quick attitude check, kissed and made up, and were on our way.

The weather was warm, nearly 70, and the skies were clear and blue. A beautiful day for camping. We had Chik-Fil-A for breakfast on the road up, and arrived at camp before noon. I had two beers before we started setting up the tent. The river was running clear and high, and there was a stiff breeze cutting across the cornfield. Finnegan was exploring every inch of the corn and the riverbank, and had two thick black streaks of something I can only imagine was either dead animal or shit running from his face back to his haunches along his right side, and he smelled horrible. I'd promised myself, Jimi, and Karen that I was not going to run after that dog all weekend; I trusted that he was grown enough by now to know how to find his way back to us if he wandered off. Besides, there weren't any other campers within site for him to bother, so I figured he couldn't get into any trouble. Karen and Gary had gotten a huge fire started the night before and it was still a-blazin', putting off a lot more heat than we really needed for the warm afternoon, but that didn't stop Karen from adding more logs when Gary's friends arrived. The single other couple we'd been expecting had somehow grown to three carloads of people; three couples, including their two children each. Karen was all "GARY! WTF?!" Indignant sarcasm filled her tone as she loaded another armful of logs on the already-too-hot-for-the-weather-fire, "Well, we don't have enough wood for TWO fires, so they're gonna have to go find the farmer and see about buying some from him." Maybe it sounds bitchy now, but it was funny in that hilarious way that Karen does so well. Besides, it's not like they could hear her. The arrival of so many new people meant Jimi and I had to move our tent. We'd put ourselves on the far end of the camp from Karen and Gary, so as to allow for plenty of space between our tent and theirs should we decide to get freaky and loud after we went to bed. These new arrivals (did I mention there were like 6 kids?) were setting up their half-dozen dome tents right on top of our "Gubna's Mansion", and, well, there was just no fucking way we were going to be sleeping in the middle of Camp Suburbia. So we moved our tent to the other side of Karen and Gary, putting them in between his friends and us, and apologized in advance for any noises they may hear in the night.

More beer drinking, bullshitting, a few rousing games of cornhole. Cutting potatoes, wrapping marinated pork loin in foil, moving coals from the fire to the cooking section of the pit, trying to convert pork-cooking time from a 1 pound strip in an oven at 350 to a 3 pound cut wrapped in foil and thrown over a fire about which we were unsure of the temperature. "Here, let's have some beef jerky and nuts and this Little Debbie cake while we wait for dinner. Will you get me another beer?" Ah, the beauty of camping. These are the parts I love.

The part where I was walking down to the other camp and tripped over the cornhole set and banged up one knee and the other shin? I didn't like that part so much.

Food was done in a couple of hours, and we feasted like kings on pork and potatoes and green beans and peas and mac & cheese. More fire-stoking, and with the day's work behind us, we gathered around the fire to share stories and laughter and beer and smokes and hot apple cider and jibes and digs and more laughter and stories. I only lasted till about 9:30. Because I'm that fucking lame.

The sun had been down for hours, and the clean air was crisp and cold. It was COLD in the tent. We'd had the windows open most of the night, and I think Jimi's right - being right on the water, that cold damp got into the tent, into our flannel sheets, two thermal blankets, and sleeping bag. We should've closed the windows sooner. I froze. I started the night in panties and a (wifebeater) (tank top) (pick one), and while my legs were freezing, I wasn't willing to get up to put on pants or socks. So I laid there and froze. Jimi followed me to bed a few hours later, and we snuggled up close, curling our bodies together, but only for warmth; our earlier talk of loud tent sex was forgotten. I had a developing headache, and Jimi was snoring in my ear. I'd forgotten my earplugs, my nose was whistling, and I was not feeling very sleepy. I left Jimi all tucked in, and Finn and I went out to stand around the fire. I took a few hits off whatever was left in the pipe, hoping it would make me sleepy. I had taken my contacts out, and thought most of Gary's friends had settled in for the night, but then Alesha walked up, wrapped in a coat and hat and gloves, grinning an embarrassed grin, saying she couldn't take the cold, so they were heading home. They had just started breaking down camp, and I was impressed with how easy-going her husband seemed to be about it. I would be pissed if I had to pack up in the middle of the night, in the dark, freezing, tired - and then have to drive ALL the way home. Blech, no thank you. But they were in good spirits, I think just ready to get the heck out of dodge. I left them to their packing, found a bottle of water and used it to wash down a Goody's headache powder, peed behind our tent, searched our toiletries bag again for earplugs (with no success), then went back to bed, snuggling as close to Jimi as i could, leaving my pants on this time, but discarding my socks. About then, Jimi woke up with his first round of leg cramps, a common occurrence when his legs get cold. So he got up to pee. And then came back to bed, snuggled up, promptly fell asleep and started snoring. And I laid there. And laid there. And got madder and madder. I got up again, this time to get the nasal spray for Jimi, hoping it would stave off the snoring, and forgetting about the generic unisom in the same bag. Back to bed, again. More snuggling up. And, at last, sleep.

And then Jimi got the second round of leg cramps.

And so our night went. He'd get comfortable, I'd need to shift positions. I'd try to get comfortable, and he'd need to shift or get cramps.

Eventually, Finn woke us up jumping on the bed, ready to go outside to do his business. I unburied my face from the covers, and BEHOLD! It was daylight already. It was probably 7, the sun wasn't even up over the trees in the east. I got up to let him out, intending to come right back to bed, but when I saw the kids were up at the other camp, I figured I should just get up and enjoy the morning. Besides, the fire was still glowing, and sitting next to it would at least be warmer than inside the tent. I stoked the coals and had some juice, then decided to walk around the corn with Puppy Face. I changed into some warm clothes, wrapped my head in a scarf they way Jimi hates because he says it makes me look like his Grandma (but I don't care because it keeps my ears and head warm), and took off down the road, Finn running ahead and disappearing into the corn. He came back with a fresh smear of death/poo down that same side, I guess because the two streaks from the day before had mostly worn off.

I made hashbrown casserole as my contribution to breakfast. It was cooking okay on the fire grate, but Jimi made it a bed of coals to sit down in, then packed coals around the sides, and covered the whole mess with a few boards to keep in the heat, like a makeshift oven. It became "potato gruel", a thin, semi-soupy version of hashbrown casserole, but like any dish with cheese, sour cream, and potatoes, it was good. After breakfast, we broke camp and headed home - both of us grumpy, dirty, sore, and ready to be home. Jimi washed the dog, I started laundry and dishes, and we've had sausages for lunch. I'm ready for my shower now, and probably a nap.

I don't feel rested like I normally do after camping, and I don't like going up for only 24 hours - it's too much work for too little time enjoying. I'm glad we went, though. I'm just more glad to be home. :)

On Work

Work is making me a bad person.

My job is stressful. STRESS-FULL. Some weeks, I threaten to quit 3 times a day, but i know I won't, and they know I won't, so I should probably stop saying it. Acting like I have some sort of control over this insane part of my world in which I actually have no control makes me feel a little better, so if you could stop calling my bluff, co-worker Kim, that would be much appreciated.

I guess I handle pressure okay. I used to think I was great under fire, and if that was only measured by "does the job get done?", I would probably still believe that. I'm tactless, though, and that is becoming a big downfall. My JROTC instructor once told me, "Natalie, you'd make a great leader, if only you could learn some tact." Eleven or 12 years later, that still stings, because it's still true. "Fuck" is one of my favorite expletives. I use it WAY too frequently. I also tend to get loud when I'm agitated. And I blow things out of proportion. And I have a hard time remembering my boss's advice: "It's just a job. Take it one thing at a time. Accept the things you cannot change, change the things you can, and learn to recognize the difference." Yeah yeah yeah.

I am good at my job. I dispatch truck drivers, and I've got that part down pretty well. I've got the paperwork part covered, too, even if it does sometimes take ALL DAY to do 30 minutes worth of billing. I'm good at talking to the customers and taking their orders and discussing price changes and invoice questions. I've got my routine down so I'm able to have the next day's production schedule ready to go each night before I go home, so that part's fine. I'm still struggling to find time to check the drivers' logs on Friday afternoon instead of Monday morning, but it's getting done, and that's the important part, so I'm doing okay there. I'm good at adapting to changes when the production lines go down or a truck breaks or an order just doesn't get finished in time. I get along fabulously with my co-workers and superiors. My office feels like a second home - I'm comfortable, appreciated, and well taken care of.

So what's my fucking problem? All of that? All that I listed up there? I do all of it. At the same time. Sometimes, I'm on the phone for an hour straight, clicking from line to line to line, because the calls come in one after the other. And that's with two people screening for me! I receive 80 to 100 emails a day, and they all have to be acknowledged.

No, that's not it. That's not my real problem. My real problem is that a HUGE portion of my ability to do my job requires relying on people to do theirs. And their part doesn't always get done, which in turn, creates more work for me.

I am lazy; my home is mess, my car is a sty, and my dishes don't get washed every night. In my off time, I prefer to smoke pot, drink beer, and play on the internet. I'm lazy, okay? But I'm also a perfectionist. I don't like to do things half-assed. I firmly believe in doing things right the first time so you don't have to fuck with it later. I am shocked to learn that not everyone in the workforce feels the same way. Shortcuts are the law of the fucking land, and it makes me insane. I don't understand the "oh well" approach. I don't get the "we'll fix it later" attitude.

This is why I say "fuck" so much. This is why I get agitated, which leads to loud, which leads to me feeling like an asshole for not being able to be one of those "oh well" sort of people and just going with the flow, taking the punches as they come, fixing it later.

I'm still blaming this on someone else, aren't I? Fuck it. I'll deal with that later.

So, yesterday was Halloween.

I really did have Indian food for breakfast, too. It wasn't noon, more like 12:30/1 o'clock, but close enough. Except for too much anise in the Masala Chai, it was delicious, thanks for asking.

We drove by the house - I wanted to see if the trees in the yard are changing and what the leaf situation is going to be next fall when we're doing the yard work. Most of the leaves are just your plain boring brown, with the exception of one tree in the back - it was on fire with reds and oranges and yellows. At least there's one. There weren't many leaves in the yard, but honestly, it doesn't matter. As if I'm going to rake a yard that size. Yards that size are why God invented riding mowers and gave me a job that allows for a lot of disposable income. And, the way I look at it, if you're paying a grand or two for a riding mower, that bitch better mulch, too. That's all I'm saying.

They've put the "SOLD" signs on top of the "For Sale" signs in the yard. That was neat to see. "That's RIGHT! This house is OURS!!! SOLD to US!" That's kinda how I felt. It's all very exciting.

When I moved back to Louisville 3.5 years ago, I had an almost-instant popularity within my new social circle. Within 3 months, I was going out every night and on the invite list to every party my little heart desired, and I loved it. I felt like I'd finally found my niche. Then I met Jimi, and something in my world shifted. Hooking up with him opened doors for even more parties and events, and I knew the only reason I was there was because I was on his arm. That was okay - I just wanted to be with him. Time went on and we withdrew into each other more and more, the going out stopped, the party invites started drying up. That's what happens when you don't leave your house. This Halloween season, we were invited to several parties, gatherings, events. We didn't go to any of them. We didn't even seriously discuss ideas for costumes. Last night we started a fire in our back yard, a feat which would've moved much more quickly had the wood not been soaked from the rain we had all night Friday. But, it was good, dry, split wood before it got rained on, and with the help of a half gallon of lighter fluid, the contents of 3 months of lint trays, half a newspaper, and a dozen or so toilet paper rolls, the fire was finally roaring and warm. Jimi opened the living room window and turned the TV and speakers so they faced out, and then we sat in not-really-for-outside-but-we-use-them-outside-anyhow chairs and watched the remastered version of "Night of the Living Dead", which AMC was conveniently showing all night. YAY FOR OUTDOOR THEATER!!! We had booze and smokes and our favorite person and our wild & crazy dog, and our silly kitty - who needs a stinkin' Halloween party when we have all this? I just really like being at home, okay?

The house was COLD this morning. I guess I turned the furnace off at some point in the last couple of weeks and never turned it back on. It was 70 on Friday, though. I mean, I can see how the thing may have gotten turned off. But this morning, it was below 40 outside. I'm pretty sure our inside temp wasn't much higher. (The thermostat was pegged below 50, but that thermostat also says it's only 60 in here right now. In other words, the thermostat is fucked, so I don't give much credence to what it reads.) The house got nice and toasty while I ran to the grocery, though, so I'm hoping Jimi will eventually get out of bed and make breakfast. Like he promised.

I remembered yesterday that I had never brought in the books from our last garage sale extravaganza. I'd purchased at least a dozen light fiction novels for about a quarter a piece, and they were still in the trunk of my car. I finally finished Huck Finn yesterday, and now I'm ready for something a bit more modern.

It's November 1st. T-minus 29 days till the tax credit runs out. We've got our fingers crossed for a closing date within the next 2 weeks. I want to move. I want to be in our new home. I want Jimi to be back to normal and not on edge with stress. I want I want I want.

So, about this house...

The house appears to have passed inspection. Not with flying colors, as I so hoped (Hank Hill did not live here), but there are no real deal-breakers. The house has good bones. It's been picked on a little, though:

The porch will need to be redone in 10 years or so. Ten years. I'm having a hard time giving a shit about a porch that's going to need replacing in ten years. I could be a doctor in ten years. I could be a millionaire in ten years and be all "What house on Morrison? OH, that old thing?! How quaint it was - I wonder how that porch is holding up?"

Half the roof was replaced in the last few months, but it was a slipshod job, and needs to be re-done. That will be covered by warranty. The other half of the roof --

Wait, let me segue here for just a second. Who puts on only one HALF of a roof? And who thinks that actually sounds like a good idea? If both halves suck, how do you decide which half deserves new shingles and which half can wait another 4 or 5 years? Is it like deciding which child you like better? Which one gets new shoes and who has to shop at Goodwill? Anyway, like I was saying --

the other half of the roof needs to be replaced in the next 4 or 5 years. I hear this and I'm all, "Four or Five years? And it'll cost about $2000? Sheeetttt, give me till next summer, I'll get your half a roof, baby. And it won't even set me back on that riding mower I'm gettin' you for your 40th birthday." (Whoa. He really is going to be 40 next year. That snuck up on me.) And then apparently there needs to be some grading done - cool, playing in the dirt and getting dirty. I can already picture the water fight that would ensue in the back yard after a hard day's labor while hosing off before we go in to shower and call it a day. Of course, I know nothing about grading. I don't know what sort of work it entails - or, perhaps more importantly, what sort of cost. But it's not something out of reach for us. It's not a cracked foundation.

And then there's the foundation. It's fine, really. I think. I guess that's what the inspector said. But there's a lot of water that goes into the sump pump in the basement. Like, a constant trickle. As Jimi put it "It sounds like someone's pissing down there. All the time." Okay, so that could be a problem, but the inspector (who, by the way, was awesome and fantastic and about whom Jimi couldn't sing enough praises) seems to think that a backup pump, in case of power failure or flood, is enough insurance to guarantee a dry basement. He recommended having something looked at to see why the water is there and where it's coming from, but again, that's not something that would need to be done for several years. Again, I don't know the details of the work or the cost, but (say it with me) again, we can handle it.

Jimi, however, has found no relief. He is, quite frankly, freaking the fuck out.

To be fair to this dear sweet man o mine, I try to keep several things in mind, to better try to see his perspective and understand his stress levels right now. They say buying a home is one of the most stressful things a person can do. I'm not exactly sure what credentials "they" hold, but I'm assuming all my co-workers, my parents, my friends, and most of the internet can't be wrong about this fact. I wondered briefly why I wasn't feeling this stress too, but the answer was obvious: I'm always high, and I'm not buying this house. Sure, this will be my home too, and I'll be paying half the mortgage, but he's done all the internet-listing searches. He's filled out the mortgage applications and had his credit building/tax paying/income earning history examined. He's scheduled and overseen the inspections. He's made and chased the paper trails to get all necessary forms to all interested parties.

I'm starting to feel worse and worse for him.

His job is a soul sucker, too. He hates it. He's a loyal company man, and has given them more than I would've been able to without being thrown more challenges and opportunity. Poor guy. I wish he could find a dream job that made his soul sing, opened and expanded his horizons, took full advantage of the gifts he has to offer, but for now, it pays the bills. It's a steady job in a country with a nearly 10% unemployment rate. We're lucky bastards to be employed as comfortably and securely as we are at this point in history, and to bitch feels ungrateful.

He came home tonight with a headache, sore shoulders and an aching back. I greeted him at the door with a stiff gin and three ibuprofen, an offer of a massage and a sincere "I love you." He's in bed now, and I hope he's able to sleep. I'm just going to keep my fingers crossed and hope things work out for the best, as they always seem to do.

After all, no matter what happens with the house, we've still got us. Even if we've got no porch and only half a roof, we'll still have us.

Holy Shit I forgot I had a Blog!

I've spent the last few weeks reading blogs. Mormon blogs, if I must be specific. Anti-Mormon blogs, mostly, if you're really insistent on full disclosure. That's a tale for another time, though.

SO, I've been reading all these blogs and thinking, "Why don't I blog anymore?" Then I remember it's mostly because I start typing, forget what point I was going to make, get distracted, then say "fuck it" and refresh the page - no, I don't want to save.

I'm going to try not to do that. Again.

I'd forgotten about this blog. And I'd been too lazy to start a new one. How convenient that we should be reunited.