Category — Totally Off Topic

I have this thing with my mouth.

No, not herpes. And get your mind out of the gutter. Jesus.

I’m a chewer. A chomper. I destroy pens, chomp endlessly on ice cubes, chew gum. I smoked for 15 years.

Point is, I release stress by chomping on things — including food. Sadly, I’m not one of those people that gets all sick to my stomach, loses my appetite and upchucks when I get stressed. Oh no, I run straight for the fridge. I think I’m the only bride that got fat before my wedding.

Right now, I’m experiencing some epic stress. We got the final approval papers from the bank on our short sale. The buyer has already put money into escrow. We have a closing date.

But…

But it’s all still pending the home inspection, which happens tomorrow at 9:30 a.m. Until we’re assured that the buyer still wants the place once he gets written proof of all the things wrong with the house, we can’t put down a deposit on a rental house.

NOT that we’ve had any luck finding anything we can afford that we would actually live in. We’ve looked at probably eight houses and so far, we’ve seen some crack dens and a couple of shoe boxes.

Basically, I have no fucking clue what’s going to happen with our house or where we’re going to live and it is driving. me. MAD.

Will we have to put the house back on the market? Foreclose? Will we end up moving when I’m gigantically pregnant? Will we be forced to move into a shitbox because we can’t find some place safe that also includes an intact roof and floor?

I don’t know.

So yeah. Stress. Want to eat. A lot. Can’t sleep. Going insane. Praying to a little plastic statue of St. Joseph that I buried upside down in my backyard.

This is not a rational person speaking here.

Luckily, there’s banana bread and M&Ms and Heath ice cream.

I don’t know about you, but nothing puts me in a more festive mood than making some hot, thick bean soup in the middle of August in Florida.

I’ve been saving this recipe for a Spanish-style bean soup for a while. The craving finally hit and I made it, using Spanish chorizo instead of andouille sausage. But that’s beside the point.

The point is this:

I’ve never used great northern beans as called for in the recipe. Neither have I ever worked with kale, a collard-like green, leafy vegetable.

Turns out that these items are pretty potent. The soup was delicious. Deee-li-shus. But I’m estimating that, between the kale and beans, there were approximately 18 grams of fiber per spoonful of my soup.

We ate the soup on Sunday evening. Within a couple of hours, it hit us. A little cheek lift here. A walking rat-a-tat-tat fart there. A poof of wind on the way to the kitchen.

Soon, these innocent gastrointestinal gusts started getting more dangerous. Throughout the night, Chris and I lifted the bed sheets — and not in a kinky sort of way, either.

Monday morning, Chris emerged from his daily visit to the throne, complaining of some minor intestinal upset. Specifically, his insides had liquefied and he was concerned that he would die of dehydration or an evaporated bowel.

Lucky for me, I have a stronger stomach. Gas, yes. Pee shits, no. Monday afternoon, I dared to have a bowl of the tasty soup for lunch. Again, within an hour or so, I was doing the one-cheek salute to expel the increasingly toxic fumes.

The problem wasn’t the farting in itself. Around here, we enjoy, announce and even celebrate our gas. It was the intensity, the frequency and the duration of the gaseous episodes that ended up posing an issue.

Eight hours after consuming my bean soup for lunch, I was still farting like a geriatric. Even Elise and Althea were noticing, imitating a farting sound every time Chris or I would pass gas. At one point, I went to the bathroom and Althea pointed at the bathroom door and said, “Ama! PPBBBLBLLLBBBP!”

I knew things were out of control when I let a silent-but-deadly one fly and saw the cat lift his head, take a sniff and — I shit you not — move to the other couch.

If you’ve ever owned a cat, you know that it takes a lot for a sleeping cat to get up and move from a comfortable couch.

Monday night, I decided to freeze the remainder of the soup. Tasty as the soup was, Chris’ tender stomach and my sulfuric intestinal juices couldn’t handle any more.

We chuckled at the whole experience — haha, crazy pregnancy cravings; haha fiber soup; haha our colons are gone.

At about 6 o’clock this morning, I wasn’t laughing anymore. There was no mirth or merriment when Chris threw back the sheets, jumped out of bed and screamed “AWWWWWWWWW SHIT!”

I flailed awake in a panic. “What?? What the fuck is going on?”

“God damn that bean soup! I just shit the bed!”

“…….Are you serious?”

“I dreamt I was taking a shit and I shit the bed. Mark your calendar. I’m 36 years old and I just . . . Oh JESUS CHRIST!” he screamed, holding his butt cheeks together as he ran off to the bathroom.

From behind the closed bathroom door, sitting on the toilet, shitting his brains out at 6 a.m.: “GOD DAMN THAT BEAN SOUP!!”

When my husband and I bought our house five and a half years ago, we were, like many first-time home buyers, horribly clueless.

Oh sure, I’d spent three months glued to HGTV. But back then, I wasn’t paying attention to (or they didn’t even have) shows like “House Hunters,” “Property Virgins,” “Holmes on Homes” or “My First Place.” Nooooo. I was watching useless crap like “Divine Design” and “Color Splash” — shows that provided approximately zero help in the home-buying process.

But I learned oh-so-much about faux finishes for bathroom walls!

We felt a tremendous amount of pressure to buy immediately. We were moving for our jobs and it was the peak of the housing market. It was the era of multiple bids and pending contracts within hours of a house being listed. Our boss had us convinced that we needed to BUY BUY BUY or we’d be living in a VAN down by the RIVER.

And of course, we knew everything so we didn’t dare ask our elders their opinions.

Our Realtor was of no help, either. She was acting as the agent for a bunch of us at the same company and was just raking in the commissions. She didn’t give a shit what we bought — we were just a guaranteed check in her bank.

Anyhow, the  house we bought was the last of eight we viewed. We kind of had an idea that it needed some upgrades, but weren’t too concerned because we loved the location: close to downtown and our jobs, 15-minutes to the beach, quiet street in an established neighborhood. We figured you can always change the kitchen, but you can’t change the location.

Boy oh boy, were we clueless. Because a new roof is fucking expensive, yo.

Problems started before we even moved in. The house was tented for termites. They said something about some damage to the doors and shed. A leak in the patio that never quite stopped. A pool pump that blew out before our first year was up. A roof that, we realized too late, was horribly outdated and very expensive to upgrade. Kitchen cabinets that fell off the hinges. A pool screen that tore at the slightest breeze. Plumbing issues. Terrible energy efficiency. Damp closets. Dented gutters.

The list goes on.

Over the years, our house has fallen into a state of . . . well, shit. Less than a year after moving in, we lost our high-paying jobs that got us into this mess in the first place. We really started living leaner and couldn’t scrape up money to do renovations as we’d hoped. We did what we could, but the toilet wouldn’t fill back up. The sink constantly clogged. The windows wouldn’t lock. The kitchen sink drained into the dishwasher. And was that Styrofoam acting as a shade on the hall lights???

Why hadn’t we noticed this stuff when we bought the place? And, more disturbingly, why hadn’t this come up in the home inspection? Why hadn’t the Realtor clued us in on these very expensive house repairs and upgrades?

Then I got pregnant. With twins. I went on maternity leave at 28 weeks. I didn’t deliver until 38 weeks and stayed home for nine weeks after that. We forged by on my disability pay.

We’ll make it, we thought. The cars are just about paid off. We have no credit card debt. We’ll budget.

Then my job was downsized and we couldn’t afford full-time daycare on a part-time salary. I was basically forced to quit and stay home with the kids, instantly bringing our income down by almost half.

Oh yeah, and the market and economy took a gigantic dump and our house lost about 70% of its inflated value.

So here we sit, with our house on the market as a short sale and an ever-growing list of things wrong with it.

For example, on a single day this week, the following happened:

• The kitchen sink clogged, backed up into itself and overflowed the dishwasher, spilling sulphuric swamp stench all over the kitchen floor and forcing me to call a plumber.
• The roof started leaking in the middle of the house. During rainy hurricane season. In Florida.
• A large chunk of one of our trees blew off during a storm and landed just feet from our new minivan.

Sometimes, I’m convinced we have some kind of hex on us. Back in 2004, Hurricane Frances hit our rental house in Gainesville, downing a tree onto the back part of the house and flooding the entire place. The house was declared uninhabitable. We lived in a hotel for a week and had to find a new place to live.

Oh, and I drove Chris’ new car into a pseudo-lake-thing that had formed as a result of the hurricane flooding.

It was epic.

Anyhow, I’m freaking out that this house won’t sell. I mean, who the hell buys a house that has rain dripping onto the sofa and a front door that barely opens because of termite damage?

And if the house doesn’t sell soon, that means serious upheaval when I’m either massively pregnant or horomonally unstable after birth.

Either that or foreclosure. Which would be a real blast!

So yeah. I hate bringing this stuff up because it just is what it is. We made a pricey mistake, we learned a lot and we’ll hopefully do better next time. Nothing we can do now but hope and wait and clean the house when someone wants to see it — which is a pretty hilarious concept when you have twin toddlers destroying everything in their path.

But in the meantime, can someone figure out what the hell this curse is that we’re carrying around and let me know what kind of chicken semen I need to eat to get rid of it?

Short post.

1) I’m going to say this quietly so as not to jinx it.

(I think the nausea is gone. It’s been a good 4 1/2 days. I’ve been eating regularly and going back to the gym. I feel pretty decent. Shhhhh! Don’t tell!)

2) We are getting the hell out of here for some much-needed vacation time. It’ll be our first and only, purely-for-pleasure vacation as a family of four. There will be hammocks involved. I may or may not get around to updating from the field.

So go ahead and rob my house. Just try it. There’s a half-wild rabid dog just waiting for your arrival.

I took a few days off of the Internet and lost all shreds of creative momentum I may or may not have had. I need to shake it off, get to writing again. Hence, the completely random post to follow.

South Beach, with Fetus

Before I got pregnant, I had a weekend to South Beach planned with some mom friends. (As opposed to non-mom friends, because boy is there a difference.) Then I found myself in a family way but couldn’t, in good conscience, back out. So I went.

South Beach when you’re pregnant and sober is just another overcrowded beach city. Let me tell you, I saved a shitload of money by not buying booze. On Saturday morning, my friends went to a pool and sipped mimosas in the water. I ventured off to the Wolfsonian Museum (by far my FAVORITE museum I’ve ever been in). My museum admission? $7.49. Their mimosas? $20. EACH. And they didn’t even come in a pitcher.

Also, nightclubs. We went to a club on Friday night. Yes, even I went. It was smoky, people were burning doobs on the dance floor and I saw no less than five bare vaginas at the strategically placed stripper pole in the middle of the club. There was house music. I left less than an hour after getting there.

I actually did have a good time, though. And side note of awesomeness? We stayed in the condo building where the chainsaw/drug-deal-gone-bad scene of “Scarface” was filmed. RAD.

Friends

Do you guys have friends? Like, real-life, in-the-flesh, live-near-you-and-see-on-a-regular-basis, call-whenever-you-need-them, spill-secrets-to friends? Specifically, if you’re a mom, do you have other mom friends that fit that bill?

I don’t think I do. I mean, I have some friends. I have some acquaintances. I have one or two mom friends that I hang out with on a semi-regular basis. Maybe I’ve even shared some secrets with them.

But I don’t have any near-me best friends. You know, like the best friend you can say “Your three o’clock!” to and they know that you’re talking trash on that skanky teenager wearing camel-toe booty shorts. The BFFs that I do have live far away and we talk so infrequently that I may even be unknowingly relegated to “good friend” status by virtue of that distance.

This seems to be a common issue with folks my age who have young kids. I get out quite a bit and mingle in all sorts of social/parent circles, so it’s not like I’m complaining without trying. Are there dating sites for people like me? You know, because being pregnant and a mom makes me totally desirable as a friend?

Emotionz

I don’t know where I’m at emotionally.

I’m down, that’s for certain. Part of it is “just me” as usual, but part is circumstance. We’re short selling the house and it sucks. Mentally, I’m so OVER this house and I just want to get the place sold and move on with my life.

I have a strong need to get the fuck out of Dodge, to travel, to live somewhere else, to meet new people. I’m antsy. I feel stuck. Lonely. Unfulfilled and unsatisfied. Mentally stagnant. Unchallenged.

Being pregnant is obviously tripping things up. It’s kind of stressful to be expecting a miracle when your financial/housing/emotional world smells like testicles.

And while the girls are just as awesome as ever, the whole twin toddlers thing can be pretty taxing. Oh, and I’m still nauseous 70% of the time, which means eating is spotty and exercise is currently non-existent.

I guess it’s a mish-mash of shit. A big, steaming pile of mish-mashed shit. Know what I mean?

Better things

I hate ending posts all pissy-pity, so here’s good stuff.

Some friends had a long-awaited and MUCH deserved adoption go through. I am in-tears-thrilled for them.

I think I out-drank my Starbucks cravings. (In case you haven’t, keep in mind that those frappes at McDonald’s are pretty comparable, seem to have more caffeine and cost half as much.)

Ironically…? I ended up passing my glucose tolerance test. Blood sugar was 111 after an hour, so I’m in the clear for at least the next 13 weeks.

The girls have learned to say “I know, I know,” arriba (up), Snow White (Elise’s favorite), thank you, bebida (drink), pee pee and caca. Obviously, we’re most proud of the last two.

Two years ago today, I drove up to the mall and, before walking into Dillard’s, threw out my last half-pack of cigarettes. I’ve been smoke-free ever since.

I loved smoking. I loved the taste, the break, the relief, the habit. I loved my brand (Parliament Light 100′s). I loved the instant friends I could make just by virtue of being a smoker. I loved sitting out on the back patio during hot, humid summer nights, smoking and drinking and talking to friends.

But I got pregnant. I had to quit.

Being pregnant made quitting smoking considerably easier than I think it would have been otherwise. I felt sick all the time and the taste of a cigarette was the last thing I could handle. I relied on Commit lozenges for the worst cravings for the first couple of weeks, but mostly I would just chew 18 pieces of gum or take a short walk when I wanted to smoke.

Though I smoked for more than 15 years, it feels so foreign to me now. Sometimes I’ll get a random craving, but in general, I don’t miss smoking at all.

Part of it is health, sure. That and my kids. But another big part is just the convenience of being a non-smoker. I don’t have to panic before a plane trip or have second thoughts about seeing a long movie in the theater. I can do intense cardio exercise without getting winded. I don’t have to constantly chew gum to mask the smell. I’ve even been able to downsize my purse now that I don’t have to carry a pack of cigarettes and a lighter everywhere.

The fact that a carton would now cost me about $60 pretty much seals the deal for me. At that price, I’d be spending about $3,100 a year.

Anyhow, congratulations to me, dammit. This is one thing I’m pretty proud of.

I have lost many people in my life. My wonderful grandparents on both sides of the family. My step-father. Beloved pets.

But I’ve never lost a friend. I’ve never had a friend die.

Die. Dead. How can a friend. Be dead?

The words don’t make sense in the same sentence. Because people who die are gravely sick, or old, or addicted to dangerous drugs, or reckless and irresponsible. There’s an explanation for the death. There’s a moment or a choice or a lifestyle or an illness that you can point to and say, “Oh, he died of a heart attack,” or “She died from cancer.”

A dear friend died in a motorcycle accident yesterday. His sister contacted me through Facebook to break the news and we spoke on the phone shortly afterwards.

The news was so shocking, so abrupt, that I thought it was a joke.

The finality of death, the eternity of it, the forever-ness of it, has always been the most painful thing to understand. But at least there’s always been a cause.

This time, though, I’m at a complete loss. He’s still here. I can still hear his voice. I can still hear his motorcycle pull up to the house. I can still hear his uproarious laughter bouncing off the walls.

There’s his spot on our couch. He swam in our pool and ate Chinese food with us. We all got fired from our jobs together. We all started our own company together. We exchanged secrets.

Our cats peed on his motorcycle helmet and we bought him a new one. He clogged our toilet and, while piss-water flooded the bathroom, he calmly asked, “Errr….you got some towels or something?” He formed a band with my husband. He didn’t flinch when Chris burned a rack of ribs on Memorial Day.

He took me on my first (only) motorcycle ride. He gave me binoculars for my birthday. He took me to Chili’s when I was pregnant. He came to my baby shower.

His hair turned gray. He laughed louder. He got smarter and sharper. He was finally going to buy a couch for his apartment.

And then he died.

Dammit, Troy. God dammit. We miss you.

I like shopping.

Oh sure, I hate the part where I catch a glimpse of my dimpled ass illuminated by a flickering fluorescent light. But since I generally don’t shop for clothes, this isn’t much of an issue.

What is an issue is that I like shopping — I like to spend money in general — but I don’t have a job.

These two considerations are incompatible, as it turns out.

Shopping is a serious stress release for me, so I find ways to make it work. For a few months, I got into the very bad habit of buying things just to experience the act of buying. I would take the goods home, let them sit in a bag in our bedroom, then return the merchandise a few days later. Weird, right?

I stopped doing that, but I still needed a shopping release.  So now, I spend a decent amount of time window shopping online. I browse ‘deal of the day’ websites, mostly. I also like browsing Amazon, Baby Cheapskate and other bargain advice-type sites. I thrive on bargains, on getting a great price and saving a few bucks.

I have learned some lessons along the way:

• Don’t be immediately overcome by a great price, especially on something you wouldn’t ordinarily buy.
  I bought a pair of cute XOXO sunglasses for $14.95 from a certain site, along with $7 or $8 shipping (should have been a red flag). I normally buy $6 cheapies at a discount store, but I recongized the name brand on this sale and thought $15 seemed like a great deal. After I charged the purchase to my debit card, I did a quick Google search to see how much I had saved. Turns out, that $15 price tag was standard across all merchants selling the sunglasses — and some offered free shipping. Bogus. And speaking of shipping . . .
• Free shipping — especially free return shipping — is worth its weight in gold.
  Free shipping offers can save you anywhere from $0.99 to more than $20 per order, depending on the size/weight of what you buy. I’ve wasted enough on shipping charges that I generally won’t buy from any online merchant that charges for shipping if they charge more than a few bucks for the entire order.
• Don’t get lazy about returns or exchanges just because you didn’t buy from a brick-and-mortar.
  I’ve been guilty of this: Buying from an online retailer and being too lazy to exchange something that genuinely needed to go. Nowadays, online retailers usually need to keep up decent customer service if they want to stay credible (thank you, social networking!). If something doesn’t fit, work or meet your expectations, RETURN IT. Contact customer service and explain what’s going on. You’ll be surprised at how accommodating people can be.
• Be open to small-time online shops.
  For our DSLR, for instance, I checked over a dozen online shops. I ended up going with a smaller retailer and got the memory card, carrying case, zoom lens, and a bunch of other crap, along with free shipping, and paid at least $100 less than the next closest competitor.
• Make promo codes your friend.
  Before submitting any order online, always Google for a coupon or promo code. Don’t rely on any single source — click on a few of the search results to see what you can find. Sites like Coupon Cabin and Retail Me Not are regular stops for me, but I’ve found lots of codes on random, 1998-looking websites too.
• Try overstock/discount chains.
  Did you know that Marshall’s often has very pricey Elizabeth Arden wrinkle cream for $20 and Kate Spade bags for $30 or $40? I’ve also picked up several pair of Robeez kids’ shoes for $5 (they retail for upwards of $25 normally). You can also find expensive shoes, olive oil, balsamic vinegar, thank-you cards, headphones, iPod cases, furniture and tons more if you take some time to browse.
• Shop around.
  This seems obvious, but I probably take it to an extreme. I comparison shop for just about everything, no matter how big or small, and I don’t stop at two or three stores. I will search for days, wait for holiday sales (for retailers, even President’s Day is a reason to put shit on sale). This applies to shopping in person and online. If I don’t like the price in a store, I’ll hold off until I can compare online prices. I’m always convinced I can get it cheaper. And if I still don’t find a price I like . . .
• Hit up Craig’s List.
  We needed a new changing table pad. Did you know those fuckers are like $30??? It’s foam, for cryin’ out loud. So I checked Craig’s List and picked up a practically-new pad and cover for $15, right down the street. I didn’t have to pay tax or stand in line, and I did my part to keep excess waste out of landfills.
• Sign up for Upromise.
  Upromise is a program that saves money toward college education, whether it’s yours or your child’s. You can even use the savings  to pay off student loans. You can do a lot of comparison shopping right on the site and a certain percentage of the purchase total is set aside in a 529 or other savings plan. Even qualifying restaurant and grocery store purchases earn you a few pennies here and there. Over the past 10 months or so, I’ve saved more than $20. I know, not much, but every penny counts.

A few other tips:

• Sign up for your local chapter of Freecycle.org
• Register for deals and news from retailers you frequent
• Learn from your mistakes
• Don’t get caught up in the moment unless it’s something you NEED and you KNOW the price you see is incredible

BTW, I haven’t been paid or compensated in any way for the site mentions or advice. This is just me, being generous and awesome. Again.

If you’ve got shopping tips or confessions, please share in the comments! I’m always up for a new site or tip.

I’m sick.

In the head, sure. But, like, sick sick.

It started with a sore throat last Saturday. I figured it was from shouting all night at the noisy bar we went to in California. But the sore throat lingered. It turned into a nasty, dry cough. I almost threw up a few times from coughing (in my CAR, GROSS). Now, the plague has turned into a cold.

Oh, and Elise has had, shall we say, stomach issues all week — so bad that I’ve had to throw out a pair of pajamas (you don’t want to know) and give her several baths a day. And she won’t eat ANYTHING except breastmilk and yogurt.

Meanwhile, Althea has discovered the “tantrum.”

There’s a collection agency harassing me about  a medical bill from the girls’ birth (over a year ago!) and no one seems to know what the bill is for or what to do with it.

I bought a turkey and all the extras to cook a Christmas dinner on Friday — with no one here to eat it, because I had to cancel our guests due to my apparent bought with SARS.

All this while I’m on my period. I know, TMI! But it adds dramatic emphasis!!!

This week has been SO RAD!!!!!!

I’m drinking tonight, needless to say. Drinking and hitting the exclamation mark more than usual.

!!!!!!!!!

I’m endlessly thankful.

For you.

And you.

And you.

And for all our family and friends.

And to you all, friends and readers and strangers.

Happy Thanksgiving. Be grateful every day.