A couple of days ago I received the Best Text Message Ever from Jen
“Hey just learned that the ppl across the street are renters. How do you think we should approach them? my google search did not pull much up. Do we make eye contact?”
Ha. Ha. Haaaaaaa.
I’ve enjoyed the comments RENTER post. Even the ones where people were all “I don’t judge, but yet, here I am judging you and your “choices” even though I really have no idea what your choices have been.” Seriously, I love the stories people make up in their heads with regard to my life. But, do you know what I really love? I love that people are happy for me and my family. If you’re ever in Cali, email me and I’ll have you over for Bean Dip and ridiculously expensive coffee from Starbucks.
The moving is going well. I mean, sure, there have been problems (LIKE CAT PISS IN THE CARPET. YUM.) but when I look at my kitchen, or at the beautiful view, or when I hear the birds chirping (Did you know that birds actually “chirp?”) instead of cars honking and sirens, I just take a deep breath, light a candle and smile.
I’m not going to let a little cat urine ruin my life.
[small voice]I hate cats[small voice]
I did have a moment of wanting to give up on this whole moving thing and run into the hills to live among the wildlife because OH MY GOD…lining the bottom of the cabinets SUCKS
If you gave me a choice between pretty much ANYTHING and putting that sticky paper down in the cabinets, I promise you that I would choose ANYTHING ELSE.
“Eat your own face, or put down the sticky cabinet paper?”
EAT MY OWN FACE!
“Give birth vaginally to a child the size of Gary Colemen or line the cabinets with that sticky paper?”
GIVE BIRTH TO GIANT BABY!
“Watch The View or line the cabinets with sticky paper?”
WATCH THE VIEW!
(I know there’s a proper name for that stuff, but I can’t think of it at the moment, because I have RUINED BRAIN CELLS trying to line my cabinets with that sticky paper shit.)
I’ve spent the last 2 days trying to get my cabinets ready so that I can begin putting things in them and it is still not done because OH MY GOD THE STICKY PAPER IS OF SATAN.
PigHunter tried to offer me some “advice” on how to do it without frustrating myself.
That didn’t go over very well, because, well… I kind of hate him when we do anything “home improvement-ish”.
But don’t feel bad for him, because he hates me RIGHT BACK. And I don’t blame him. I mean, hello? Lining cabinets really isn’t THAT hard and yet, I had emotional meltdowns on the kitchen floor.
I’m happy to report that I was able to finally get each and every one of the cabinets lined with the sticky paper and ready to fill with all of our things. Which would be totally awesome if we actually had “things” to fill them with.
You see, we were both in a very “bad place” when we were asked to leave the house (because the landlord had sold the house NOT BECAUSE WE WERE EVICTED PEOPLE. I REPEAT, WE WERE NOT EVICTED. GOD.) and so as we were packing up, we made some bad decisions.
Decisions such as “let’s just throw all of our dishes and pots and pans and coffee mugs away, as we won’t have room in storage for all of this shit.”
Whoops.
Never pack while emotional.
Seriously.
We were due for new pots, pans and dishes anyway. We’ve had the same sets since we got married in 1990. I just never felt the need to spend money on things like “pots” because I save my money for frivolous things, like an internet connection! and meeting BLOGGERS! So, while it sucks at the moment, I’m actually looking forward to shopping for some new kitchenware for (not) my new kitchen.
But, before I even think about heading out to Target to go spend more money that could be used for a down payment on a home, I think I need to figure out what to do with all of the clothes until we get a new bedroom set.

(You think that’s bad? You should see the kitchen. “Organized and efficient” are definitely NOT one of the many qualities that I possess. )

On Friday we received the keys to our new house.
Our new rental house.
I only bring up that we’re renting again because a precious reader by the name of Alan had some Very Important Words that he felt called to share with me regarding the fact that I do not own a home.

But you will become the drunk woman with 5 kids, or the ex boyfriend, etc….because if its 90% as great as you are claiming that is it, you are still no more than a renter.
Doctors, lawyers, dentists, etc..OWN homes not rent them, and everyone in your neighborhood will be saying or thinking “there goes those damn renters”.

I could be wrong, but I think Alan wants me to feel bad because I am A Renter. I think Alan is a RENTER-IST! (Alan’s all “no I’m not! Some of my BEST FRIENDS are renters! I just don’t want them living in MY neighborhood, because they get drunk and have kids all damn day long!)
Actually, that’s not the first angry comment I’ve received regarding the fact that we rent. This really seems to piss the random men off who happen upon my site while searching for things like “Stuff My Enchilada, Big Boy.”
Of course, every single time that I get one of these emails/comments, the person holds ME responsible for the fact that we do not own a home.
Roland’s comment is a shining example.

Losers cry and eat/waste money on bean dip/gameshowtryouts etc. , If you love your kids so much, go do something about it.
Winners do the math , suck it up and think about what matters and take care of business.
If you polled the people that have replied to your post, probably 60% own thier home, they didnt do anything special (like win the lottery or win on some gameshow), they just put thier home/kids above the me, me.
$8a day on starbucks/beandip is $2920 a year x (times) how ever many years you have been wasting money on rent/beandip. Not to mention that it had to cost something out of pocket to travel around to meet people from the internet, and interview Elaine from Sienfield.
Egocentricity should be thy middle name , if you only got paid $10.00 an hourfor every hour you have spent BLOGGING or reading BLOGS or met other renters who BLOG, I am willing to wager you would have quite the down payment.

(Winners do the math!)
I’ve never responded to the assumptions and accusations because I enjoy letting people make up stories as to why we don’t own a home. I mean, what would random assholes on the internet have to say if I told them that my husband allowed his crook of an Uncle to use us to pay HIS taxes for years and that we racked up tens of thousands of dollars in IRS bills and had a lien against us until we payed HIS UNCLES taxes off and that my husband didn’t stand up to his uncle because he didn’t want to cause problems in his family and that I was the one who had to threaten to report his asshole Uncle to the IRS and deal with the anger and hatred of his family because ENOUGH IS ENOUGH and that when we finally paid the taxes off and had money for a down payment, home prices (which used to be in the 150,000’s) soared to the 400,000’s and we couldn’t afford that on one income.
See, that? Is boring. I much prefer the Bean Dip/Starbucks theory.
Blame The Bean Dip!
I have a lot that I want to write about The Move and The Joy that I feel in my heart to finally live in a home that I am not ashamed of, that does not suck the happiness from my soul, but SHIT! I am tired. The kind of tired that hurts, the kind of tired that makes you want to cry while you’re wondering aimlessly through the aisles of Target trying to remember what it is that you were there for in the first place.
So.
Instead of more words, I give you pictures.

The View from my living room window

Continue reading →

Every morning after I drop the kids off at school, I take a drive up to the new house. I love to drive up to the neighborhood. It’s beautiful. The streets are lined with trees. The homes are large and gorgeous. It’s peaceful and quite. People are out walking their dogs, or riding their horses.
It’s nothing at all like the ‘hood we lived in.
We’re so not going to fit in. Most of the people there are wealthy. They are dentists, they are doctors. They are attorneys. They drive Escalades and Hummers.
We are construction workers and Headline Rotaters**. We drive 95 Galants and Mini-vans.
It’s only a few minutes up the road from where we used to live, but it’s an entirely different world up there.
In my old neighborhood, it wasn’t out of the ordinary to see shirtless men with hairy beer belly’s walking across the street with a rifle resting on their shoulder. It wasn’t even the slightest bit weird to have drunk men knock on your door at 10pm to tell you “not to worry if you hear loud noises” coming from their backyard because they were going to be “playing with their potato launcher.” No one batted an eye when ex-boyfriend’s made the hill across the street their “home” because they got kicked out of the house and slapped with a restraining order. It wasn’t unusual to see 30 kids running crazy in the streets, most of them without socks or shoes and a couple of them in diapers.
I’ve been down the street of my new neighborhood at least 20 times and I have yet to see a kid playing outside. I have yet to see a shirtless man drinking a beer while yelling at His Woman. I have yet to see cops in front of a house while a young drunk mother shouts “IT WAS SELF DEFENSE” at them. I have yet to see a grown man come running out of the backyard with his shirt on fire. I have yet to see a mother of 5 kids having sex on the front lawn.
And while I’m pretty happy about that, I would be lying if I didn’t say a small part of me is crying on the inside because how boring.
Seriously, my old neighborhood was trashy in every way, but it was exciting and often times, hilarious. (Except for the time when me and my friends were out front at midnight, drinking smirnoffs and doing cartwheels and someone decided to pull out a shotgun and KILL A MAN across the street. That wasn’t hilarious at all.)
The silence in our new neighborhood is a little creepy because I’m not used to it. I’m not used to hearing crickets, I’m not used to hearing the leaves on the trees as the wind blows, but I’m looking forward to sleeping in peace and not getting woke up at 2 in the morning by my neighbor stabbing his dad while the mom throws furniture out onto the driveway.
I’m also looking forward to having The Jesus Approved Sex&trade without having my husband put his hand over my mouth to mute The Moans, because, you know, my Dad might hear us.
GROSS.
Two more days, people. Until Sex! And privacy! And MY OWN BED! And! And! ANNNNNDDD!

[Howard Dean Scream]YEeeeeaAAAAAAH[/Howard Dean Scream]

For the last few months it’s been bad news, after bad news, after more bad news.
But! I’ve been holding out on you, oh World Wide Web. Lo! I have good news!
After four months of searching, we found a house. (to rent.) (Yes. We’re renting again. But, hopefully not for long.)
And this house is beautiful. And this house is spacious. And this house sits on half an acre of land and is zoned for not one, but TWO horses. And this house is in a very desirable neighborhood. And most importantly? This house does NOT have a kitchen that looks like this.

Oh, no it does not.
This house has a new kitchen, with new cabinets that are made with real wood.
*cue angels singing*
Ok, I suppose that’s not the most important thing about the house. THEE most important thing is that it is the exact amount we can afford (We really lucked out. The prices in the area are MUCH higher than what we’re going to be paying, which is why we JUMPED INTO ACTION when we found this house. And ha! ha! Me + PigHunter + jumping into action = THE CRAZY. I wish you could have been there to watch it.)
At one point during our Home Hunt, we found this tiny little that we both hated, but the rent was very reasonable (for good reason.) As we were walking out of the house, Tony turned to me and said “I know this house is small, and kind of ugly and in a bad neighborhood, but! It’s cheap! And we can save money!”
“HELL NO!” I proclaimed. “We spent 10 years, TEN FREAKING YEARS, in a house that was all of those things and it sucked the life out of me. I’m not doing that again. I’m willing to pay a little more to have a house that I feel comfortable in, a house that I am not ashamed to entertain friends in. I will NOT move into another piece of shit house, I won’t do it.”
Call me a selfish brat if you want to, I don’t care. I am not going to waste another minute of my life hating a house that I live in. I wasn’t looking for a PERFECT house, just a house that I felt comfortable in.
This house isn’t perfect. It’s an older home, the yard –all HALF ACRE OF IT– is nothing but dead weeds (My Mother in Law was all “get a goat! Or some sheep! For they will keep the weeds in check!”) There are broken light fixtures and the front door is hideous. It’s not perfect at all.
But it feels perfect for us and that’s all that I cared about.
Eight more days and we’ll be out of my parents house (and hair) and in our own place.
Who’s coming over to celebrate?

Nothing will make you rethink putting junk food into your body ever again like two sprays of nitro and a ride in the ambulance to the emergency room.
Last night during a late dinner with friends, I started feeling a sharp pain on the left side of my chest. At first, I tried to blow it off. I started stretching and moving my body around in an attempt to make the pain stop.
It got worse.
I didn’t want to ruin dinner, or over react because it was probably nothing, right?
But the sharp pain persisted, the sharp pain got worse and suddenly, a feeling of doom over took my entire body and I blurted out the words “I’m having chest pains.”
As soon as I said those words out loud, I wanted to take them back. I was being ridiculous! It was nothing!
I excused myself and went into the bathroom. As I stood in the stall, I could feel the panic set in because the pain wasn’t right, it wasn’t normal and it scared me. A fear that I don’t know I’ve ever experienced before when it comes to my health.
When I came back to the table, I was shaking and pale and asked Tony to take me to the doctors.
As we were getting in the car, the pain got worse and I asked Tony to call 911 on the way home. (We were only about 3 minutes away from home.)
He did.
They rolled up just as we had made it through the front door.
They asked my symptoms and as I told them, they put an oxygen mask on my face and took my blood pressure.
152/108
They took a reading of my heart.
“I see some abnormalities” I heard one of the medics say to the other.
“We’re going to give you a spray of something, it’s called Nitro.”
I started to shake. I was terrified.
So were my children. I could see them off to the side and they were nervous.
“I’m ok!” I shouted through my oxygen mask. “I’m going to be ok.”
But I wasn’t so sure and they knew it.
“You’re coming with us, right?” the medic asked as he started an IV.
“But what if my insurance doesn’t cover the ambulance ride?”
“Ma’am, any time you have chest pains like this, you need to get to the hospital right away. We need to take you.”
I agreed and asked them to take me to MY hospital. The one that my insurance will cover, but they advised me against that because it was too far. They wanted to take me to the nearest hospital. I put up a bit of a fight, because I don’t want to get stuck with a medical bill that I can pay for, but they insisted I go to the local hospital. They sounded pretty serious about the whole “we need to get you there in 6 minutes, not 18 minutes” thing, so I reluctantly agreed.
(Dear God, please let Kaiser pay the bill because I can’t. Thank you. Amen.)
We arrived at the emergency room and it was packed. Stretchers with sick bodies were crammed in the hallways. A ragged looking nurse took one look at me and said “you can put that one in area 9.”
That one.
“I’m just a number to these people” I thought to myself. I’m just another one of those stupid people who doesn’t take care of themselves and ends up crowding their emergency rooms with chest pains and high blood pressure and strokes.
I started to cry.
Why did I do this to my body? Why did I gain all of this weight back? Why did I stop working out on a regular basis? Why did I put all of those greasy French fries in my body? Why didn’t I think of my children? Why didn’t I think of my husband? They would be devastated if I left them at such an early age. WHY?
EKG’s were given. X-rays were taken. Blood was drawn.
Hours passed and the doctor finally came in to tell me that everything came back normal.
“So what was it?” My husband asked.
“We just don’t know. It could be her gall bladder (wtf?) or it could have been her heart, we’re just not sure. Just have her follow up with her primary doctor tomorrow.”
I felt like a giant asshole. There was nothing wrong with me and I called 911, possibly leaving my family stuck with a bill that is going to kill us.
Tony lectured me not to feel bad. He said he could tell I was in pain, he could see how pale I was, he could see my eyes didn’t “look right” and he said to never second guess my decision to call for help.
I’m going to take his advice. I was in pain, a pain that I’ve never felt before. A pain so sharp—so real, that I honestly thought “this could be a heart attack.”
Not to get all Soap Opera Dramatic on you, but this experience has changed me. I’m not quite sure how just yet, but I can tell you that from this minute forward I will be mindful of what I put into my body and not because I want to look cute in a pair of jeans, but because I don’t want to have a heart attack and die.