We opened presents, we ate, and then we battled.
It’s much better if I can just show you what the hell happened.
We opened presents, we ate, and then we battled.
It’s much better if I can just show you what the hell happened.
Hello Leaguers. I’ve been awol for the past 4 days because I’ve been in the Texas Panhandle at my Grandmother’s Christmas. And my Christmas, I mean my big ass family comes together to eat a shitload of food and battle. We’ve gone over this before. Pay some attention.
Let’s begin our journey, shall we?
And that’s truly where it began. After landing in Amarillo (and driving past the JESUS IS LORD TRUCK STOP–no foolin’), Grace, Damon, Adrian and I drove to Groom for the reception for a funeral.
I can feel you cringing right now in anticipation. You will not be disappointed.
You see, Groom, Texas has one of the World’s Largest Crosses, and I love love love taking pictures in front of religious monuments. Here’s one of me in front of a 20 foot Jesus in a Box. Yes. Jesus. In a box. You can see Grace reflected in the glass.
So, then this happened.
Actually a good picture. You can surely see the aftermath of the West Texas Winds in the fact that my hair is in both of our mouths.
Grace: “Adrian, you should have left your hair long and brought a sheet.” (Adrian totally looks like Jesus)
Me: “He could have signed autographs.”
Grace: *PUNCH AGAIN*
Apparently, Grace has an issue with Jesus signing autographs.
After this most aupicious start to our funeral journey, we parked in front of my Great-Grandmother’s house and waited on the reception to start. It was cold outside, so Grace put on Damon’s coat, and I got into the coat with her. Just as Adrian had zipped us both into it and we were laughing like a-holes–the hearse pulled in front of us, followed by the family car full of relatives. Adrian AND Damon both saw it coming, and ASSISTED WITH OUR FUCKERY.
I could mentally hear my grandmother yelling her favorite phrase at us, “STOP FARTIN’ AROUND.”
After making asses of ourselves at a solemn occasion, we visited with family that I haven’t seen since 1998 when my Great-Grandmother died. I knew virtually no-one anymore, and Adrian was even worse. These people remember me from 6th grade–most had no idea I was even alive, much less married. It was socially excruciating. I stayed glued to my Grandmother, offering every 12 seconds to get her something from her car. It was blessedly over within 1/2 an hour.
Upon leaving, this conversation took place with my uncle.
Grace: “Hey, can we follow you to Granny’s? I don’t remember how to get there from here.”
Uncle: “No problem. But I go slow.”
Grace: “It’s okay! I’m happy to follow.”
Uncle then tore through town going 50 through stop signs and school zones, and Grace got air with Mom’s truck at one point. Slow. His defense? “I said I go slow–through stop signs.”
STOP FARTIN’ AROUND!
After assembling our drink choices for the weekend, we finally made it to Granny’s house.
That’s where the real fun began. You’ll have to wait on that. I’m still recovering.
As an aside, Lana’s son has RSV. Please keep her family in your thoughts.
I’m buying a house.
Okay, well, Adrian and I are wanting to buy a house. A loft. A small one.
I heard your collective gasps, those who have bought a home before me. For those who haven’t–beware. Buying a home while self-employed is like trying to put mascara on a giraffe. Sure, you can do it eventually, but it’s going to take some serious shit to get there. Hope you brought your ladder and come-a-longs, ho, that Revlon is in for a fucking ride.
While, yes, fundamentally, I understand this is not the Bank’s fault, and the fact that a good 1/3 of the country being in foreclosure makes it more difficult for anyone to get a loan, it’s equal parts frustrating and baffling. Though we make good money, are not looking for anything even close to 100% financing, and have excellent credit, we have not been employed in the same city for 2 years.
To the banks, this means we are heathens. We’ve already been rejected by two.
It’s also sending me into an OCD Anxiety Meltdown.
We’re in the final stages of underwriting. Leading up to this, we’ve turned in P&L’s, Taxes, Affidavits of Credit Checking (as Adrian’s car was stolen 2 months ago and we’ve placed a trace on his Social Security Number for now), Utility bills, Inspection Reports, and the tears of Guatemalan children saddened by the plight of the mayfly.
This is getting a bit like the whole TSA debacle. Yes, I fundamentally understand the need for the nudie pictures and the crotch groping, but I also understand now what it’s like to be on this side of it. A little crotch grope here, a tit squeeze there, and BAM. You’re a terrorist. The bank’s doing a hell of a job running their hands over Adrian’s crotch, but we won’t get to end this little bump and grind with a vacation.
I understand why Adrian and I are considered risky in the eyes of the Bank, especially considering the loan environment, but it’s painfully embarrassing to consider yourself ‘blessed in the self-employment area’ and for banks to tell you no.
We’re supposed to find out tomorrow if we get it. We’re also supposed to close tomorrow.
We’re supposed to be out of our apartment, house or not, by next Wednesday, because we’re tired of living in a place where the cops told us, “You should move. Soon. It’s not safe here,” when Adrian’s car was stolen.
I have not packed a single box. Neither has Adrian. We’re not even trying to. We have no immediate plans to do so. We come home every night as though we’ve never even considered moving.
We’re both fucking terrified. It’s like this isn’t even happening–we’ve been in a state of limbo and self-induced impending homelessness for a month. We’re both just ignoring the fact that we HAVE to move no matter what, for fear that if we start packing, we’ll get our hopes up and the Bank will notice and rain down rejection from the heavens like so many fearsome thunderbolts.
Half our shit is still in boxes from the last time we moved. But we have no truck with which to move. We have no tape. We are unprepared and I am scared to fucking death.
Our realtor even got a notification about a loan for a customer he does not have. That man was approved.
An imaginary man was approved faster than we.
In one week, it will mark the 16th time I have moved in 12 years. Adrian has, barring a house in college, lived in one home growing up. The jealousy of that kills me.
While ‘home is where the heart is,’ and family is what matters in making a home, I want a real home for once. I want a place that’s all ours. I want a place where I can paint the way I want to, and live how I please, and sit on my balcony and be peaceful and come HOME to a HOME. I’ve moved so many times that houses are flippant objects, to be discarded and unremembered as you bounce from one to another, temporary places for your stuff. I’m tired of that.
I want Adrian to say to me one day, “I’ll be home soon,” and know it means something bigger than a shitty apartment where I happen to be.
Sometimes, I’m not funny. Sometimes I’m terrified. And embarrassed. And procrastinating.
Update: Since this post, we have not closed. We have been notified, however, that Fannie Mae will probably not let us move into the loft, even though we were approved for it, because the HOA is under quite of bit of interesting litigation. We have packed all of our stuff, and are in the process of unpacking it or putting the boxes into closets so we no longer live in a UHaul maze. Though we will probably not get the house, it’s under good terms–if the HOA is in trouble, we don’t need the place.
Last night, while watching The Walking Dead.
Me: “If there were an outbreak of Zombie, I would drive down to pick up your parents, then down on to my sisters to pick up her and Damon, then up to Ma and Leo.”
Adrian: “That’d be a good crew.”
Me: “I mean, your parents are survivors. People who escape from communism know how to fucking do it. Grace can cook, and farm, and raise animals, Damon can hunt. Ma is a nurse, and Leo has more guns than West Point.”
Adrian: “All valid reasons.”
Me: “But that leaves us. We’re useless in the Apocalypse.”
Me: “I can…um…I don’t know. I guess that Grace will be busy with the, you know, sustenance, so I can do laundry or something. Someone has to cook the food.”
Adrian: “See, you’re useful.”
Me: “And you’re the driver.”
Adrian: “Naturally. You’ve really thought this out.”
Me: “You have to be prepared. Know what you’ll grab and where you’ll go.”
Adrian: “Glad you have.”
Me: “But we’ll have to take my car…I’m the one with four wheel drive–”
Adrian: “While that’s a good idea, you have to remember that you’ll always need a backup. My car is fast for a reason. We’ll take our cell phones, because the satellites will still be active, and we both have car chargers. Your car is large enough and powerful enough to haul all of the people, and a trailer for the animals and all the gear. Damon and I will go ahead in my car and scout. We’ll call you if it’s clear. If it’s not, I know how to kill–I mean, I haven’t spent 20 years in martial arts for nothing–and Damon knows how to shoot. Your car is also tough enough to drive over terrain, but you’ll need me to clear the way or gather supplies quickly.”
Me: “…………………………………..Thought that out, have you?”
Adrian: “Always be prepared.”
I love you, Adrian. I wouldn’t go through the Zombie Apocalypse with anyone but you.
Our TV and internet went down for 3 days this week. This forced Adrian and I to not only explore other forms of entertainment (like my iPhone), but also awkwardly ushered in this dandy of a conversation.
Adrian: I can’t play any of my games, and I can’t watch anything. I guess we could watch a movie on your laptop.
Me: I’m not a fan of watching movies we own. It’s like, what’s the point? I already have seen this movie. I am no longer in suspense.
Adrian: Because of your superhuman memory.
Me: Right. (it’s totally true, I have a really fucking awesome photographic memory. More on that another day.)
Adrian: I don’t watch movies to find out what happens. I watch movies for the emotions they evoke.
Me: Oh, I see.
Adrian: Like Pirates.
Me: …like…Pirates? You have a pirate mood?
Adrian: Yeah. I get in a pirate mood, and I’m like, ARRRRRRRRRR, and I want to watch History Channel and Pirates of the Caribbean, and play Civilization.
Me: That’s the strangest thing ever. Who the hell has a pirate mood?
Adrian: I have other moods.
Me: Like what, exactly?
Adrian: I have a Roman mood, and a Russian mood, and a Space mood, and a Modern mood.
Adrian: Yeah, when I get in a Russian mood I want to watch stuff about the Cold War and play Civ where I’m Russia and I take over a lot of places. I listen to music that’s like (hums Fanfare for the Common Man.)
Me: I don’t understand you.
I married that, folks.
Comment of the Day:
I get in a russian mood fairly often. It involves large quantities of vodka.
DOUBLE COMMENT OF THE DAY!
By: A Vapid Blonde
I have a very photogenic memory. I can’t remember shit, but it’s really pretty in pictures.
Adrian’s birthday was Friday. As with everything else I do, I go WAY over the top on his birthday presents.
Last year, he raced Corvettes at a racetrack.
This year, I got him a flying lesson, because I’m a fucking masochist.
I trust Adrian a lot. He’s an excellent driver, and has always wanted to learn to fly and to be a pilot. But when my ass is soaring 2,000 feet in the air, I trust no one.
Here’s how the booking went down.
“So I’ve got you down for Friday. Now, the plane is a four-seater. That means a couple more people could come with Adrian on the flight. Anyone you’d like to bring?” says the Flight Instructor who sounds a little too much like Pauly Shore.
“Sure. I know his Dad would like to go, and, I’ll go, too.”
“Fantastic! I know you’ll love it.”
Not likely, Pauly. I fucking hate flying.
Well, that’s not totally true. The part where we’re just in the air at cruising altitude and there is no turbulence is not that bad. But I white-knuckle take-off and landing. Can’t stand that shit. People have tried to tell me, “The pilot wants to be in the air as much as you. It’s his job.”
Let me ask you this in response to that–you know that person at your job who you know is going to snap at any moment and jab a letter opener into your boss’ lung before he takes out the rest of you?
What if he were flying your plane? Yeah. Think of that. Then cry. I am.
Adrian and his Dad are equally excited to get in this tiny ass plane and jet away into the Dallas skyline. I have my, “No, really, I’m totally fine, ” face on.
They promised a ‘ground school’ on the website, which consisted of us sitting in the plane while Pauly Shore removed the NASCAR sun visor from the windshield, and told Adrian how to Fly in about 5 minutes.
These are the first few impressions I have of this ordeal, and we’re still on the ground. Pauly looks over to Adrian and says, “okay, man, I want you to Taxi this plane to the end of the runway.”
The second Adrian started to taxi, I KNEW we were all gonna die.
We get to the end of the runway, ready to take off, and a very, very loud alarm goes off.
Jesus, I’mma commin’ home.
Pauly: “Don’t be worried about that alarm there. We always run the engines out of gas after we park the planes.”
Dad: “As long as it’s not the stall alarm.” (even as I type this, I can still hear his heavy accent)
Pauly: “My headset’s pretty noise cancelling. I couldn’t hear it even if it did go off.”
You know what, Pauly? We haven’t even left the ground, you son of a bitch.
So Pauly takes off, and then, no foolin’, tells Adrian, “Alright Man, the rest is you. Let’s turn right here.”
The right wing dips into what can only be described as a WWII barrel roll scenario, and MOTHER OF MARY AND JOSEPH I AM GOING TO DIE IN THE BACK OF THIS DAMN PLANE. Not fucking okay. I’m laughing, but only from sheer terror and lack of other options from what I could be doing, seeing as how no one gave me a parachute and the NASCAR sun visor ain’t gonna cut it.
To give Adrian and Pauly some credit, Adrian is actually really good at flying a plane, apparently. After the first 3 agonizingly terrifying minutes of my certain death in the Trinity River, Adrian smoothed it out and was pretty damn good.
Pauly: “So, Noa, what kind of music do you listen to?”
Me: I’m wondering if this dude is hitting on me. “Almost anything.” *terrified FUCK YOU I’M OKAY smile*
Pauly: “We’ll listen to some music.”
Y’all, the radio IMMEDIATELY begins playing The Final Countdown. I couldn’t stop laughing. What a fantastically ironic song to come over the Sirius radio on a plane.
And then I chilled out.
And then I realized why Adrian wanted to fly a small plane for so long.
And then, the tower almost ran us into a jet on landing.
Tower: “Um, I don’t know, just circle around again. Whatever. I don’t even know. Just get out of the way.” (again, NOT SHITTING YOU)
Pauly: “That guy gets flustered a lot. He needs to chill out.”
Yeah, Noa to Tower–chill the fuck out, homes. Landing jets full of people should require some attention.
Fuck off, Adrian.
I have wanted a Craftmatic Adjustable Bed (the Monaco Model, to be precise), since I was a child and saw the delightful commercial for the very first time.
I DARE you to tell me who in the world would not love watching Sunday football in a Craftmatic. Reclining at ANY angle, with ANY level of foot support, with custom heating/cooling options and all-over massage. These bitches sell themselves.
Adrian dares to tell me that because I am young, I do not need a Craftmatic.
Here’s Adrian’s logic: “You’re 23. I’m trying to think of ways to get you out of bed. People with Craftmatics have 20 years left–they need the rest.”
Here’s my logic: “YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE IN THIS HOUSE WITH A DEDICATED WORKSPACE WITH ALL YOUR TOOLS NEARBY. I AM PUSHED AWAY TO THE BED OR THE FUCKING GREEN FUTON DOWNSTAIRS THAT THE CATS HAVE TURNED INTO A FORTRESS OF FEAR. DON’T I DESERVE TO WORK IN SUBLIME COMFORT WITH MY 25″ COLOR TV?”
I mean, really.
Have you ever even seen a Craftmatic? Can you imagine the possibilities of owning one? Sleeping in the utmost comfort all the time–it’s amazing to me that they have not been mandated by law yet.
If I had my way in my own house (which I clearly don’t, as I am a slave to Adrian’s ‘useful’ furnishings), I would replace my couches and bed and dining chairs with hybrid Craftmatics/Tempurpedics.
That’s like sleeping on Jesus’ bed. Can you imagine?
We would be reclining all over this damn house.
Come to think of it–I think I could really innovate the Craftmatic Industry.
Imagine the laziness possibilities of a Craftmatic Personal Scooter.
Imagine the ultimate comfort of a Craftmatic bathtub.
Imagine the happiness of Craftmatic tanning beds.
Imagine the joy on a ill child’s face of a videogame centered Craftmatic.
Imagine the driving comfort of a Craftmatic car.
I dare to dream in comfort, Adrian. Don’t you think I deserve this, with the innovations to the industry I have provided? They’re even made in the GOOD OL’ USA.
I should add that this post was in no way a stab at the Craftmatic Adjustable Bed company (Elevation Bed LLC)–I tremendously endorse your product, and have written this post under no urging of anyone (but Adrian). I would be happy to review a bed for this page, if you would be so inclined. Or reclined.
What I wanted to text to Lana: “Hahahaha, that guy’s picture is funny as hell.”
What was actually sent, post correction: “Shabaku, those guy’s picture is funny as he’ll.”
WHAT IS A SHABAKU, PHONE?
WHY DOES IT DENOTE PROPER NOUN STATUS?
WHY DO YOU NOW THINK I MEAN SHABAKU, AND NOT HAHAHAHA, AS I HAVE SAID HAHAHAHA MANY MANY TIMES WITHOUT YOUR FUCKERY.
I AM NOT FOREIGN.
Phone. You’re making me sound retarded. I need a flowchart to demonstrate the level of fuck.
Me: Adrian, can you go get me a coke?