Welcome to Fuckville

I live in Cabbagetown, and I really like the area. It is still a bit gritty, but not scary. There are arty types, corporate types, singles and families, young and old.

The gateway to our little slice of Atlanta is the Krog Street Tunnel, which was completed in 1912, if you are going north, and 1913, if you are going south. The Krog Street Tunnel is known as the “Graffiti Tunnel” in the local lexicon, and is a fixture in most directions (…go past the Graffiti Tunnel and turn right…).

I really like the Krog Tunnel, because I see art and political statements and concert announcements and an upwelling of urban Angst. My local friends think that it looks like a place where people would sell crack.

It is a bit creepy, as it is only a two-lane tunnel, one in each direction, with large concrete pillars in the middle of the street. The feature that has led to its graffitification is that there are raised sidewalks on either side, enabling a pedestrian to travel through the tunnel without taking their lives into their own hands (unless they are afraid of crack dealers). The tunnel is lit with those eerily chipper peachy sodium lights, but not enough to adequately light the tunnel, leading to an unfriendly air for nighttime traversing.

On the Cabbagetown side (South side) of this tunnel is a four-way stop sign. At this stop sign, some helpful individual has posted a wooden sign. This sign is made up of two parts; the top portion, painted cheerfully and colorfully, said, “Welcome to Cabbagetown”. The lower portion was painted in chalkboard paint, and people would post messages there, things like lost pets, farmers markets, garage sales. It really was quite handy.

Alas, this sign is no more. Oh, the sign is still there, but it has been modified. Someone has painted the whole thing this really tragic magenta color, and scrawled across it in dripping black paint, “Welcome to Fuckville.” See, it took me a while, but I got there eventually, dear readers.

While I mourn the loss of our community bulletin board, this sign intrigues me.

What does that mean, “Fuckville”? Are the people that live here “fucks”? Is this the place where everyone comes to fuck? Will we get “fucked” living here? The mutable nature of the word really causes a lot of ambiguity.

Granted, I, as a denizen of Fuc..., I mean Cabbagetown, I hope that several of the more negative implications of this sign are not valid.

On the whole, I have to chalk this up as one of my favorite nonsensical messages. It comes in a close second behind the guy who was motivated to write, in large, 12 inch high red letters, “Continental breakfast is not a real breakfast.”

Take that, establishment!

Buyin' Old Stuff

I finally made it to the auction I have been stalking online, and boy was it an event.

The picture is the "before" picture of the curio cabinet that I bid on and won on Friday. I had seen this online, and thought it was very cute. I had no idea what it would sell for, as the prices down here seem a bit crazy. I saw a green depression glass bowl sell for more ($159) than several large, beautiful mahogany sideboards ($100-125).

I was able to get this little piece for $105. After you add the gas and lunch that I had to buy for my friend Scooter (for use of his truck, thanks Scooter!), it was still less than $150.

It is in pretty good shape, with only a few veneer finish issues. I cleaned and polished it last night, but it is going to need a bit more work to be completely spiffy. It is lined with a cream jaquard material, and that is showing some water spots and will need to be replaced. Also, a bit of the inside door wood is missing, and I would like to stain it, so it isn't as obvious.

Now I just need to decide where to put it, and which of my boxes and boxes of crap, I mean, priceless treasures, will grace it's glass shelves.

In addition to the curio, I bid on and won a miscellaneous box lot of old linens for Peaches. I wasn't sure what was in the box, but there was a lot of vintage material, and some cool old kitchen towels, so it was worth the $10 to take a flyer and see what was in the box.

I plan to make another trip, as I could use a mahogany sideboard, and they seem to be giving them away, but I will line up my truck ahead of time.

If anyone is looking for anything specific, please let me know, and I will keep an eye out. Things seem much less expensive here than in California.

Going once...going twice...SOLD!

I don't even know what started my recent obsession with auctions.

I think it was probably that I want a few "new" pieces of furniture, but am feeling financially oppressed. However it started, I have been obsessively stalking auctions in the Atlanta area on the web for the last week.

I did find one site, here, that really fueled the fire. I was looking at their prior auctions, and the selling prices seemed super reasonable (check the months prior to May, they are behind in updating their prices). Naturally, they hold the auctions every two weeks, and I found the site the night of their auction. That meant that I have been waiting not so patiently for over a week now.

Mercifully, AuctionZip.com enabled me to find an auction that was being held yesterday in Loganville, GA. I didn't even know where Loganville was, but it turns out it is about 30 miles east of Atlanta.

I drove out there yesterday afternoon, for a 5 o'clock auction, and had a great time. There was a little bit of everything, from really expensive furniture, to boxes of random crap. I was a little bit surprised by the prices, since some of the things I thought would bring high bids went for very little, while some of the things that I disparage as 'collectible crap', went for huge sums. Takes all kinds, I guess.

This does mean good things for my quest for additional furnishings. Now I just need to find a truck.

I am hoping that I don't fall victim to the Diderot Effect. Diderot was a French writer who wrote an essay called "Regrets on Parting with My Old Dressing Gown." He had been given a fancy new gown, so he got rid of his old one. He then realized that his worn furnishings didn't fit with the new gown. He found himself replacing tapestries, chairs, desks, and bookshelves in an effort to conform to the luxury of the gown. Eventually, he found himself financially depleted, uncomfortable amidst his new possessions, and resenting the "scarlet robe that forced everything else to conform with its own elegant tone."

Realistically, I understand that replacing the $10 nightstand that I have had for over a decade with something from an auction costing less than $100 (my personal limit for nightstands), is hardly the apex of a slippery slope. But you never know. I don't want to wind up with a scarlet dressing gown.

Judgement Day

My friend Glare says that I have an evil superpower. She seems to think that I can take anything, even the most innocuous statement, and turn it into a negative comment. Right now, I am focusing this laserbeam on issues of my size.

This afternoon, as I was snarfing down a Hershey bar, I hit a new low, even for me. I don’t even think that you need my evil superpower to appreciate this.

I have been so good lately. I have been eating less and walking the dog. I have brought in my lunch for almost three weeks, comprised of healthy food, and eaten smaller portions. The vending machine is a stranger to me. Over the last few months or so, I have lost about 20 pounds, which is good, but akin to bailing out the Batiquitos Lagoon with a tablespoon (I am getting better; before, I probably would have said Atlantic Ocean/teaspoon).

Therefore, I am not ashamed to say that I wanted chocolate this afternoon. I hit the vending machine and sat down to enjoy my plain old Hershey “chocolate” bar. It isn’t really chocolate, but every other option in the vend-o-matic had nuts of some sort.

After I merrily snapped it into segments, I lined them up like soldiers and proceeded to decimate the regiment.

There was some sort of reference to eBay on the wrapper, and loving eBay as I do, I took a moment to read the fine print.

Imagine my chagrin when I read the eight words that struck me like a knife in the chest, “Candy is a treat. Please consume in moderation.”

Judgement! From a candy bar! When I was least expecting it! I was lured in with the promise of vintage ceramic collectibles and leveled with commentary on the size of my ass.

I found myself trying to justify my consumption of the bar to the wrapper. How twisted is that?

Feelin' Funkadelic

I was reminded of what great friends I have last night.

There I was, completely stressed out, watching my beloved Padres lose their chance to continue on in the post-season, and my friend Lizard called. She had been out and about all day, and wanted to come over to finish watching the game with me last night. I have to admit, I wasn't thrilled about the idea, as I hadn't showered, the house was a wreck and the Padres were losing.

Even though she didn't really care about the team, and it was late, she arrived on my doorstep bearing Taco Bell and a joie de vivre that was sorely lacking around my home.

It was much more fun watching the last little bit of the game with her, and the laughter made the loss a bit more bearable.

So, thank you Lizard, for the snack and the laughs. I needed them!

OMG!!! Padres Win the National League West!!!

Can you believe it? Twice in a row! I am TOTALLY going to go buy a lottery ticket!

My San Diego Padres have never won back to back division titles, in the entire history of their franchise. Since they were established in 1969 (like this author), that is quite a statement. We have also never had anyone throw a no-hitter, perfect game or hit for the cycle. These things will come in time, I am sure. I can feel them in the wind.

Prior division wins (or wild card berths) were claimed in 1984, 1996, 1998, 2005. Now, we can add one more year to that list - 2006!

We ended up with the same record as the Dodgers, 88-74, but we won the division based on our domination of them all season. We are playing the slumping Cards, and the Dodgers will fly to New York to take on the Mets.

Not only is this a historic moment for the Padres, but what it really means is that I will get to watch the Padres play on TV again! This only getting to see them when they play the Cubs (thank you WGN), or the Braves (ditto TBS) is the pits.

The Padres are going to the playoffs!!!! I am beside myself! Woo hoo!

I am convinced that the fact that SGBD is wearing her Padres collar, as well as her Padres kerchief, is what helped push them onward to victory. Don't underestimate the power of the Sweet Georgia Brown Dog.

Let's go, Pa-dres, let's go! (clap, clap) Let's go, Pa-dres, let's go!

Little Brown Jug

Michigan and Wisconsin played a football game today. The victor of this game gets possession of an old brown water jug that has been passed back and forth for decades.

Why am I telling you this?

All of these mentions of the 'Little Brown Jug' reminds me of the song that I sing to Bridgit, to the tune of "Little Brown Jug".

I will publish the words here, so you can sing along with me.

Are you ready?

Let's warm up a bit. Mi mi mi MI mi mi mi...ha ha ha HA ha ha haaaa....mi mi mi....

I have a dog, she is so cute
She always wears a brown fur suit
She loves me, and I love her
She is covered in soft brown fur

Ho ho ho, Hee hee hee,
Little brown dog, how I love thee
Ho ho ho, Hee hee hee,
Little brown dog, how I love theeee.......(big finish)

In case you are curious, here are the original words. There is a link at the bottom that has an awfully repetitive, tinny, little version of the song, if you want to sing along at your desk. Beware, it is awfully catchy.

Me and my wife live all alone
In a little log hut we call our own;
She loves gin and I love rum,
And don't we have a lot of fun!

Ha, ha, ha, you and me,
Little brown jug, don't I love thee!
Ha, ha, ha, you and me,
Little brown jug, don't I love thee!

When I go toiling on the farm
I take the little jug under my arm;
Place it under a shady tree,
Little brown jug,'tis you and me.

Ha, ha, ha, you and me,
Little brown jug, don't I love thee!
Ha, ha, ha, you and me,
Little brown jug, don't I love thee!


http://www.niehs.nih.gov/kids/lyrics/jug.htm

Sporting Ruminations

I don't know what it says about the state of my mind that I would follow up a post about my grandmother with a post about baseball. That it is scattered? Shattered? Smothered and covered? Probably all of those things. (That was a Waffle House joke, for my non-Southern readership.)

I have reread my last post several times, and while there are things that I would change, I am mostly pleased with it. I think that is what has kept me from posting another entry. I would reread it and get distracted by changes I would make, or thoughts of my grandmother. I am trying to avoid endlessly re-editing all of my stream of consciousness ramblings. I try to just set things down and walk away. I don't want to over-analyze my neuroses, or to make this too polished.

Rather than allowing the tone of this blog to become too high-minded, I have decided to post about what is consuming most of my thoughts this weekend: Padres playoff baseball, my college pick 'ems league, the Padres, the desire to snack, the Padres/Diamondbacks game that started 20 minutes ago, how much I dislike the Dodgers and would like to see them lose, LSU failing to cover the spread and Colorado actually covering the spread, which makes me think of dips and cheese spreads (see notes on snacking above), the odd response to an email reply that I sent to an old ex-boyfriend, and the Padres making the playoffs this year.

- - -

I saved this and spent the day watching football and napping. Quelle suprise, mais non?

Turns out that my Padres won their game today, and so did the Dodgers, so it comes down to the last game of the season to determine who gets the division title, and who gets the wild card berth. Here are the various combinations for the game results tomorrow:

If we win (yay) and the Dodgers lose (yay), we get the division title.

If we lose (boo) and the Dodgers win (boo) we get the wild card berth.

If we both lose (boo/yay) we will win the division title, and the Dodgers would get the wild card because the Padres won 13 of the 18 games against the Dodgers this year. Hell yeah! That is an ass-whuppin', my friends! We OWN them...

Naturally, everyone on ESPN is talking about how the Dodgers "clinched" a spot in the playoffs. Oh, and yeah, I think the Padres played a game today too. The Dodgers spraying champagne on each other was the first story on Baseball Tonight. The Padres? "Well, yeah, these are big games". How annoying.

The Padres bullpen has been the best in the NL all year, and now it merits a "Well, they should be OK if they can get it to Hoffman." I need to just stop watching the editorials.

I think I am just grumpy because several teams failed to cover the spread today (I am looking at you Florida, Rutgers, USC and Nebraska!). Once again, I find myself in second place in the league. This is really starting to irritate me. I want my seben-fitty.

My Grandmother's Button Tin

This may come as a shock to those of you that know me, but I was putting things away in my spare bedroom tonight. Historically, my spare bedroom has more closely resembled a storage unit, rather than a place for guests or reading or whatever it is that one does in one's extra room.

I put the shelves back into a bookcase, and was shelving some boxed books when I found my grandmother's button tin. I think that everyones grandmother had something similar; it is a candy tin that she "repurposed" into a storage unit for spare buttons, needles and various other sewing accoutrement.

No garment was ever given away, or, god forbid, thrown away, at my grandmothers house. Clothes were handed down from sister to sister or cousin to cousin, taken in or let out. When an article was on its last legs, it would be stripped of buttons, hooks and eyes, zippers or anything else that could be used again. Then, the material would be used for doll clothes or baby quilts or anything else that needed to be made.

My grandmother's button tin is a microcosm of my family's fashion history. Lost a button? We would paw through the tin until we found one that would work. I was fascinated by the fact that she could remember items of clothing that had originally sported a particular button. This one? It came off of a skirt of my mother's. That one? A coat that an aunt made in high school. Looking back as an adult, I can see that a distinctive button would stick in your mind, but as a child, I thought she was omnipotent.

So, there I was, sitting cross-legged on the floor tonight, looking at the buttons. They still smell faintly of her house, although that might be my imagination. Even so, I still don't like to leave the lid off. I want to contain that small bit of her.

My grandfather's name badges were right on top. My grandfather died twelve years before my grandmother, and I was thinking about how much she loved him, and how hard it must have been to see those in there every time she opened the lid. A little embroidered oval reminder of loss.

Predictably, I was on the verge of tears, thinking about her, when I saw this small piece of paper, neatly folded into fourths. I took it out, and found it was a joke - a joke typed on a piece of paper decades ago. It was the old 'pica' type font and the paper was frail and yellowed. I will type it here for you:

"A much traveled playboy we know says that in various stages of life a woman resembles the continents of the world.

13 - 18, for example, she is like Africa, virgin territory, unexplored.
18 - 30, she is like Asia, hot and exotic.
30 - 45, she is like America, fully explored and free with her resources.
45 - 55, she is like Europe, exhausted, but not without her points of interest.
After 55, she is like Australia, everybody knows it's down there, but nobody cares much."

Thinking about this now, I am torn between thinking about the differences in our expectations of aging and sexuality, geopolitical annoyance or feminist outrage, but at the time, I smiled, and the tears receded.

I have no way of knowing where this came from, or why she put it in her button tin, but I think that she would laugh herself silly if she knew that she made me laugh, in Atlanta, in a home of my own, in 2006.

The universe can bring you to your knees, but your family will help pick you up, every time.

Ode to a Mattress Topper

It is almost 7 pm on Saturday, and I have been singularly unproductive, even by my standards.

The culprit? A two inch thick memory foam mattress topper.

I put it on my bed last night, with clean jersey sheets, my cotton blanket and a quilt. That sound you heard was the clouds parting and an angel choir singing of the glory that is my bed.

The only thing I like more than lying around in bed watching football on TV is getting a bargain, and the topper was definitely a bargain. I got it 75% off at Linens and Things, and used a 20% coupon. Sometimes the planets just align. So, for the bargain price of $28, I will never get out of bed again. Can I get an "Amen"?

I was afraid that the additional two inches would cause trouble with my sheets and everyone's favorite brown dog, but the sheets stretched, and SGBD cleared it with ease. She seems to be as enamored of the topper as I am. I had to wake her up at 9:45 to take her outside this morning. Usually, she is performing the "Go Outside Rumba" on my head by 6:30.

Now I feel bad about not doing anything all day. It is more the fact that you all know that I haven't done anything, more than I am shamed by my own lack of motivation.

I think I will peel myself out of bed and throw the old sheets in the washer. That will allow me to do two things; I can assuage my conscience by thinking that I am getting something done, and I can lie back down almost immediately.

Baseball in September

I can tell that we are creeping up on Fall. How do I know? Beyond looking at a calendar, or tracking the color of the leaves or calculating the cycles of the moon, I can tell because I am no longer sweating like a beast, and I have excess stomach acid.

The sweating has been alleviated by the fact that the temperatures here have dropped around 15 degrees, and the humidity has shrunk to a manageable 60%.

The stomach acid can be laid at the feet of my San Diego Padres, who are going right down to the wire, making a bid for a playoff spot.

As of this exact second in time, they are at the top of the NL West, with a 1/2 game lead over the Dodgers and the Philthies. Even worse, our young pitcher, Chris Young, has a no hitter in the 6th inning. Like the 1/2 game over the Dodgers wasn't enough!

Think clear, pleasant thoughts for me, and for my Padres.

Let's go Padres, let's go!

Sucked Into Reality TV

Well, goddamnit.

Animal Planet has managed to do what the major (and each of the minor) TV networks have failed to do. I am hooked on "Meerkat Manor".

The "reality TV" thing has been sweeping the nation for a decade (isn't that horrifying), and I have been holding myself smugly aloof from this phenomenon.

I was coerced into watching one episode of the first season of "Survivor", found it stilted and puerile, and never watched another episode.

Imagine my chagrin, now that I have been sucked into the lives of a group of meerkats in Africa. I simply have to know, "Is Shakespeare OK?"

They ended on a 'cliffhanger' of Shakespeare defending the smaller members of his tribe against a rival tribe. The babies are OK (and so adorable!), but Shakespeare is nowhere to be seen. I don't know if they have kicked dirt over him, so as not to traumatise the children (and this mid-30's working adult), or if he is fine, or what. I have been trolling the internet, and can't seem to find mention of him.

Sure, I can see that he survived the puff adder strike, but I already knew that. I cried. He is so little, and he got bit by this snake, and he dragged his sad, tiny self to the edge of the burrow, but didn't go inside. He laid out all night, a very dangerous proposition. Ugh, getting sniffy just thinking about it.

He just CAN'T die. He CAN'T!

Anyone know what happened to Shakespeare?

Monday : Just Another Exercise in Futility

I really hate to get out of bed in the morning. When the alarm goes off, I feel inordinately put upon. “What?!? I have to get out of bed? I just got into bed a mere 9 hours ago!”

I immediately begin to run through a listing of excuses for not getting out of bed. Can I hit snooze and enjoy a few more minutes of bliss? If I don’t eat anything, I can sleep an extra 7 minutes. If I lather and rinse, instead of lathering, rinsing and repeating, that buys me almost 9 minutes of shut eye. As a result of my constant bargaining, I have my morning routine down to the bare bones, and frequently walk around with damp hair, starving and generally unmoisturized and looking like hell.

Once I become vertical, you would think the excuses would stop. Well, they don’t. I can just sit here for a minute. Do I feel queasy? Did the Padres win last night? Is that a bone sticking through the skin? Any reason that I can think of that will prevent or delay my getting ready to actually leave the house to go to work is eagerly grasped.

Inevitably, one minute will turn into 13, and I will be late.

I fell asleep in the car this morning on the way to work. Not dozing, not the head-jerk-I’m-awake-thing, but completely and totally asleep. Of course, since I carpool, and this isn’t my week to drive, it wasn’t the tragedy that it would have been last week. One minute I was chatting desultorily about Hurricane Ernesto, and the next minute, I was at the office. Since my carpool buddy is human and subject to the laws of the space-time continuum, I am pretty sure that more than a minute elapsed. She assured me that I wasn’t snoring.

Speaking of biters…

Sweet Georgia Brown Dog has had another incident. (She would never bite anyone, but I couldn’t resist the segue.)

I was getting ready to take her outside on Tuesday morning, before leaving for work, and she was jumping around, as is her wont to do. She landed funny on the hardwoods and started yelping, and her little leg was sticking out at a funny angle. Since this is “the leg” from the Mother’s Day Attack, I was panicked.

I cancelled with my carpool, and drove her to the Vet. They x-rayed her leg, and found a healing fracture in her fibula (probably left over from The Attack), and some hip dysplasia. I still don’t understand why that would cause the pain, but I am guessing she pulled something or strained something.

The vet suggested that she might have some osteo-necrosis or something like that (dead bone) in her hip, and it might require surgery. I know you non-pet people are laughing at me, but I know that if she needs it, I will be packing a lunch for months and having orthopedic surgery on a ten-pound terrier mix.

She is on anti-inflammatory and pain-killer drugs, and seems a bit woozy most of the time. I am hoping that she will rest and heal and be relatively back to normal.

It is so sad to see her limping around. She isn’t putting weight on her foot, and I have been carrying her up and down stairs and building little ramps to the sofa out of floor pillows. I am not ready for her to be a geriatric little dog. She is my best friend.

Oppression in the Summertime

I have been meaning to post something new to my blog for a while. Lord knows that my one friend has been harassing me about it.

It isn’t like I don’t have anything to say. On the contrary, I have too much to say, too much to do, to noodle around posting on my blog. Or to take the time to share pictures of my trip from France. Yes, yes, yes, I have heard it all before.

Imagine my horror when, in addition to being Internet-free for over a month at home (long story), the Network Gestapo locked down ‘net access at the office, too!!! How will I live?

I can understand that they don’t want me surfing the web and viewing lascivious content at the office. I don’t do that anyway. But I do check my personal mail account, read the daily headlines, transfer funds from Checking to Savings, periodically monitor my 401(k) and watch streaming video of my dog at day care.

The streaming video is not the best, from a bandwidth-perspective, I get that, I really do. But the rest is really too, too much.

There have been a few people laid off in the last two days for “electronic infractions”, maybe 4 or 5 total. The only good thing about that is that there will be more boxes for the rest of us on our annual December 1st layoff party. Seeing so many people leave with boxes yesterday did make me think fondly of cooler weather. Christmas comes early to the corporate drone.

I do have hopes that the noose will eventually be loosened, but who knows?

On a positive note, BellSouth is scheduled to come out on Saturday, sometime between 8-12 to resolve my lack of dial tone and DSL service. Hopefully I will be able to post this then.

See! I am typing this into a Word doc, how archaic! Cutting and pasting might be involved. Quelle tragique, mas non? I can’t even check my French spelling on Babelfish, those bastards!

All it takes is one less “t” to go from bitter to biter…

Of Raindrops and Real Estate

Happy Fourth of July, y'all! It was a very restful day today. I slept late, watched soccer in a bar, and went to the Braves-Cardinals game.

Sweet Georgia Brown Dog woke me up early for a walk, which is a bit of a blessing, since it is only 80 degrees or so at 7 am. UGH! We walked and I read a bit, and then dozed off again. Imagine my chagrin to be awakened at 1:41 to make plans for our soccer watching.

I have no townhouse related news to report. I signed the official copies of everything on Saturday, and am now just waiting on the loan documents, and the 14th to roll around.

It is a bit wierd to walk by the other unit. I see it several times a day, while I am out with the Brown One. It seems odd to think that in just a few weeks, I will be schlepping all of my stuff down the sidewalk into the new place. I hope Miss Brown can adapt quickly to a new set of stairs and a new porch.

The Braves didn't fare too well tonight. Our starting pitching let us down again. Thompson gave up runs in the first three innings and was pulled in the fourth. There were a lot of ominous clouds, but it wasn't as hot and miserable as it was on Saturday. By the top of the 6th, it had started to rain, and it continued pouring for almost an hour. We waited under cover for a while and made a break for it.

By the time I got home, Small Brown was hiding under one of my club chairs. She still isn't a big fan of thunder and lightning.

Inspector Gadget

When my phone rang at 7 am this morning, I was sure it was a cruel joke. I managed to sleep past 6 am, yesterday's stressing point, but 7 is still a bit early for a social call.

It was my Realtor, letting me know that the Home Inspector would be at my potential new home at 2 pm today. I need to show up to pay him, and poke around myself.

Naturally, once I got off of the phone, I was wide awake again, and thinking about a million things. Apparently I am adjusting to this idea, because the thoughts weren't of how to escape from this trap, but more mundane things like painting and moving.

A lot of you have been very helpful to me, telling me that it is an investment, that real estate is a long term investment, and that the likelihood of a soul-crushing financial depression ala 1929 is a remote possibility at best. For your kind words I thank you.

Being who I am, I reserve the right to sit in the corner fretting.

More after the inspection...

Puking in my wastebasket or Buying a Townhouse in Atlanta

This might be old news to some of you, but I can't remember what stories I have told to which people, so I am just going to air my laundry in cyberspace, and you can check back periodically.

Having said that, I am buying a townhouse here in Atlanta. It is three doors down from my current unit, and exactly the same layout, but with some upgrades, like hardwood floors and stainless steel appliances.

Basically, it was a spur of the moment decision that I have been thinking about for 10 years. My lease is up tomorrow, and this unit was for sale. Naturally, by the time I called to see it, there was another bid in, and I had to put in a bid that day, if I wanted to be considered. I did put in a bid, and spent a frantic night on the phone with Peaches alternating between “What will I do if I get it, I can’t afford it” and “If I don’t get it I will kill myself”.

At noon the next day, my Realtor called to say that the other bid was rejected (yay) but there was a counter offer to my bid. I accepted their counteroffer, after much gnashing of teeth. I have to think that a couple of thousand dollars won’t make a huge difference over the life of a 30 year loan. That is what I am telling myself, don’t give me any grief about it, since I am already the Queen of Excess Stomach Acid.

I spent yesterday afternoon on the phone with the Loan Guy, who was very nice and answered all of my ridiculous questions. I was prequalified for the amount of the loan needed, so that was a positive step. This is the same realtor/mortage combo that 5 or 6 of my coworkers (all finance types) have used (several of them repeatedly), so I feel that I am in good hands.

Even so, I am still a nervous wreck. I just came back from faxing 58 pages for loan approval. I offered a 3 week closing, so everything is at a dead rush. I am slated to close on 7/14 (really the 15th, but it is a Saturday). One good thing about this is that I won’t have as much time to stew about it. You guys know how I love to stew.

It seems like there are still a lot of things that could happen, like the appraisal coming in low, or something weird creeping out of my financial closet, but we are clicking right along.

I called the property management company on my current unit, and if I give notice today, I will be able to leave by 7/30, which gives me time to paint a bit, if I want and move in a leisurely fashion. Since everything that I own will be dragged down the sidewalk for my neighbors to see, might as well stretch it out and give them a thrill. Actually, I am sure I will hire some movers for a few hours, to drag the heavy stuff, but some of it I can do, since I don’t really want to pack up my whole kitchen and then unpack it again 75 feet to the West.

If anyone has any thoughts/ideas/suggestions on moving things short distances, I would love to hear them!

I will try to keep updating this blog with house stuff (including pictures) when I get back inside.

I also owe updates on my France trip, so watch this space!!!

WTF is up with Alias? Thoughts on Stupid TV

I really need to get to bed, but I am not all that tired. Maybe napping on and off until 3 today has something to do with it.

Unlike my friend Glare, I leave the TV on while I am doing other things. Apparently, whatever show I was just not watching finished, and an old 'Alias' repeat came on. I have never seen any episodes of this show, but the first 4 minutes of this one showed people jumping out of a train, a bazaar in the Middle East, and referenced "suitcase nukes". Who can watch this?

Don't flame me, Alias fans. I am sure that rewatching decade old L&O shows seems as silly to you as this overwrought "my mother is a KGB spy" crap is to me.

I can hear you asking yourself, "Edacious J, why don't you just change the channel?"

The answer is simply that I can't find the freakin' remote. While I was melding into the bed today, something happened to the remote.

Chances are, it is under the bed, or behind the pillows or under the dog. However, I can't seem to muster the energy needed to search for the damn thing. Ergo, my Alias-related suffering continues.

Actually, I don't know how much more I can take, so I might need to get up and find the wretched thing.


(Odd note: I just ran a spell check, before posting this, and the checker offered "foreskin" as a correction for "freakin"...tee hee hee)

Three Weeks Later...

So much for big intentions, huh?

I can't even say that I didn't post anything because I had nothing to say. On the contrary, I have a million things to say, but I am not sure that I want them floating in the ether.

I will start with the most innocuous stories.

My mother and some friends from school came to visit me in Atlanta last weekend. Mind you, my mother (forever after refered to as "Peaches") and these women are all over 60, and they have been friends since the early 1950's. They go back a long way.

Peaches has a whole gaggle of these schoolchums. Seriously, they number 12 or 13. They never sit still long enough for me to get an accurate nose count. Peaches brought along 3 of them, G, D and MA, so only 1/3 of their full strength was represented.

In spite of these diminished numbers, I was still EXHAUSTED when they left on Monday. We had a fabulous time, but they seriously kicked my ass. They were up and ready to go before me, indefatiguable during all of the touristy outings that I planned, and stayed up late laughing and chatting. They cleaned my house, walked my dog and did laundry. I dropped them at the airport at 6 pm on Monday, went home, took a shower and fell into bed. At 7:15.

They arrived on Thursday afternoon. I met them at the airport, where, to my surprise, they were standing with a nice young man named Mike. They met him on the plane, and had basically adopted him, chatting with him, making sure he got a drink, and found his luggage. Mind you, Mike was at least 30, and happily married with children. They also befriended a number of bikers, who recommended a trip to Newnan, GA for a bite to eat at the Red Neck Cafe. You can find their web site here. We eventually made it to Newnan, but that has to be another post.

Naturally, they were starving when I picked them up, so we dropped their bags at my house, and headed over to the Vortex for some burgers and tots. I was a little bit leery of taking them to what amounts to a biker bar, but they sort of had a biker theme going already, anyway.

Everyone had a delightful meal, agreeing that the burgers were, in fact, fabulous. As we were waiting for the check, MA asked if anyone else felt like a little ice cream. Since the Vortex doesn't run toward ice cream, I suggested a jaunt across the street to Zesto's for a snack.

I ordered a butterscotch malt, Peaches had a small "nut brown crown", and MA decided on a small sundae. D and G decided that they didn't want any ice cream...that is, until they saw ours!

The ice cream made the rounds, with everyone sampling the treats, except for Peaches, who was having trouble with her Nut Brown Crown. It was melting and dripping, and she was covered in melty ice cream, chocolate and peanuts. Naturally, the rest of us found this wildly amusing. I took a picture of her, in all of her glory. This lead to other group shots, as well.

Finally, several pictures and a handful of napkins later, the employees at Zesto's asked the girls if they wanted paper Zesto hats. Naturally, they did, and they promptly put them on. This inspired even more hilarity and required yet another picture.

They were backed up against the glass window, clearly visible to all passers by in Little 5 Points. Right after I snapped the last picture, a man walked in and asked, "When did y'all start serving liquor in here?"

This set the girls off into another gale of laughter, and was the catch phrase for the rest of the trip.

Initial Posting

Wow. Do I hate blank spaces and new beginnings. I am intimiated by both. In the interests of confronting both issues, I am starting this blog.

I do not have delusions of blog grandeur. I am sure that the only people who will read through these ramblings are my friends, and my mother, if she could figure out how to get online.

I have no specific plan for this space. I thought I would just write about the ridiculousness that is my daily existence.

For example, today was a beautiful Spring Friday. Most of the VPs at my office were AWOL, and the rest of the corporate staff started bailing at 2. By 4, my office was a virtual wasteland. Naturally, my boss was the only one left in the building. I left at 6, and was treated to a, "Leaving already?" on my way out. My blood boils. More on that later. I am sure the bile and hate engendered by this person will spew forth on more than one occasion.

I had a hard time coming up with a title for this blog. Naming things is a huge responsibility, and not to be taken lightly. I am convinced that if my mother had followed through with her initial intent, and named me "Heather", that I would be a much different person today. Probably more perky, significantly less bitter, or, potentially a coked out drug addict. It could have gone either way, really. Anyway, the point of that is that I am not completely satisfied with the name, and reserve the right to change it later. Plus, one of my best friends, the Baroness von Pinkenevil, can't spell very well, so I am sure that she will have trouble with "edacious".

My pointy-headed coworker sent me the WOTD, edacious. I can't imagine why he thought of me, she said, in a slightly hurt aside.