Horrors, Indeed

I've managed to pare my early-morning routine down to about a 15-minute block of time each day before work; pee, shower, brush hair, brush teeth, and mouthwash while I get my clothes out of the closet. No blow-dryer or make-up for me anymore, thank you very much. Those are luxuries saved for the weekend. I think I'm doing a good job of preparing myself for when I have kids.

The advantage of getting ready so quickly in the morning is that it offers me the help of getting to sleep a little bit later each day, precious sleep that I so desperately need in order to function like a real human being and not a zombie.

I have no idea what happened to me. When Edgar and I started dating a mere three years and two months ago, we would (ahem) stay up during the week until around 1am and be out of bed at 5:30 before tackling a monstrous commute to work. And it worked. But somewhere over the past two years, I've totally lost my ability to function like a normal person if I don't get over eight hours of sleep each night. I've even found myself going to bed at 10:00 on the weekends. WHAT HAPPENED TO ME?

Anyways, this new version of me in the morning has also built time into my schedule so that after I'm done getting ready I have a few minutes to just sit down, zone out, stare at the TV, and stew in my own thoughts about how much I hate the stupid drivers that all converge on my commute in the morning. JUST BECAUSE THERE ARE A FEW PEDESTRIANS ON THE SIDEWALK NEXT TO YOU AND A STOP LIGHT A BLOCK AHEAD, THAT'S GREEN BY THE WAY, DOES NOT MEAN YOU HAVE TO CREEP ALONG IN FRONT OF ME AT 10 MPH DOWN A CITY STREET. Losers. My TV drug of choice in the mornings lately has been TLC programming. Depending on if I have to be to work at 7:30 or 8:00, the shows on around the time that I park myself on the bed in the morning are either A Baby Story or Clean Sweep. Or at least it was Clean Sweep until this week when they started running that abominable clown-car vagina show 19 Kids and Counting in its place. TLC, I will be sending you an angry letter.

Anyways, on Monday, finding myself ready even earlier than I expected, I sat down to catch the last few minutes of A Baby Story before being shockingly, unexpectedly greeted by the Jim-Bob clan in place of Tava and her sorts and her infectious energy and the carpenter who always spreads the paint on the wall with his fingers. The couple on A Baby Story was a Jewish-Italian family (at least I hope after naming their son Giacomo that they were at least part-Italian). The woman was incredibly obnoxious as they filmed her right after labor ("OH MY GAWD, OH MY GAWD, OH MY GAWD, I TOTALLY DID IT! OH MY GAWD!") and I was half tempted to change the channel, but I decided to stick it out for the "life-after-baby" segment that they show in every episode. For this family, their follow-up was 10 days postpartum for the baby's bris.

And then there was grandma. Oh, crazy old Jewish-Italian grandma, with your crazy teased hair and your crazy fingernails and all of your crazy gold jewelry. Way to play into stereotypes. But after opening her mouth, crazy old Jewish-Italian grandma was even crazier than I thought. Because she was holding the baby (not very well by the way...hey crazy old Jewish-Italian grandma, babies that young cannot hold up their heads, so just holding them up by their arms is probably not a good idea) and she was all "Oh, baby, do you want to dance? Ok?" And she started singing to him and kind of convulsively shaking him around to make him dance. But the thing was....ok here's the thing. She was singing, to this sweet little 10 day old baby that was about to have a very unpleasant experience with a knife, "Little shop! Little shop of horrors! Little shop! Little shop of horrors!" like IT WAS THE GREATEST SONG IN THE UNIVERSE.

Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. You Are My Sunshine. The Itsy Bitsy Spider. Old MacDonald. These are songs you sing to babies. Not Little Shop of Horrors. Not songs about giant people-eating plants and dentists addicted to nitrous oxide. This is the point where if it was my baby story I would tell Grandma it's time to give the baby back and turn to the camera crew and plead with them to please not turn that film over to their producers.

I'll give you a Ring of Fire

People who sit with their car parked at a curb at 6:30 in the morning with the windows down and the bass turned up blaring Johnny Cash (not that there is anything wrong with Johnny Cash at the appropriate time and volume) when normal people are trying to steal their last few minutes of sleep in the morning NEED TO HAVE THEIR FUCKING BALLS CUT OFF.

Coincidence Again

I've written a few times on this site about my reading quest for the year: 52 books in 52 weeks. I've got a huge list of books that I'm trying to slog through. Right now, I'm tackling the books that I actually have in my possession, a collection that has happily grown over the last four months with the opening of a gigantic $1 used bookstore down the street. My current method of finding out "what do I read next?" goes something like this:

Me: Edgar, pick a number between one and a hundred.
Edgar: Forty-seven.
Me: Thanks.

And then I count through the books that I actually have on the list to number 47 and that's the one I read. Lather, rinse, repeat. I find this is an equal opportunity method. It cuts down on me going "Hmmm, not too sure I want to try that author right now....." or "Hmmmm, that one is kind of long, and the last one I read was kind of long, so I should probably skip to a shorter one...." It doesn't leave me with the responsibility of making the decision, and I like it like that.

The most recent pick-a-number experiment landed me on The Lord of the Rings. I know it's a trilogy (or as I have since learned, not really a trilogy but several volumes of the same story broken up into three sections--so as not to offend the Tolkien-ites) but I had it entered as one item on the list because I have a copy of it that is all three books in one volume. But you can be sure that I'll be counting it as three books towards my total when all is said and done. That trilogy racks up to over 1000 pages, and I already read Atlas Shrugged last year, thank you very much, so I've put in my time with these monstrous tomes.

For someone that really likes to read, it's probably surprising that I've never read these before. It seems like one of those things that everyone has read, just not me. I've started The Fellowship of the Ring several times, but I've never been able to get through more than a few chapters before something else has gotten in the way and distracted my attention. So I guess this is the perfect time for me to read it, since this is my project for myself and I'm making a conscious effort to not try reading four different books at the same time before I end up abandoning all four as a lost cause. The nature of the project is going to make me see this through (famous last words, I know).

Anyways, so here I am, reading the book, la la la, and then I saw online that today is like National Tolkien Reading Day. Which is awesome, because now when I'm standing in line at the DMV tomorrow to pay my renewal for our Civic (SINCE SOME STATE THAT SHALL REMAIN NAMELESS, OH WAIT, IT'S CALIFORNIA, DIDN'T SEND THE FORMS TO ME IN THE MAIL AND WON'T 'RESEND' THEM BECAUSE THEY WOULD RATHER I WOULD COME INTO THEIR OVERCROWDED AND UNDERSTAFFED AND STINKY OFFICE THAN HANDLE A SIMPLE TRANSACTION THROUGH THE MAIL*), reading this book to pass the time, some nerd in the know is gonna be all "Oh, hey, it's my compatriot!" And then I'll have to be all "No, you smell."

*Chalk this up to another reason why California is wearing on my last nerve.

Giveth and Taketh Away

So in my last post I was all mopey, all "I hate California and don't want to live here anymore." And I'm still that way, make no mistake. I spend my free time daydreaming and planning the logistics of what it would be like to live somewhere, anywhere, that is not California.

So after all of my whining, I was pleasantly surprised and excited on Saturday when I was trolling the internet for rentals and found a listing on Craigslist for a 3 bedroom house in Torrance that was going for only $12 more a month than what we are paying now. Everything seemed perfect. Utilities were included, so even though the rent was slightly higher we would still be saving monthly because of the utility cost. It had three bedrooms so it would be a place we could stay in for years. It was less than five miles to my office and less than 10 miles to Edgar's office. It had a yard. A BIG HUGE FUCKING YARD.

So I eagerly sent an email off to the poster that I would like to check it out and Edgar and I hopped in the car to drive by the property to get a first glance at it, hoping that the poster would give us a call while were out in the vicinity. The neighborhood was great. Everyone had yards. Everyone had yards they took care of. NO CONCRETE.

We didn't get a call from the poster that day, but he did email me the next morning.

And that's where it all fell sadly, horribly, irreparably apart.

Manuel, that was his name, told me that he would not be able to show us the house because he was living in South Africa, where he had been transferred for work. But the house was available! And his lawyer in South Africa had the keys and the lease, and they would send us the keys after all necessary agreements had been made.

FUCKING CRAIGSLIST SCAMMERS TRYING TO STEAL MY MONEY AND MY SOUL AND ALL OF MY HOPE IN THE WORLD.

I spent Sunday in bed curled in a ball under the blankets.

Bummed

I've been feeling really low today. A lot of it is probably that I'm really tired and therefore really cranky, but I'm also being gnawed at by an issue that I've thought about many times but that seems to be staring at me down a barrel of a gun lately.

I feel like I'm never going to be able to live anywhere in California but a one bedroom apartment.

I don't understand how people here live in houses. I don't understand how two income families can live in a two bedroom apartment. I don't understand how it's affordable at all. Oh, that's right, it's not. HELLO CALIFORNIA, LAND OF THE MIGHTY FORECLOSURE.

Edgar and I have recently had this idea floating around that we would like to be able to move into a house this year. Nothing fancy, just a two bedroom rental house somewhere in the Redondo Beach area, which is a convenient location for both of us near our jobs. Our original plan had been to live in our current one bedroom apartment through November of 2011. Our thought process was that even when we have a baby, since we have the loft space, that we would have plenty of room to live through that time with a child under one year old. But I just have really strong objections, that I'm hesitant to voice, about raising a child in an apartment.

I don't say that to disparage anyone that has children and lives in an apartment. My brother has children and lives in an apartment. But I just look back at my own childhood, where I always lived in a house. A house with a yard. And if I was living in an apartment with a child in Indiana, where I grew up, I would probably have no problem with this, because in Indiana, apartment complexes have grass and playgrounds and for not that much money at all, you can live in a place where you're not worried about gangs and bad schools and if the people in the apartment below you are smoking crack. You know what California has? CONCRETE. And dirt. And gangs. And middle income families being priced out of rentals in safe suburbs.

And forget about buying a house unless you win the lottery or work in the entertainment industry. I just don't understand how people that make the same amount of money that Edgar and I do can afford $800k for a 1200 square foot house with no yard and no privacy and still have any income left to pay for other important things, like, you know, groceries.

Part of me just wants to say fuck it, pack it all up, and move back to Indiana where life is affordable and a down payment on a nice house doesn't cost two years worth of salary. But I can't do that. I can't ask my husband to pack up his life, find a job in another state, and leave his family and friends behind. He doesn't have that much family here that he sees, only his parents and his brother, but since we're the only potential for grandchildren in his family we can't just leave his parents. I say this in the most loving way as possible, but meeting Edgar and falling in love with him really fucked up my plans. When I moved to California, I figured in the back of my mind that I was only doing it for the life experience, that I would live out here for a few years and then go back to Indiana where life as a whole is affordable. But that went out the window with meeting Edgar (and don't get me wrong, I wouldn't trade my husband for a chance to move back to Indiana).

But as I look parenthood squarely in the face, California just becomes uglier and uglier and uglier for me. I hate the concrete. I hate the fact that people here don't live in neighborhoods, just rows and rows of streets where houses are interspersed with broken down businesses and the crime incidence link of the residential/business mix that I learned in criminal theory in college won't get out of my head. I hate the traffic. I hate the bars on the windows. I hate the stupidity. I even hate the weather. WHAT I WOULDN'T GIVE FOR A GODDAMN THUNDERSTORM, YOU HAVE NO IDEA.

So I feel stuck. And sad. And hopeless. It wouldn't matter if we didn't have a car payment and a few credit card bills a month, because even if we had those to put towards rent for a house, we would still live in a shithole house.

I apologize for what has been an entirely self-indulgent post of me being a whiny mess.

City of Trembling Angels

Here in Southern California we sure love our earthquakes. An earthquake happens, even the most minor tremblor possible to still be classified as an earthquake, and it's like a damn nuclear bomb went off. BREAKING NEWS.

There was a 4.4-magnitude earthquake this morning (at 4:04 am to be exact, you can't make that kind of symmetry up, natch) that was centered less than 10 miles away from where we live. It likely would have gone unnoticed by me had I not been up a few minutes earlier to go to the bathroom. Edgar woke up near the end of it looking confused, and after a "Earthquake. It's over. Go back to sleep" from me he was out like a light in promptly 4.4 seconds. HOW EASY WAS THAT?

But you would think by the media coverage that the ubiquitous Big One had just hit. Now, I grew up in the Mid-West, so earthquakes were new to me when I moved to California. My very first earthquake happened in the middle of the night, and garnered the same response from Edgar to me as I gave to him this morning. I've gotten used to them over time and now they're no big deal to me, even though I do get that little thrill every time the earth just magically starts shaking and rumbling underneath my feet. I'm sure I would feel differently if I was driving and a freeway bridge collapsed or my home tumbled down around my head, but that has never happened so I'm a-okay with earthquakes to this point.

This is Southern California. There are earthquakes. But people are all OH MY GOD AN EARTHQUAKE WITH ALL OF THE SHAKING WHATEVER SHALL WE DO, I THINK I BETTER CALL THE NEWS BECAUSE HOW ON EARTH WILL THEY EVER KNOW ABOUT THE EARTHQUAKE. WITH ALL OF THE SHAKING. Seriously, that's what it's like. On a local news station's website this morning, they mentioned in their story that they received calls from locations "all over the Southland" of people reporting shaking, and then listing the wide array of cities that people called in from. BECAUSE ALL OF THAT SHAKING HAS NEVER HAPPENED BEFORE. I just don't get it. The earthquake happened this morning and I was all "geez, I really hope that no fire trucks or ambulances get called from the station near our apartment because I'd really like to go back to sleep now." At no time did it ever cross my mind "I really need to call ABC7 right now because there is obviously no way that they know about this and I really hope they get the scoop over KTLA."

They're the news, people. They know. They're going to talk to the USGS anyways. They don't need you.

Around this time last year there was a mild earthquake, like a 3.0, that was centered out near San Bernardino. Edgar and I were watching TV at the time. The earthquake was literally so slight that I thought it was just Edgar tapping his leg against the edge of the bed. But oh, no, not so. The show were were watching was cut into by BREAKING NEWS, where they proceeded to show the obligatory shot of the seismograph from the USGS shaking it's pen all over the paper while taking a call live from a woman in Fontana. "And I looked at my closet--my closet door was open--and I saw my clothes, and they were just shaking!" And she was so serious that you'd think the Osama Bin Laden himself had broken into her house and staged the worst terrorist attack since 9/11 on her walk-in. And the newscasters were trying to make it a much bigger story than it was, like "Oh, do you have any damages?" And she's all "no, but my neighbor's dog is barking a lot now."

This is Southern California. We have gangs and drugs and paparazzi and Britney Spears not driving all crazy through the streets of Beverly Hills anymore and the Lakers and the Kardashians and wildfires and traffic and pedestrians getting run over on PCH without the drivers of the cars even stopping, AND THIS IS WHAT YOU CONSIDER NEWS? A BARKING DOG? SERIOUSLY, CALIFORNIA? My Caps Lock button shames you.

Poopy Squirrels

Edgar recently celebrated his 34th birthday, and in between counting his gray hairs and rubbing Ben-Gay on his aching old joints, we managed to squeeze in some time to go over to his parents for a belated birthday lunch on Sunday. It was uncharacteristically cold inside of their house (probably my system being in shock from "it has central air conditioning" now being an accurate description of "his parent's house") so we settled into some plastic chairs in the sunshine on their back patio.

Gazing absently into space during a lull in the conversation, I noticed some movement in the fronds of a palm tree out of the corner of my eye. Which is when I discovered them: the Mission: Impossible Squirrels. Or Cirque du Soleil Squirrels, whichever fits your fancy.

There was a squirrel just chilling, hanging off of this palm tree frond upside down and eating berries off of another tree. And every once in a while, he would just casually move to another frond with all of the grace of those acrobatic people that do those routines in the big huge ribbons that hang down from the ceiling. And all the while he was upside down, looking like he was about to dive bomb us at any moment from his position. As he would move up and down the fronds in this position, we began to softly serenade him with the Mission: Impossible theme music, because, you know....seemed appropriate.

So little faux-Ethan Hunt squirrel amused us heartily, even more so when he scampered back into the heart of the palm tree and began fighting with another squirrel that was in there. What happened next can only be described as a Three Stooges movie enacted by the squirrels. They began chasing each other in circles around the outside of the trunk of the palm tree, scooting around the outside trying to stay out of sight of the other. And one of the squirrels, the one that I suspect was the one delighting us with his crazy acrobatics before that, kept himself in this upside down, downward slant the entire time, even when he was trying to keep away from the other squirrel.

Eventually they tired of their chase, and the angry squirrel that was doing the chasing settled on a power line that ran right next to the palm tree. Acrobatic squirrel stayed in downward facing dog pose lower down on the trunk. We had gone back to our conversation, when, during a happenstance glance at the squirrels, I noticed a little black something drop from the squirrel on top and land on the other squirrel.

"Guys."

"What?"

"The one squirrel just pooped on the other squirrel's head."

"NO WAY!!!!"

And in unison, three heads whip around to stare at the squirrels, both as still as statues. Just as another little pellet of poop drops from the one squirrel and whizzes within an inch of the other. And then a third little poo-poo nugget dropped out and landed straight on it's head. THIS IS MOTHER NATURE AT ITS FINEST, PEOPLE. I feel sorry for anyone that has not had the pleasure of seeing a squirrel poop on his little squirrel friend. And I think this is something that is specific only to squirrels, because I have no desire to see a dog poop on another dog or a cat poop on another cat. But there is something that is just too damn funny about watching two squirrels chase each other round and round round and then watch the one poop on the other like "THIS IS WHY I WANTED TO CATCH YOU IN THE FIRST PLACE."

And I emailed my husband three times at work today with an email that said nothing but "POOPY SQUIRRELS!"

Miracle on the 105

I had a dream last night that I was on a plane. And the plane had just taken off but it all of a sudden had to make an emergency landing on the 105 freeway. Except the 105 freeway was in Detroit. And the plane was piloted by the "Miracle on the Hudson" pilot. And I was all "But we have to make it to Indiana for Christmas!" so we had to rent a car in Detroit.

And then I woke up and in those few incoherent moments where your mind is trying to throw off the cobwebs of sleep I was all I CAN'T BELIEVE I NEVER WROTE ON MY BLOG ABOUT THAT ONE TIME I WAS ON A PLANE THAT HAD TO LAND ON THE FREEWAY!

Oh, Amanda.

Overheard

Edgar: Your parents sent me a Best Buy gift card for my birthday. I don't know what I'm going to use it for, there's not really anything I can think of that I need.

Me: It's Best Buy and you're a guy. I'm sure you'll figure it out.

Things I think I think

1. Don't you hate it when people blatantly disrespect your wishes after you make it very clear to them that you would really appreciate it if they would just keep their damn mouths shut about the information that you just shared with them?

2. We've completed 9 weeks of 2010 and I've read 10 books. So far I'm on track to hit my goal of 52.

3. The Oscars are on Sunday and I've only seen 5 of the 10 Best Picture Nominees. I failed in my quest.

4. Don't you hate it when that stupid motherfucker in your parking lot at work purposefully comes to work early SO AS TO STEAL YOUR PARKING SPOT?

5. I need to get a haircut.

6. I hope Edgar likes his birthday presents.

7. I'm out of my favorite juice and I really don't want to go to Wal-Mart to get it...but Wal-Mart sells it almost two dollars cheaper than everywhere else so they are forcing my hand.

8. I hope I win the lottery tonight.

9. We're driving to Simi Valley tomorrow and there are supposed to be torrential rains. Dear Weatherman-in-the-Sky, please save your torrential rains until after we get there because California drivers are stupid and I can't take the stress.

10. Strawberry Pop-Tarts rock my world.

Smooth sailing at last

I've written before about how my car has a mind of it's own. Like when I press on the accelerator and the car does not speed up at an equivalent rate as to how much I'm pushing my foot down, how it groans and sputters as I try to urge it to go after sitting idle for a while. How it sometimes forces me to look death right in the face because I've turned on red and now all of a sudden it won't accelerate past 10 miles an hour and if it had been behaving normally I would be so far away from the intersection by now and not bugging anyone but now OH HOLY GOD I'M GOING TO DIE.

Like that.

Driving home on Thursday of last week, the check engine light came on in my car right as I left work and experienced one of those "Go, car, go you fucker!" moments. Probably not good, right? I noticed it sputtering more than usual the entire way home, which was disconcerting because that behavior normally stops after a few minutes once the car is sufficiently warmed up. Which is still ridiculous because me? I live in California. IT'S ALREADY FUCKING WARM. So what did I do? I made Edgar drive the car on Friday because it was my day off and I had errands to run and if I don't leave the parking garage where we park the Neon by a certain time in the morning we would have to pay $12 to get it out. And do you really want me to have to make multiple trips to that parking garage to lug back all of the groceries and YOUR BIRTHDAY PRESENTS THAT I'M BUYING TODAY? Good luck on the 405, buddy.

We were going to take the car to have it looked at on Saturday, but the skies decided to open up on Friday night and Edgar left the window in the loft open and the couch got completely soaked by the water coming in, so we had other pressing matters to deal with on Saturday and the car got shunted to the side. Plus it continued to rain throughout the day on Saturday and that never seems like a good time to go to a mechanic.

We set out on Sunday to finally get to the bottom of the engine light issue. The original plan was to take it to the Midas a few blocks away, but when we got there, it was closed. What is wrong with this world that a car repair place is closed on a Sunday? You'd think Saturdays and Sundays would be these peoples' bread and butter from walk-ins that were too lazy to take care of the problem on the day that it presented itself and does that sound like anyone you know?! So I had the brilliant idea that we should go to Auto-Zone. The Auto-Zone doesn't have a garage, but a few years ago when I had an engine light come on I was able to go to one and use an On Board Diagnostic scanner for free to find out what the problem was. So after waiting in line for 20 minutes at Auto-Zone, they tell me that they can no longer lend their scanner out because someone sued them about it, but do I want to buy one of my very own for $60? Goodbye, Auto-Zone. The guy suggested that we give Aamco a try. Guess who else is closed on Sundays? AAMCO. So we double back and try out a Napa Auto Parts. Nope, they don't have a scanner. How about you try Kragen? So we go there, and after listening to this crazy lady yell at her son to Put down that damn bottle, if you touch anything in here that doesn't have your name on it one more time I'm gonna drop kick you (lucky his name wasn't Armorall, huh?) we finally, FINALLY are told after visiting all of those places that the law has been changed and no one can lend out an OBD scanner. THANK YOU ALL OF THOSE OTHER PLACES THAT COULD HAVE JUST TOLD ME IN THE FIRST PLACE THAT IT'S NOW AGAINST THE LAW AND NOT SUGGEST THAT I TRY THIS PLACE. AND THEN HOW ABOUT THIS PLACE. Motherfuckers.

While searching out all of these auto-parts stores, we happened to spot this filthy garage that I normally would never have gone near. I'm usually a believe in if my brother can't fix it, I need to go to one of those places that's definitely on the up and up and has those huge vehicle bays and stacks of tires and smells like rubber and interior cleaner and is attached to a huge store that peddles shiny hubcaps and special towels to wash your car with. This place was in a dilapidated-looking building with a surrounding lot crammed full of cars that looked like they hadn't been moved in years.

This place was my savior.

It was run by a Filipino guy who had a garage dog with bug-eyes named Princess. We told him what was going on and he was like "Oh, no problem, let me check it out for you." He used his scanner to check it out FREE OF CHARGE. Then he popped the hood, pulled out a spark plug wire, and said "This is your problem." All we had to do was buy a new set of spark plug wires, and he replaced them on the spot for $25.00. No waiting.

BLESS YOU, FILIPINO MAN. My car now runs incredibly smoothly. Turns out the problem all along was that the spark plug wire was messed up and misfiring, and that was what was causing the car to stutter and sputter and be an all around asshole.

But what pisses me off, is that the last time I took this car for a tune-up at one of those fancy-schmancy garages, they told me that "Oh, it's fine, that sputtering is just caused by the age of the car. This tune-up will fix it." The car that is only now seven years old. And it didn't fix it. Dirty grubbing money stealers.

All is well in the world again. Except that the windows are open in the apartment and it's apparently going to rain and now the couch is going to be all wet again.