9021whoa

So apparently, they are filming a movie in our town.

Ha. Poor Dylan McKay. Brandon Walsh is on the cover of USWeekly with his smoking hot wife and new baby this week as like Celebrity Dad of the Year or something and you're in Decatur, GA filming an "off-beat caper comedy," that IMDB doesn't even list you as being in. This probably isn't as bad as that time your Dad blew up in his car when you were on the phone with Kelly, but likely worse than that time everyone had the intervention to get you to check into rehab. I hope this experience doesn't end up like that episode did, with you walking out, getting blitzed, contacting your dealer and doing heroin. I bet someone would at least put you on a reality TV show. I mean, look at where it's gotten Steve Sanders:

Bootless and Fancy Free

So, I didn't puke on Friday. Thanks to an afternoon laced with dramamine and cherry wine, not even a sixer of Oberon and about a pound of homemade beef jerky from the shady convenience store across the street from the docked schooner could send me into the spins aboard the Good Ship Smelly Crew.

Everyone who slept on the boat with us was AARP material and on a trip for their 20th-42nd anniversary. One couple asked us if we were newlyweds and I wanted to say, "Hi, if we were newlyweds, I hope we'd be in the tropics somewhere doing it for a week, not sitting on an old boat in northern Michigan, eating turkey sandwiches. Clearly, we just live in sin." Due to my good upbringing, I refrained from saying all that and just hit them with the living in sin part. Watching those people squirm was almost as fun as that time I went to the Scientology center in Philly under the guise of being interested in what they had to offer (when really I was just there to get literature for my Katie Holmes Halloween costume) and my tour guide got all defensive, probably because I started asking questions about Xenu and John Travolta. If screwing with people was an occupation, I'd be like CEO of Your Fly Is Open, Inc.

All in all though, the boat was cool. I got to help hoist the massive sails and then tried to instigate a mutiny amongst all the senior citizens, but I guess I'd already lost their support by being a heathen strumpet, so that part wasn't quite a success.

Also, the wedding rocked. I love weddings, always have. See, my everyday emotional spectrum generally already ranges from excited to crying to joyous to drunk. So a day with a wedding is fantastic because all of the events to trigger those feelings are tidily prepackaged into an 8 hour period, rather than me having to go out of my way to find and/or create excitement/drama/celebration/vodkasodas. This one was especially good times because it was one of my fave people getting married, I got to catch up with a bunch of people I hadn't seen in over a year, and there was late night pizza and beer for everyone in the bar below the reception. Note to everyone getting married: Providing snacks at 2am WILL get you a better present.

If you are seeking a pleasant peninsula, look around you.

We're headed here tomorrow for a my gorgeous friend's wedding:



And Friday night, we're sleeping on this sucker after an afternoon of vineyard hopping:



Can you say vomit? I can't wait to christen Lake Michigan.

Also, if you know me, then you probably know about my obsession with all things sailor/pirate-esque, so yes, I'm pretty much more excited than a fat kid at the Ponderosa salad bar about this.

Lady and the Tramp

See these shelves?



RIPPED OUT WITH OUR BARE FREAKING HANDS.

Or a power drill and a crowbar.

Whatever.

Pics of all these changes will probably follow if I ever get my shit together enough to get batteries in my camera and stop writing about beef jerky. So probably not, actually.

Anyway, today is the day R moves all his junk from his much beloved shithole to the new house. And he's seriously sad about it.* It's sorta like having a shelter dog. You just took him away from the stench of urine and matted fur to this nice big backyard and all the chew toys he can he can handle, but you can tell he is still pining away a little bit for his shelter dog friends and the bitchy rescue ladies (who, as an aside, constantly treat people like us like Michael Vick just because we are not stay-at-home moms and ok maybe we didn't know that heartworm comes from mosquitoes, but now we do, we promise. Stop looking at me like you're going to call PETA, lady. I can take you. And your little dog too.). In R's scenario, just substitute "beer and overflowing ashtrays" for "urine and matted fur", "bowchickabowbow" for "chew toys", and "the pubs by his house and being able to watch all sorts of skanks from his porch" for the dog friends and rescue bitches. Luckily, much like a shelter dog, I think all it will take to get him over his displacement is a big meaty meal and lots of ear scratching. I'm on it.


*Also, it's his birthday, which he is not sad about because it means presents! and attention! and free dinner!, so if you know him, you might want to give him a shout out for the big 31.

Time Capsule

The DJs on the radio were talking about some kind of time capsule and what they would put in it if they were going to open it up in 100 years or whatever. Most of them were trying to be all worldly and profound and suggested things like books emblematic of the times, a list of states that have legalized gay marriage, blah blah. You know what I would want in there? Beef jerky. There, I said it. First, it's pretty much the perfect food. Low calorie, low fat, high protein, and DELICIOUS. A true staple for the eating disordered. Second, the way I see it, the world is going to be so screwed in 100 years that if we even have cows, we'll probably have to handle their carcasses like toxic waste when they die because of all sorts of pollutants and disease in them (like it's already happening in the arctic: http://www.enn.com/today.html?id=10679). I'm betting a big ass stash of beef jerky would come in handy when I have to get all Mad Max on everyone's asses.

I am so off topic. The point of this post was supposed to be about how I told R we should make a time capsule for like 10 years (i.e. before the apocalypse) and bury it in the backyard under this weird stone birdbath we have back there:



It's hard to see in that picture, but it's there and it's weird and we'd probably unwittingly be digging up some ancient Decatur Indian burial ground or something, but let's be honest, when have I ever let evil spirits get in the way of my good times before? Exactly. So if you have any suggestions of what to put in there, let me know. And don't worry, I already put an USWeekly on the list as a premature memorial to Brit and LaLohan because.. well, you know.

Whirlwinded

So we went to the aquarium that Atlanta touts like the second coming of Yahweh on Thursday and it pretty much kicks ass (probably not like Jesus, but they're just fish after all) with its beluga whales and giant tank of sharks (like in Jaws II, but without the death) and otters that you know are constantly coming up with cockeyed escape schemes to somehow end up in a 4th grader's backpack, etc., EXCEPT for this horrific room of what I guess were children manhandling poor little baby rays and shrimps and horseshoe crabs in these torture tanks. They call them "touch pools," but really they were more like "assault by toddler" pools. I can't be sure, but I think I felt my ovaries make a break for it after about 10 minutes of screaming/splashing/screaming/high pitched screaming/splashing. I assume my fallopian tubes reeled them in, but nobody better get no ideas down there 'bout birthin no babies anytime soon.

Reno and Bob Biscuits had a pretty great time, I think. They slept late (9am, suckers), explored the ATL, had some seamless interactions with the Alabama parents and helped with manly and wifely type house things of which we know not. They even made it back from the North Georgia (think Deliverance) mountains in one piece, driving a Prius no less. Speaking of the Prius (i.e. the car I will be rocking once the "Champagne Dream" craps out in 8 years or so because Camrys are like Nick Nolte and pretty much never die no matter how ridiculously beat up and wretched they get), at one point my parents were trying to find the climate controls to put on the A/C in the back and my dad kept yelling, "Is it getting you in the rear?!?!!" Good times with the fam.

Now that they're gone, I totally need a nap and to catch up on about 960 minutes of work, but I'm really happy they came and hope they know I love them so much it makes my heart hurt even if they sometimes think I'm a total ingrate and that my BLOG IS SO NOT PROFESSIONAL. Yeah, yeah, I hear you, Reno. No need to be a hater. XOXOOXOXXO.

Bless Their Hearts

As he is in the process of moving out, my next post will be entitled, "A Brief History of Disgusting Shit in R's Apartment," but you will have to wait for that one with bated breath because my camera needs some new juice and I kind of refuse to go over there right now (except to humor myself and maybe you) for fear of disease, roaches attempting to nest on me, and his choices in body wash. No, I cannot use your Axe Recovery Shower Gel. Why? Because it smells like a dude. I wholly admit that I, like you, am a marketer's dream, but even I am not so delusional to believe that use of such body wash "cures hangovers." Try drinking less. I hear it's a proven hangover cure.

Anyway, my parents get here tonight for 5 days of SUPERFUNTIMES with their only daughter. For purposes of anonymity and because my brother really calls them these types of names, we will call my Mom "Reno" and my Dad "Bob Biscuits." Reno and Bob Biscuits get in tonight and thus will embark on their adventure of cheesy tourist activities, QT with us and Friday night with R's parents. Oh yes. The parents are meeting for the first time. It's going to be a famstravanganza of food and first impressions. Oh, and vodka. On "his" side anyway. You know, the alcoholic side.

Lord help us.

Since you all will be unable to witness what can only be described as an "experience" and I fear my after-the-fact description will fail to do it justice, I just want to give you a preview of what we're in for:

R's Mom

and

Reno

Note that I am implying Reno (my Mom) is Tom Hanks in this clip, NOT the blubbering lady baseball player. Let the good times roll!

Priceless

5 revisions to the HUD Settlement statement
12 calls to our lender
7 calls from our lender
85 emails from our moronic real estate agent
5 hours after we were actually supposed to close
~2000 contractually-binding signatures
------------------------------------
THE HOUSE IS FINALLY OURS!

I'm not going to get into the nitty-gritty of the past 24 hours, but I'd be lying if I acted like we rode our unicorns over a rainbow to the closing office and signed our promissory note in edible chocolate ink while being massaged by the Bank of America fairies. Not quite. But we're through the bureaucratic muck that a real estate closing makes and can now move onto to more exciting things -- like the fact that the parentals are coming tomorrow to visit the ATL for the first time ever. They will be staying here:



That's my apartment, which has been likened to:
a) a bank vault at Gringott's
b) a cave in the rainforest
c) Britney's future (i.e. dark, depressing, and full of snacks)

It might not look so bad, but trust me, it is. I only looked at their "model" apartment before I moved in, which is (of course) cheery! comfy! welcoming! etc! and somehow ended up in one that attempts to suck out your soul upon entry with its almost complete lack of natural light. Maybe they thought I was a Lady of the Night? I'm flattered, Slutty Apartment Rental Girls, but even a Lady of the Night could use a little sunshine now and then. Like at noon. On a completely clear day. With all the shades up. Anyway, I'm going to go home and try to fit my walls with some of those seasonal depression lights so my parents don't resort to the hari kari.

Zero Hour

Tomorrow is the big day. Wish us luck! Or at least that we will avert bankruptcy! Ok, at least that we will have some kickin patio parties.

A little something to take the edge off:

Queasy gets you nowhere but in line for a Jack and Ginger

So, I've pretty much wanted to throw up for the past few days. No, not because of bulimia. I've never been a puker and we all know starving is truly the only way to get skinny. Basically because actually buying a home is the scariest thing I've ever done (other than dating Crazy Von Youneedtogototherapywithme, but that was more scary in an I might end up in pieces in a freezer way than in an I might end up in bankruptcy way). It represents things I've never really had to come up against before.. responsibility to someone besides myself, money management, and living with R's dirty man panties, for examples. And in the past few days, the knowns and the unknowns have converged and transformed me from happy-go-lucky, let's get a house! and paint it! and a dog! and love it! and an outdoor screened-in-bed, like gypsies! and use it! to this sort of blubbering mess of fear and stress and apprehension. What if I lose my job? What if "normal settling" really means "quicksand"? What if the pearl-bedecked Sally Field lookalike next door burns down our house because we are the loudest people on earth, even sober, and I already know she is going to hate us as only a Catholic soccer mom could? What if what if what if...

The answer to all of these questions, as R so eloquently put it earlier today, is:

SACK UP.

Basically, I can sit here and worryworryworry myself to the point of grinding my teeth down to tiny Gollum-esque stubs or I can take this risk and live somewhere where we can make a life and a family and a future that will be what we want to make it: ours. So I am gonna sign those papers on Monday and I am going to stop worrying about the What Ifs and focus on the What Nexts.

And then we are gonna get shit-canned and celebrate being in more debt than a small African nation because THAT is the American way.

Private Quarters

The Atlanta newspaper puts out a feature called "Private Quarters" every week or so. The idea seems to be to pick the most boring couple / crazy eccentric divorcee / minimalist or flamboyant gay man/partnership possible and showcase their/her/his home in the suburbs /Buckhead / Inman Park or midtown through a series of pictures with obnoxious captions. E.g. the caption will say something like, "Didi Von Reinholdt bought this 7000 sq. ft Georgian mansion on a whim. She dove right into renovating the outdated living space, while retaining the avant-garde ceiling adornments to which she was first drawn. She often wonders how the keeping room off the kitchen was utilized in the 1930s." (I totally just made her up, so don't bother googling) Because I'm an asshole, I immediately make up what the caption should actually say: e.g. "Didi Von Reinholdt bought 6000 sq. ft more space than she needed out of spite, after her textile heir husband left her for a 25 yr old "fashion designer," named Kim. She tore down what she could reach with a sledgehammer until she received the proceeds of the divorce settlement and then began filling her "living space" with expensive crap in a futile attempt to fill the emotional void in her life. She still has no idea what the f' to do with that keeping room off the kitchen. She often wonders if things would have turned out differently if she hadn't been such a bitch during that trip to St. Bart's."

Mostly, these people set themselves up for it, so really, I don't feel that bad.

For your amusement, some of the more ridiculous recent examples (I tried to pull the pics, but the AJC is being a whore, but it's not like it really matters because all of these houses are about 87% the same no matter who owns them) --

http://lpe.ajc.com/gallery/view/business/private/0507/rose (Picture 13)
Actual caption: This cozy nook upstairs provides a comfortable play space for Chance and Macy.
Caption should be: This cozy nook upstairs provides a comfortable play space for a future Duke lacrosse player and Hayden Paniettiere's personal assistant circa 2028.

http://lpe.ajc.com/gallery/view/business/private/0607/dresher (Picture 2)
Actual caption: Beth and Don Dresher perch among the contemporary grace of their new living room, which combines traditional elements with more modern flourishes.
Caption should be: The Dresher's yellow lab, Lillie, gazes longingly out the couple's high rise windows, remembering the shaded green lawn she used to call home before Beth and Don embarked on a desperate search for their lost youth and "hipness."

http://lpe.ajc.com/gallery/view/business/private/0607/holzemers (All)
Actual caption: The developer of Centennial Park North built carefully around a number of stately live oaks like this one outside John and Lisa Holzemer's townhouse, giving the neighborhood its established feel.
Caption should be: The couple scoured high-end furniture stores around Atlanta to find the most characterless pieces ever manufactured for their home. During this interview, John admitted he was "3 whiskey sours and a bottle of Xanax" away from being free of this banal existence.

Link of the day: If you read the Babysitter's Club, you're pretty much going to shit yourself, as this site dissects Claudia's outfits in various books: http://www.whatclaudiawore.blogspot.com/

Free Blow for the Risk Averse

Some observations on shopping around for home insurance:

- These people clearly don't work on commission or else are the least ambitious salesmen/ladies ever. Though i guess if i had to question people time and again about the nearest fire station to them (1 mile!), I wouldn't call people back either. If I called people back.

- You cannot get extra insurance for the "Casablance Outdoor Daybed" some people are itching to put in the backyard (left). Or concubines (not pictured).

- We are a non-smoking household. ha. hahhaa. ha.

- We get covered for some obscene amount of personal property (i.e. the stuff inside the house) in the event of disaster and seeing that we own about $514.27 worth of valuables combined, I'm thinking that inviting primarily crackheads and arsonists to our housewarming may be the way to go. Hookers and blow for everyone!

Here she be.

Our home. Note the "Brady Carpet Green trim." We paid extra for that.

Just kidding. Here she is. There's a sort of peace of mind in knowing that if that tree falls, we'll ALL DIE TOGETHER.

7 minutes of fireworks. Seriously.

Seriously, Decatur? I mean, really? I will forgive this disappointment only because a) you will have to make up for this next year, otherwise some crazed stay at home mom who has been herding 4 kids around a tiny patch of green space in preparation for the oohing and ahhing is sure to go postal all over your ass and b) we're gonna have a bitchin party and I'll be proud of us for leaving the patio, let alone getting down the street to see the show by 9:30.

Anyway, I'm going to learn how to post pics now and put up Chatham South. Oh, and we don't close til July 16, so all this "ours" nonsense is pretty much just a fiction til we sign the freedom-to-move-to-SouthEast-Asia-on-a-whim away. I explained this to R and how I could have like 500 husbands there because of how they aren't allowed to have as many kids so people kill their girl babies because they're less valuable and now there is a crazy ratio imbalance of men to women and pretty much Asia is going to start WWIII because of all the pent up sexual tension. And that's just if the terrorists don't get us first. But at least I'll have 500 dudes fighting for my honor, right?

Then he mentioned how that's just China and I would more likely end up a Thai hooker. Point taken.

Also, link of the day: http://www.someecards.com/
"Our safe word scares me." I love these people.

If you're looking for Harwich, you're lost.

Chatham is indeed a town on Cape Cod. But our house isn't there. The point of the above titling is that it looks like it could be because it's a fairly adorable (though most have called it cute and really it thinks it deserves better than that, you visionless fools) cape cod, but it's in the South. Plus I have unmatched love for my nor'eastern roots and there's a room we already refer to as "The Captain's Quarters," so basically I'll call it whatever the hell I want until R and I come up with something on which we agree, which doesn't seem likely in the near future because the most apropos name for it would be something along the lines of "VodkaSoda Village" or "Escapefromamillionweddingsville." So whatever, for now.

Since the majority of you who will end up reading this either:
- are already slaves to every 12 minutes
- obsess about your baby 95% of the time
- are foolishly searching for legitimate home advice / cape code tourist information / porn

then :
- be a slave to my sick, sick sense of humor. And entitlement. And get me a beer while you're up. Now.
- join me in obsessing over the shades of brown in the Home Depot paint section rather than in your spawn's diaper!
- click back / click back / click forward, you saucy minx!

Haaaaaaaaaa. God. So anyway, in reality, I'm stuck in a creative rut of sorts, so I'm hoping blowing off steam on this whole we for serious own a home thing through the internets will bounce me back to the days of yore (i.e. 6th grade) when I could drop a simile like that new alli stuff makes you crap your pants. Don't act like you don't know. Oh, and it'll be cool to have the before and after pictures for the grandkids, or for the apocalypse. Either way.