Another Note on Getting Older

I know anyone out there above the age of 30 is now saying, “What the hell does SHE know?  She’s only cracked 30 recently.” I understand these feelings and will confess to thinking the same thing anytime someone under the age of 30 complains about getting older.  Whatever.  I’ve said it before – it’s my blog and I don’t give a flying rat’s dirty parts because I have officially moved into the next box on the survey when asked my age (so long, 25 – 29.  So long.)

The point is, I’m starting to reach the point in my life where I’d wax poetic about “really getting what life’s about, you know?” to People magazine, should they choose to interview me (I’m sure they need a feature story on some smartass girl who is trying to sell her house through witty Craigslist ads and what will soon be flat-out bribery.)  I’ve realized that my life has changed for the better (mostly) and being on a “get out my frustration at passive aggressive letters I get in the mail and a shitty housing market” writing binge lately, I’ve decided to share my litmus test for getting older.

1.  Onions.  Making burgers the other night prompted me to ask Travis, “Do you want onions or not?”  When he replied, “Well, what kind?” I honestly had to stop because I then realized that not only did I actually have onions that weren’t sprouting other onions in my fridge, I had a freakin’ plethora of onions from which to choose.  Just pick a color – white, red, or green – and I will take care of your onion needs.  This wouldn’t be a big thing, but I distinctly remember opening the “pantry” door at my house in college (it wasn’t a pantry.  It was actually access to the basement with a board placed over the opening to go downstairs.) and remembering that my mother had given me a sack of onions approximately around the time Nelly thought it was “getting’ hot in hurr.”  These onions ceased to be edible somewhere around the time 50 Cent opined about loving someone “like a fat kid love cake” and so the fact that I now have a farmer’s market worth of edible onions in my fridge is pretty smackin’ awesome.  The onions, along with the musical comparisons, show my age and subsequently, my awful taste in music. 

2.  I get to work around 7:45 in the morning.  My job in 2002?  I would walk in around 10:00.  At night.  The thought now of actually having to function at 10pm makes me wanna curl up in my pajamas even more as I drift off to sleep to the sounds of M*A*S*H and the lovely sound of Hawkeye’s martini glass. 

3.  I actually crave vegetables.  I’ve said on multiple occasions that I will judge a meat-n-three by their green beans and I mean it (best beans in town award, at the moment, goes to Sweatt’s.  They also get the best meatloaf award.  Actually, they just get “best damn food in Nashville as long as it’s daytime” award.  Not in the best neighborhood, unfortunately, so leave the Prada at home, folks.)  As awful as this sounds, the idea of a salad bar makes me absolutely giddy since then I have free reign to add WHATEVER I WANT to my salad.  Radishes?  SURE!  Cucumbers?  But of course.  And if they have sprouts on the other side of the sneeze guard?  Bless my heart and pile those suckers on top.  When I was 21 the only vegetable I got was the bloody mary I got at brunch and possibly some scallions on top of my Mexican pizza (before they stopped adding them on after the great scallion scare of 2003.)  My main form of nutrition was the Wendy’s $1 menu (another fast food tragedy – the removal of the chili, chips, and cheese tastiness that used to be my go-to meal on the fly.  Sad day, Wendy’s.  Sad, sad day) and sometimes, if I felt frisky, some mushrooms on my calzone from Barley’s (someone please tell me that place is still kicking?) 
I just realized that I’ve been talking about food for WAY too long, which is another sign of old age, so let’s just move on to…

4.  A big point of excitement in my life stems from being able to match up all the socks in a load of laundry.   Another point of excitement came when I bought a package of socks the other day – THAT WERE COLOR-CODED.  Each pair has a different accent color, making the match-making process after the dryer a freakin’ breeze.  When I can match up my socks in seconds, Trav’s socks come out evenly, AND I don’t have to search the corners of the fitted sheet for that one lone, straggling ankle sock?  That’s the triple crown of laundry perfection, folks.  The trifecta of the laundry room.  And it officially puts me in the “not a whippersnapper anymore” category. 

5.  I made the best vinaigrette dressing of my life yesterday.  I also made the dorkiest proclamation of my life just now.  I’ve been struggling while trying to find my perfect blend of oil and vinegar and by golly, yesterday I achieved it!  This might not sound like a big deal, but believe me, it was a good day in the Yost household.  I also totally forgot what I did differently this time, which also puts a mark in the “onset dementia” column and reinforces the fact that I’m old. 

6.  In my last “getting old” blog I mentioned that I heard Pearl Jam on the classic rock station.  Well, yesterday I heard Aerosmith on the “radio for baby boomers” channel.  I then realized what a caricature Steven Tyler has become and I longed for the days when he was doped up and not hopping on counters in a Burger King commercials.  The days of yore, I believe it’s called.  And I miss them.     

A Note Before I Depart to Seattle

So I’m officially off to visit the West coast tomorrow, as I’m flying my happy ass to Seattle for the Allrecipes.com 15^th birthday celebration.  This fact does not annoy me.  However, I’ve been noticing more and more things that DO annoy me lately and I’ve compiled enough to make a list.  Afraid the Seattle air will suck these great things out of my brain, I decided to void my brain of these items in a mindless ramble a la the Internet.  Also, the word “void” makes me think “your bowels.”  Enjoy.

1.  People who tell you their weekend plans just so they can tell you theirs.  It’s classic and easy to tell when someone walks up to you with a poop-eating grin (isn’t the word “poop” funny?) and says, “Got any plans this weekend?”  Before I can enthrall them with my agenda of “scrubbing the carpet from the latest cat vomit spree and then drinking beer on my porch and postulating as to my neighbor’s profession…we’re fairly sure she’s a prostit…” I’m cut off with plans of, you know, actually doing stuff.  (In case you’re wondering, the end of that sentence was going to be “ute.”)  Maybe it’s irritating to me that people actually seem to have fun on their weekends or maybe I just hate being interrupted by someone who actually seems to have fun on their weekends, but whatever it is, stop it.  Just come up to the person and say, “Hey!  I’m totally going whitewater rafting with George Clooney this weekend after we hit up happy hour at Virago where we’re gonna  hang out with the guy from the Dos Equis commercials.”  And it’s perfectly acceptable to walk away before I tell you my exciting plans of cleaning out the moldy substances in my refrigerator and stealing my neighbor’s front license plate that is maddeningly crooked.  You’ll probably just think I’m a psycho anyway.

2.  People who jog on crowded roads.  Here’s the thing – I myself run on a road, but it’s through a neighborhood, it’s fairly common to see people running down this road, and it’s not a main thoroughfare through anything.  People running down Mallory Lane next to the I-65 entrance ramp are just doing this to show off their incredibly toned stomachs and heat resistance (note:  This IS a very specific description of a very annoying person jogging in the middle of Cool Springs while it was approximately the temperature of Dante’s 10^th level of hell outside.)  I’m not saying, “Don’t exercise.”  What I’m saying is, “Exercise in a place where 1. You have the least likely chance of being run over by a trucker who is just trying to get on the interstate to deliver his load of bananas before midnight and 2.  YOU’RE ONLY DOING THIS TO SHOW OFF AND WE ALL KNOW IT.”  So continue to sweat and continue to dodge mobile meth labs.  Because what you’re doing is stupid. 

3.  Guys who say “delish” instead of delicious.  This is actually aimed at one person, also, and that person is Tyler Florence.  He used the phrase “delish” the other day in reference to something he made and holy crap, I almost threw my Hot Pocket at the television.  First off, shortening words is a known annoyance of mine and almost always the tell-tale trait of a hipster.  Females engaging in this questionable activity are bad enough, but dudes?  Seriously?  You sound like Andy Cohen and no one needs that much Andy Cohen is their lives.  Secondly, how can anyone think that the abbreviation of a word that’s NOT EVEN THAT FREAKIN’ LONG could make you sound hip, cool, or even intelligent?  So, Tyler Florence, until you can get a grip on your vocabulary, you’re going to need to take your tasty-looking pesto elsewhere, because this girl can’t listen to a man who has obviously spent way too much time in the presence of dumb people. 

4.  Chick-fil-A.  I’m not about to go off on some anti-gay restaurant rant, mainly because it won’t do a damn bit of good and I shudder at the thought of starting a gay marriage debate, because, well, that sounds like it would annoy me.  The whole “we don’t support gay people” stance isn’t what bothered me to begin with anyway – it’s the fact that their food sucks.  Granted, this view is probably due to the fact that Chick-fil-A was one of the few options available on my freshman meal plan at the good ole UT of K and I gorged myself on their nuggets so much that I could possibly live until Joan Rivers dies before I need anything even resembling a piece of Chick-fil-A chicken again.  Secondly, I’ve NEVER been in one of their restaurants that wasn’t completely crowded, inside and out.  The location in Brentwood gets so backed up in their drive-through at lunch that they have to make some poor sap stand out there and direct traffic or something (not sure what he does, but I’ve seen him out there talking to folks in their cars on numerous occasions.  I’ve also said the phrase, “Why don’t you get your ass out of the car and go inside instead of wasting three gallons of gas while you wait for your deep-fried crap?” on numerous occasions.)  I’ve found out why someone would choose the gas-waste route, as upon stepping into a Chick-fil-A I’ve often been overwhelmed by the sheer amount of children in one place.  Don’t get me wrong – I like kids and I’m aware that most of them need to eat in order to survive.  But holy honey mustard dipping sauce, they’re EVERYWHERE in there!  It’s loud, it’s chaotic, and their chicken sucks.  Besides the fact that they’re closed on Sundays, these are plenty of reasons for me to avoid this place like the plague, no matter their political stance on marriage.  Now if we could work on those horrible billboards and get them the hell out of the SEC tournament, I’d be one happy camper.  

Annoyances: Laundry List Style

Given the fact that the past two days have been spent grinding my teeth and attempting not to disembowel the next person who says the phrase “heat wave,” I’m a bit irritated at, well, everything.  Maybe my case of the Mondays has been extended to include our friend, Tuesday, but whatever the reason, I’m not in a great mood, and I blame everything but myself.  Why?  Because I’m an American, dammit, and that’s perfectly acceptable in this country.  So, here is yet another list of crap that bugs me.  I know you’ve been losing sleep over the lack of these lists in your life. 

1.  Being held “gift hostage.”  A friend of mine recently had a dilemma.  You see, a friend of hers that she didn’t particularly like wanted to meet up with said friend to give her a birthday gift.  Mind you, these people aren’t exactly on “talk every day and finish each others’ sentences” terms, so it was a bit odd.  After politely declining the birthday gift, my friend then got an e-mail that said, “But I had something monogrammed for you, so it can’t really go to anyone else.  I’d love to catch lunch and let you enjoy it.”  I’m calling bullshit on this one because who on earth gets someone a monogrammed gift when you barely talk to the receiver of the gift?  This, my friends, is a classic case of gift entrapment.  My guess is the alleged gift giver actually has a favor she wants to ask of gift receiver and is using the gift as a wickedly-trapped bait to lure this favor out of my friend.  The friend called shenanigans and has yet to be snared by the monogramming bandit.  Stay tuned for news, but please, don’t do this to someone you kind of know.  It’s not cool, yo.  Not cool at all. 

2.  There’s a school called Universal Technical Institute.  Yes.  They call it UTI.  Why you would want to name your school after a common female bladder ailment when it’s an institution designed for entry-level auto mechanics?  What grease-stained dude on a creeper is interested in pledging his allegiance to Urinary Tract Infection?  The idea that they somehow did this on purpose to cement their name in the minds of potential students hasn’t surpassed me, since they blatantly refer to it as “UTI” very often in their commercials.  The fact that they thought this was a good idea, however, has totally surpassed me and left me slack-jawed and hunched over with laughter. 

3.  This next annoyance is actually a two-parter.  Annoyance #1:  Our shower is leaking.  I can only tighten the faucets so much before they strip themselves out and flood my bathroom.  The constant dripping is driving me crazy, not to mention, with the idea of a triple-digit water bill looming on my pay-strapped horizon, the insanity is reaching new levels of, well, insanity.  That’s annoyance #1 with this situation.  Annoyance #2:  When I went to Home Depot yesterday to inquire about getting new seals for my faucet, I found a very helpful man who looked me up and down and said, “Do you have a boyfriend or husband helping you with this project?”  Granted, I was totally just going to buy the seal, hand it to my lovely husband and ask him to replace the seals, but THIS MAN DIDN’T KNOW THAT (I feel that’s one of the advantages to being married: getting your husband to do stuff like this.  I cook and pay the bills.  He fixes stuff.  It’s on the marriage certificate somewhere, I’m sure.) Now,  I’ve done a lot of handy-type things in my life: I’ve installed a ceiling fan all by my lonesome (well, I was helped by three cats and several expletives.)  I’ve taken apart a garbage disposal, under the influence of a coupla drinks, and removed what looked like Styrofoam spider webs from it so that it would properly dispose of my garbage.  And oh yeah, Mr. Smarty Pants Home Depot employee?  I’ve castrated a bull before.  So continue with your completely wrong assessment of this chick, get me the damn seals, and quickly shut the F up or you’re going to be singing soprano at the next Home Depot holiday gathering.  Asshat. 

4.  “50 Shades of Grey.”  Yes, I have read the first two books in this horrid series, so yes, I feel like I can make fun of it.  The “author” is obviously lost in some world of sexual made-uppery as no one ever has had sex like this.  Not to mention that the minute some control freak millionaire tracked my cell phone to a bar, found me at the bar, and then proceeded to chastise me for drinking so much as I hurled into some bushes, I would kick him in his bathing suit area (unless he likes that.  Who knows?)  The writing is stilted, the characters are unbelievable (the main character got drunk for the first time when she hurled into the bushes.  She then continues throughout the book to drink every chance she gets, including the night after the vomiting.  You don’t jump back on the alcohol horse that quickly.  I know these things) and the plot is just this side of asinine.  I suppose the real reason I’m so angry about these works is that I’m probably just jealous that old E.L. somehow got a book deal and I’m stuck writing on my couch and not flying around the world to a host of adoring fans that for some reason like my writing.  Screw you, E.L. James.  I’ll keep my crappy writing where it belongs: on my self-maintained blog.  

7 Deadly Sins...The Updated Version

Move over, Brad Pitt.  I’ve decided we need a revamp of the 7 Deadly Sins, Angry Curl style.  Living in the world of food trucks and a shirtless Matthew McConaughey takes gluttony and lust to a completely different, totally worth it, level of sin.  And let’s face it – sloth?  Might as well be renamed “laying around on the couch and watching football all day.”  And I’ll be damned if I’m not going to do that.  So, as I tend to do, I decided we need new rules for society.  You know.  To weed out the dummies.

1.  Greed  Inability to be punctual   I’m replacing greed with dumbasses who can’t tell time because they ARE greedy.  Of my time.  Working in radio has allowed me to realize that you can put a price tag on time and when you’re wasting mine, I’m not happy.  Buy a watch and stop with the whole, “Oh, I’m always late.  That’s just how I am!” excuse.  It’s not cute.  It’s stupid.  Somebody a long time ago put a lot of effort into figuring out how to tell time.  I don’t know this person’s name, but I’m sure he’d be insulted by the flagrant  disregard of his work.  This whole annoyance really stems from the fact that I rushed home a couple of weeks ago and furiously cleaned the house for a last-minute showing, only to sit in the parking lot with three rather confused felines for an hour and 15 minutes…then realize that I had gotten stood up by a realtor.  Their excuse?  They got “sidetracked.”  Screw you and the fact that I’m now sweating like a lady of the night in a religious institution (and cursing like one that’s about to get struck by lightning.)  You got sidetracked?  Sidetrack this.* 
*Note: author is currently holding up one very important finger.  I’ll let you decipher which one. 

2.  Sloth  Using Bad Grammar.  I chose to replace sloth with bad grammar because if you can’t properly use “your” or “you’re” in a sentence, you’re obviously too lazy to look it up somewhere.  We live in the age of Google, people!  It’s not like you have to drag yourself to the library, sort through a card catalog, and then figure out the Dewey decimal system these days.  It’s just a few clicks away.  While you’re at it, check out the section about their/there/they’re.  Interesting stuff, I tell ya!  The all caps effect fits into this category as well, because if you’re too lazy to hit the shift button once in a while, I’m too lazy to read your shouty message that’s probably lame anyway. 

3.  Gluttony  Being Extreme Couponers.  Now, before you think, “Um, Jamie, don’t YOU use coupons?” please know that I’m not against using coupons to keep a bit of that hard-earned greenery in your bank account.  The folks that I’m angry with are the crazy people on that extreme coupon show that have ruined it for the rest of us.  Thanks to those dick weeds, stores are cracking down on their coupon policy and making it extremely difficult for those of us who just want to save a few bucks at the store and not stockpile shampoo for our World War III bunker.  Never did I set out to get 8 carts of stuff for $3.  I just want the satisfaction of showing a receipt to someone and saying, “Look!  I saved $18 with a few pieces of paper!  That’s like a free case of beer!”

4.  Pride  Talking because you like the sound of your own voice.  If you’ve ever been in a work meeting that’s running a bit late only to have it run even later due to someone’s over-explanation of something that probably contains an acronym, you understand my pain.  This sin also applies to people who tell overly-long, overly-complicated stories at parties and social functions, most graduation speeches, and Kanye West. 

5.  Wrath  Inventing individually-wrapped chicken breasts.  I’m replacing wrath with this travesty because that’s the only emotion I feel when I open these stupid things.  Attempting to eat less meat that’s higher quality means going organic.  And a lot of the times the only organic chicken option is the one with each chicken breast sealed in its own little package…within another package.  I find it amusing that the organic, therefore seemingly-better-for-the-environment meat is using up WAY more packaging than its hormone-eating counterparts.  I understand that touching chicken isn’t the most pleasant experience for some people, but that’s ridiculous.  If you can’t touch it, don’t eat it.  If more people would experience their food, maybe we could stop eating this crap that McDonald’s passes off as sustenance and gain some insight into our food supply.  And the argument of "but what if I don't want the whole package?" is null because that's why sandwich bags were invented.  How we lived hundreds of years without packaged chicken breasts, I'll never know.  

Side Note:  Sorry for the tangent.  Food is a pretty big deal to me.  *Steps off soap box.* 

6.  Envy   Being completely irresponsible.  I’m using this to replace envy because I am truly envious of people who just don’t give a flying rat’s dirty parts about life.  It must be so easy to be incredibly stupid.  When I say “irresponsible” I mean, “these people are making bad life choices and making my life harder in the meantime.”  For instance, the asshats who bought a house they couldn’t afford and then just decided they didn’t want to pay for anymore?  The reason our house will sell sometime near 2045 for what will probably be still less than what we owe.  The guy who decides he doesn’t want his leftover mess from Taco Bell?  Just tosses it in the street.  Who cares?  He surely doesn’t!  The lady who doesn’t feel like walking 4 feet to return a shopping cart to the little cart corral thing?  Don’t worry – it won’t hit YOUR car.  You’re leaving!  People who go through the effort of collecting their recycling, driving it to the recycling center, and then leaving it in a plastic bag BESIDE THE RECYCLING BIN?  Somewhat responsible, yet lacking in execution.  I guess my point is that I in no way want to judge people’s lifestyles…as long as that lifestyle doesn’t affect MY lifestyle.  But when I’m having to pick up your 8 packets of hot sauce and half of a leftover burrito from my yard, that’s when I get a bit testy and I think you should be punished.  Preferably in a manner that includes  Limp Bizkit at loud volumes and a large amount of Super Glue. 

7.  Lust  Being the Black Eyed Peas  That’s right.  It’s now a sin to be the Black Eyed Peas.  Between the incontinence of Fergie, that one song of theirs that sounds like an Outback Steakhouse commercial (“I Gotta Feeling” I believe it’s called) and the atrocity that was last year’s Super Bowl performance (best Facebook comment from that night?  “The Black Eyed Peas are Rothlisbergering my ears right now.”  Props, Eric.  Props.)  Beside the fact that our lexicon has been littered with such words as “ferglicious” and that “Lady Lumps” song even exists, they (especially Fergie and her solo "career") suck.  Will.i.am has WAY too much punctuation in his name and I don’t even know who the other two are because that’s all the brain space I’m willing to give to this “band.”  I think I could make better music by farting into a tin can.  

Angry Curl: Memorial Day Edition

Memorial Day weekend is upon us and quite frankly, I need a vacation.  Of course, thanks to our friend, Mr. Recession, our vacation this year involves sleeping in a yellow bubble in the middle of a park and preferably next to a body of water and as far away as possible from anything deemed by me to be “bitey.”  Yep.  We’re going camping!  I actually enjoy camping and I am quite looking forward to my “sorry I didn’t get your call.  I was camping!” excuse that I plan to employ far after we’ve packed up our dirty, leaf-infested underwear and hauled underwearless ass out of the park.  Before we all alight upon our Memorial Day adventures, however, I wanted to do a sort of memorial of my own.  Of crap that annoys me and the absolute stupidity that exists in the world around us.  Enjoy.

1.  Pink.  Little Miss “I’m not going to adhere to the rules of society and I’m way cooler than any other pop star” is a fake.  You can rock your short hair and swing around on a trapeze all you want, but when your lyrics include “Don’t get fancy, just get dancy” I’m calling shenanigans on your badass-ness.  Your husband?  Hot and covered in tattoos.  (Note:  So is mine.)  Your delusions of going against the grain and doing your own thing in the music business?  Ludicrous.  Just release your inner Britney and attack someone with an umbrella.  THAT’S rebellion, Pink.  Take some notes.

2.  Speaking of “celebrities” let’s talk about celebrity exhaustion.  I’m fairly sure the last time I got overwhelmed by every day stuff like going to work and paying my ever-increasing water bill I did one of two things: 1.  Drank a bottle of wine or 2. Drank another bottle of wine.  “Exhaustion” is another thing I’m calling shenanigans on as it should really go by its actual moniker: adulthood.  Welcome to it, asshats.  Welcome to the world of having a job!  And responsibilities!  And a strong urge to strangle the person in front of you at the store that says, “Will you just give me a minute?  I forgot to get bread.  Back in just a second!”  You’re not exhausted – you’re a major p***y.  I’m sure you’ll have plenty of time to reflect on this fact while you’re sipping “prescription” sparkling water and getting “therapeutic” massages as part of your “treatment.” 

3.  Windshield Memorials.  I understand that death is a part of society and I in no way mean to downplay the grief felt at the passing of a loved one.  But memorializing this person on the back windshield of your 2007 Dodge Ram is a bit unnecessary and will wreak what I can only assume will be havoc on the Kelly Blue Book value.  I’m sure that Kevon McGriffy III certainly will R.I.P. knowing that the commuters behind you on I-24 are armed with the knowledge that he lived from 1982 – 2009 and that you’ve adorned the years with angel wings. 

4.  Preachy billboards.  Living in the South, these are fairly commonplace, especially in more rural areas.  They’re usually very black and white (much like morality!) and are threatening that you’re going to hell for…something.  Some just list the Ten Commandments (often these have to be broken into 2 billboards) and some say things like, “REPENT, SINNER!” with hellacious flames at the bottom.  I actually shouldn’t say that they annoy me, per se, as I find them kind of amusing, especially on road trips through the boonies, but really.  Let’s take them down and replace them with something useful.  Like the length of the wait time at the nearest ER. 

And now, to complete your Memorial Day weekend cynicism, are some things that make me happy:

1.  My parents found their cat!  “I didn’t know the cat was missing” you might be thinking to yourself.  Well, never worry because the cat was found, safe and sound, in a beaver trap.  You see, cat food was placed in the trap to lure the beavers (please be assured that I’m aware of the innuendos that are inherent in this little rant) and the cat was understandably interested by the thought of cat food in a box near a creek (beavers, cats, and boxes.  I can’t even begin to tell you my delight in all of these unintentionally-placed jokes.)  ANYWAY, the fact that the cat was found made me happy.  The fact that the cat was found in a beaver trap sent me over the edge into blissful oblivion. 

2.  The fact that we’re about to spend the next three days doing one of these things: swimming in the lake.  Hanging in a hammock.  And that’s about it.  Possibly sipping on some Maker’s during each of these activities and that’s about it.  No phones.  No deadlines.  Just water, trees, and the inevitable tick or two.  And I can’t wait.

Happy Memorial Day, y’all.  Stay cynical.  

My Response to "Had Any Offers Lately?"

As you probably know, Travis and I are in the process of attempting to sell our house.  This is a process that's been ongoing for almost 2 years now.  We've done everything "right," in that it's staged so well we almost want to continue living there, half of our belongings are in storage to complete the "we don't have clutter" look, and since we replaced the carpet in the living room, it no longer looks like the scene of a homicide involving several ounces of Miller Lite and what may have been badger urine.  Anyway, we've had a lot of (completely well-meaning) questions about the progress of our house and I've now taken the route of at least trying to make myself, and the asker of the question, laugh at my response because if I don't laugh at the situation, I *might* have to start compulsively hoarding badgers again.  And no one wants that.  So, here is my e-mail in response to another, still well-meaning question of, "Had any offers lately?"  

Not a one - haha!  We had one guy who was considering our place but then chose one on a golf course down the road.  This lead me to wish golf balls to rain down on his head when he's just trying to scramble some eggs in his kitchen.  No one likes a Titleist in their eggs, right?  As for this round of selling the house, we've only had the two showings from the one, golf-loving dude and not a lot else.  Not sure what the problem is, seeing as how we are offering it at the lowest price so far (this is the third time we've put it on the market, making it around 20-some-odd months that we've been living in what is essentially a Pottery Barn catalog while simultaneously getting nervous hives when we go out of town lest we get a showing and aren't around to remove all evidence of our beloved cats from the house.)  I even wrote a letter to our metro government office when I got an erroneous bill for our property taxes, espousing the greatness of our house and how badly I want to not live in said house anymore (the kitchen's been on the Rachael Ray show - true story) because, at this point, I will tell anyone I can about it in the off chance that someone, somewhere, will be willing to buy a perfectly good house (for one person.  For a newly-married couple, one of whom is a compulsive collector of all things musical kitsch and the other being a collector of shoes, sundresses, and kitchen gadgets, one becoming-tinier-by-the-minute condo isn't cutting the already-room-temperature butter.) On that note, I'm sure you really didn't want that kind of in-depth answer and you may be thinking, "This girl is freakin' psychotic."  You'd be right on that count, as the next person who asks, "Have you tried staging your home?" will receive a punch in the face and an unapologetic look of aforementioned psychosis from yours truly.  At least I don't have to stage my cell in maximum security, although I have a feeling I'd probably be used by my cellmate as a pawn in an auction for cigarettes during rec time. 

And on that note, I hope I've at least brightened your day because I'm still on a "I'm never going to sell my house and I'm going to be forced to spend my evenings creating elaborate, yet more than likely completely false, backstories for our neighbors involving prostitution rings for the Mexican embassy and what we're guessing is a possible brothel while trying not to strangle the one lady who tries to get me to go to the HOA meetings all.the.time. " frenetic warpath. 

So, that being said, pardon the hideously long e-mail.  I just read it and decided that I do, indeed, sound like a crazy person.  Feel free to post this on the bulletin board at work, because I totally would.  To bring joy to others through my pain is the least I can ask for from this hideously dehumanizing process known as selling your house.

I would also like to note that I do not direct any of the hatred towards yourself or your company.  I rather like to place blame on the government, a very vindictive turnip farmer in South Dakota, and possibly Canada. 

Cheers!

- Jamie 

Living A Rich Life on the Cheap

It’s that time again, and by “that time” I mean, “let me wax poetic about meaningless propaganda that you ceased to care about sometime around the Reagan administration.”  The recession is still licking its chops from consuming one too many overpaid bankers while simultaneously picking its teeth with the dreams of the American people.  This all-too-realistic fact smacks me over the head so much I’ve taken to calling it Chris Brown.  Dancing around financial pitfalls is difficult since I’m not a good dancer, but that extra weight I was carrying around in my bank account is now gone and so I’ve become pretty dang good at creative ways to be thrifty.  Seeing it a crime to keep these nuggets of wisdom contained in my own, recession-smacked brain I’ve decided to share this knowledge.
1.  One way I’ve kept up appearances of affluence in the home is refilling the containers of name brand items I bought (when I had disposable income) with their generic counterparts.  People are much more likely to believe your “I’m not broke” façade when your fabric softener says “Downey” and not “Kroger Blue Stuff.”  Likewise, my hand soap may SAY Dove, but inside I know lies “Industrial Strength Tire Cleaner I Liberated from a Poorly-Maintained Car Wash on Nolensville Road.”
2.  Another great trick to save money is to make your own money.  Printing presses can be found on Craigslist with relative ease and if that doesn’t pan out, Magic Markers are probably on sale at Walgreens.  Simply grab a Trace and Learn (if you don’t have kids, offer to pick up your sister’s children one day – and then steal theirs) to brush up on your dead presidents, and you’ll be rolling around, a la Scrooge Duck on Duck Tales, in a silo filled with almost perfectly legal tender.
3.  Alcohol consumption can definitely take its toll on your wallet, but let’s face it – the anesthetic quality of some good hooch is unparalleled and nothing takes the edge off a day like a big glass of liquid intoxication.  With this is mind, take a look at your bathroom.  I’ll wait.
Good.  Now – do you have a tub?  If the answer is “yes,” then you, my friend, will soon be filthy, yet incredibly drunk, for just pennies on the dollar!  Turning your bathtub into a distillery is easy.  A few modifications to your counterfeit entrepreneurial operation turns that printing press into a spirits press that will have you kissing-a-random-street-musician wasted by the end of CMA Fest.
4.  One way to save both the planet AND your wallet is to recycle.  This is useful because you can (greenly) dispose of those pesky generic containers you no longer need thanks to putting their contents in their labeled counterparts.  But did you know that you can find all KINDS of stuff that other people are throwing away?  I have hauled home a beer-can chicken stand, several only-sort-of-out-of-date People magazines, and four mannequin heads from the Paul Mitchell Hair School.  I sense you’re snickering right about now, but I would like to assure you that I have actually hauled all of the above out of the recycling receptacles around our fair city and four of these beauty school heads items may or may not be in the trunk of my car currently.
5.  Kidnapping is a fantastic money-saver on several levels as well.  First off, you have the ransom money, which is a no-brainer.  Make sure you’re not overstepping your bounds, as several factors need to be addressed before you arrive at a set figure.  Take into consideration the annual income of the people you’re extorting, what you’ve stolen from them, and exactly how long you’re willing to keep in your possession the very thing you’ve stolen.  For instance, you’re not going to be able to get as much money by stealing the dog of a middle-class family of 7 as you would by taking, say, one of Jennifer Lopez’s children.  I’ve devised a formula to help you decide the level of kidnapping risk you’re willing to take for the financial outcome:
(Street Value of Stolen Item x Length of Captivity) – Length of Possible Prison Term (in months) = Return on Investment.  You’ll want to factor in the cost of night vision goggles plus a magazine subscription so you can write out your ransom notes, but those are really just costs of doing business with the Lindberghs.
Now, I mentioned the “many levels” of money saving possibilities with the enterprise of kidnapping, and these aren’t just the ransoms you can collect.  If you decide to actual steal a human, you can use this person to do all kinds of things normally relegated to a rather expensive personal assistant.  Have the person wash your dishes, or, if you steal someone with a particular skill set (think: Mario Batali) he can demonstrate that talent in a valiant hope that you won’t kill him.
So, kids, it’s fairly simple.  Decide exactly what you’re hoping to gain from this scenario and then consider your possibilities.  The great thing about this industry?  Plenty of options.  Go ahead – play the market a bit.  Just make sure you sort of like whatever/whomever you steal, just in case no one wants it/him back.
Whew!  I don’t know about y’all, but my mind is pretty tired from all the money saving I’m doing!  I’m going to go take a nap while Mario Batali whips up some of his homemade ravioli for me.  And he better not put butternut squash in this batch.  As Martha Stewart can testify, no one puts squash in my ravioli without a higher ransom notice.  No one.