Here I Stand Head In Hand

The furniture and the tamborine playing and the man hole hat and the uncomfortable woman with the out of control eyebrows. And the lyrics. And the row houses. And the winking. And the lyrics. And the furniture.

My my my, how this entire thing just sings to me.

There Is A New House In My Life (maybe. possibly. tentatively.)

THE BATHROOM IS BIGGER THAN THE BLUE BANANA.

I can't believe this is happening. Sometimes I wish I had better timing. We're disappearing from the face of the planet in days which is toootally convenient for things like, you know, contracts. Perfect.

But who cares.

I met a house. That's the point. And he has lazy little sailboats. And a master bedroom larger than Montana. And those art deco doorknobs that make me sob from happiness. And lots of big hardy light. And built in window seats. And old wood floors. And brick. And big, powerful doors. And it's at the end of a street that's so dreamy that I could actually imagine myself staying there. For more than a year or two. Or forever.

So.

I'm not excited. They probably won't take our offer. Or someone will buy it out from under us. Or the fax machine in Barcelona will throw up our paperwork. Or we'll find out that the house has rabies. Or is infested with rats. Rats that have rabies will buy the house out from under us. Because the fax machine in Barcelona will be broken.

But. Still. Eek.

OHMYGOSHohmygoshohmygosh.

We might be moving.

You Know This Ends Badly, Right?

Last night we had to give the dogs pills, the ones that they take each month to prevent things like worms and fleas and blood sucking little parasites that eventually result in the growth of a fifth limb.

So they're kind of important.

Satchel has developed an acute awareness of medicine, especially when it's within sixty four miles of the vicinity of her tongue, which means that her monthly dose involves a lot of peanut butter and cheese and the obscenely unhealthy treats that Andrew occasionally sneaks into the cart. And sometimes pizza.

At one point during the evening, Andrew and I were both on our backs covered in bacon strips and Kraft cheese slices and screaming, "Uncle! Surrender! GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!" while Satchel danced around us in a sweater of peanut butter, stopping every few seconds only to kick us in the ribs.

And that's how this story should have ended.

But, no, when we dragged our scratched and bleeding faces up off of the kitchen floor, we looked around and saw this.



Mildly nibbled on and with a thin layer of peanut butter flavored slobber.

I would love to tell you that we handled this discovery well, but alas, WE DID NOT.

So I look at Andrew and Andrew looks at me and we both look at the pill and start rocking ourselves and cursing and swearing that we're never adopting another dog or hatching a child that requires medication. EVER. And I say to him, "We can't feed her anything else until she takes that pill." And he says, "Well, I'm sure that won't be a problem once she gets hungry."

Why didn't we make her skip dinner in the first place?

Duh.

We figure we'll let her sleep on an empty stomach, then she'll wake up, get a little play time in with Fred (Andrew named the sock monkeys) work up an appetite, and BAM the pill will slide down her throat in a coat of scrambled egg yolks. Score. Boo yah. Boom goes the dynamite.




But, no.

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

No.

We are on hour twenty six of starvation. And Kraft cheese caps. And peanut butter sweaters.

And EFF THAT EFFING LITTLE PILL.

::New:: In The Shop

Original Charles Pitcher Oil Painting


Large Vintage Farm Basket Wicker With Wood Handle


Vintage Glass Pyrex Pitcher


Vintage Pea Green Pyrex Bowl Number 403


Rebecca Of Sunnybrook Farm Hardback Book


Vintage Royal Albert English Bone China


Rawleigh's Good Health Guide Almanac + Cookbook

That Cookie Had Better Be The Size Of The Universe

I love cookies. And flowers. And pretty little shiny things.

Which is why I continually forgive Andrew night after night for punching me in his sleep and then putting his arms around me while grumbling, "Baby, you forgot to eat the socks that you put on top of the car, Satchel."

WHICH IS THE NAME OF OUR DOG.

You Say Hydrogenous, I Say Hydrangeas

This afternoon Andrew brought home some flowers, something he's been doing fairly often lately, and without prodding or strip club receipts or a second wife in tow. He usually brings me all different types, because he knows how I feel about commitment, and I find that part of the surprise particularly delightful.

These ones are HYDROGENOUSES!

He said it just. like. that. when he walked through the door as if to declare, "I BRING YOU THE HOLY GRAIL WRAPPED IN THE RAREST SILK AND DUNKED IN CHOCOLATE MILK!"

No boring roses or tulips or daisies, no sireee.

HYDROGENOUSES!

I Have No Need Of You + You Have No Need Of Me

"Come and play with me," proposed the little prince.

"I cannot play with you," the fox said. "I am not tamed."

"Ah! Please excuse me," said the little prince. But, after some thought, he added, "What does that mean, 'tame'?"

"It is an act too often neglected," said the fox. It means to establish ties."

"'To establish ties'?"

"Just that," said the fox. "To me, you are still nothing more than a little boy who is just like a hundred thousand other little boys. And I have no need of you. And you, on your part, have no need of me. To you, I am nothing more than a fox like a hundred thousand other foxes. But if you tame me, then we shall need each other. To me, you will be unique in all the world. To you, I shall be unique in all the world..."

Excerpt taken from The Little Prince by Antoine de Saint-Exupery.

At The End Of The Month We Use The Money Leftover From Paying The Mortgage To Pay Mortgages

Money does not make the world go 'round, but it can certainly buy you a haircut. ANDY.

It can also disappear faster than I can say OFCOURSEIWOULDLIKETOORDERDESSERT. (Well. Maybe not that fast.)

Case in point, I came across Kasey's interesting post about their household budget and thought you might be amused to see how we divvy up our expenses each month. Not really?

Hear me out. It's only mostly boring.

All of our dough is lumped together and put through a meat grinder where we add half a teaspoon of oregano and a dash of cinnamon. When it's spewed out the other end it goes into this.

MISCELLANEOUS LIVING EXPENSES 1%

grooming, medical, gifts, donations, entertainment

MONTHLY EXPENSES 5%

transportation, insurance, phones, gym memberships

FOOD 3%

HOUSING 4%

RENTAL PROPERTIES 43%

(NON REAL ESTATE RELATED) RETIREMENT 18%

STUDENT LOANS 4%

EXTRA MORTGAGE PAYMENTS 22%

Those harmless little percentages are what keep me up until all hours of the night writing financial plans in stacks of notebooks. Scribbled with sketches of floor plans in the margins. And bubble hearts with my name linked to Johnny Depp's.

But back to the point. We have no money left at the end of the month because we use all of it to make extra mortgage payments on various properties. And we really spend more than 22% of our income doing that, because these numbers are based on a budget from last year, and we brought in almost 50% more than we'd originally hoped to earn. So we threw that toward the mortgages, too. Because it seemed like a mildly better idea than a pet cheetah. Or fifty five thousand thread count sheets.

Still, even though I know that we have a fairly strict budget, I have to admit that I was a bit taken back when I actually figured out the percentages a little while ago.

I had no idea that we look that insipid on paper.

p.s. I'm usually against paying off mortgages at our age, but it makes the most sense for us right now for a number of reasons. When a good opportunity comes along at the right time (hopefully soon!), we'll be investing that money instead.

UPDATE: Things to note based on various questions: 1. We already have an emergency fund in place, though it's probably too small according to our income. 2. The 18% does not include the employee match Andrew's company offers (though we do take advantage of it).

When Where What 054

when: the other day
where: my favorite spot at the end of our street
what: walking to get coffee on a FREEZING sixty degree morning wondering, What. was. I. thinking?!

Parties With Strippers + Gross Dog Toys

On my way out the door to a girlygirly get together on Saturday, I asked Andrew to grab my bag, which had some wall hangings for an exchange thingy at the party. It also had a bottle of Spanish wine and some cash. Which he noticed.

Because heartless and evil are two of my best qualities, I waited until I had one foot out the door, and then I casually mentioned needing to "stop by the bank for some singles" and that I "might be home pretty late" and that "lap dances aren't crossing the line, are they, because I couldn't remember if we'd ever talked about that sort of thing in the past?"

No, nevermind. I think that they're fine for today.

Only when all of the blood drained from his face, did I confess that it was actually a spa day with massage therapists, and that they would need to be tipped. And, NO I SWEAR THEY ARE NOT that kind.

He believed me. I think.

Especially since I haven't been chained to the kitchen sink and whipped with a metal pipe while being forced to recite my wedding vows and make a pot roast and fetch his slippers.

Yet.

p.s. You wanted to see the stash in it's original state, but I didn't get any photos of it, because the scene was just too horrific. Anyway, here are some of the surviving victims in line at the washing machine.

::New:: In The Shop

Here.

Basically, We Were Duped

She looks harmless in this picture. Innocent. Sweet.

Pf.



In the months leading up to Christmas, Andrew and I began noticing ohhhhh around six hundred and fifty seven of the dogs' toys missing.

Poof.

Gone.

Vanished.

Disappeared.

Eventually, I started feeling a wee bit guilty-ish like I was being the kind of mother who is all, "You mean you kids expect toys, too? Go eat some dirt without shoes on and play with an acorn." And then fetch my carton of cigarettes. Kim Zolciak style.

So. You know what happened after that, right?



And they, too, went missing within, like, half a second of being brought into the house.

Poof.

Gone.

At that point I started thinking that we were dealing with a UFO. Or an exceptionally large rodent. Or maybe paranoid schizophrenia.

BECAUSE WHAT ELSE COULD IT POSSIBLY BE?



Boom. Goes the dynamite.

Turns out she is not sweet SHE IS A RUTHLESS LITTLE GOLD DIGGING HOARDER DRESSED UP IN A FUR COAT.

No, wait, can I be completely honest here?

Because I think the coat thing's an act, too.

That facemop has been stashing a small Pet Supermarket under that left window behind the sofa. For months.



Andrew caught her the other day with her head planted into the curtain trying to retrieve an armless monkey, three stuffed birds, five tennis balls, two chew ropes, and fourteen of my left socks.

But what a HUGE relief that last bit of news was to the dryer.

Some Of The Best Stuff I've Seen From You Lately

1. Every single thing in Emily's shop. Particularly this bag and this stole. I also want her hair and her Roxy jeans, but neither of those are for sale.


2. Amanda's video of Blanche tap dancing (and, really, any of the posts where she talks about Blanche at all). There is always a good reason for rug shopping, but this one might be the best. Ever.

3. Chiara's mad crochet and knitting skills. I just ordered these gloves, because that little bird is completely irresistible. Don't you LOVE him?


4. Chelsea's salty sweet post about her relationship. Honest.


5. Sunny's luggage giveaway which I TOTALLY BETTER WIN. I need that shiz to go with my boots. Plus, luggage carries important things like wine and perfume. Which is why I'm only packing one pair of boots.

Thirty Second Bag Of Mail: Workouts + Born Boots + Unsubscribing!

"What's your workout routine?

Andre"

I've been waffling over whether to share this on here for a long time. There are too many of us who beat ourselves up over this kind of stuff (I try very hard not to), and I think that taking care of your body should be a positive, personal thing. So. I'm going to be completely honest here and just hope that it helps or inspires someone, not drives them to assault.

I'm constantly switching up my workouts, but they always involve running. And they're always something I love to do. I never exercise to improve one body part or look a certain way, though I admit that like those results, too. But that's not why I do it. I do it because it gets me high.

Today's workout, for example, is two two mile repeats at seven minutes a mile with four minutes of (light running) rest in between. It's finished with four one hundred meter sprints and a two mile walk. Later, I'll do a P90x plyometrics video.

Tomorrow I might do nothing. It just depends what I feel like.

In general, right now I'm running about thirty miles a week, five to six days, with a lot of medium level speed work and one longer day. I also like to take three mile walks a couple of times a week around my neighborhood, do a (random) P90x video once a week (to toss things up), and hit the gym two or three times a week (whenever Andrew wants to go). At the gym we mostly do free weights, body weight leg exercises, push ups, pull ups and sit ups without rest. We're usually there for about forty five minutes.

I'll probably do this routine for the next three or four months and then completely change the entire thing. I like to keep it fresh.

Some of our other favorite activities that we cycle into the mix are jump roping, basketball, football, biking, elliptical, tennis, and stair workouts. We've done a lot of all of those the last couple of years. I also try to twist Andrew's arm into doing drills and yoga on a semi regular basis but he hates them both. I used to do pilates a lot, but haven't done it in eons.

Anyway, I think that's about it.

Just keep in mind that not every body is the same or will react the same. Do what you enjoy and what feels right for you!



"Hello, I am still trying to locate your Born boots. I left a comment on your blog but didn't see an answer. I cannot find them on the Born website.

Thanks,
Jen"

Sorry, it can be difficult to get back to everyone right away.

I bought the boots at an outlet. They are only marked Born, so I have no idea what the style name is. They are marked with serial number W62173, similar to many of the boots pictured on their website, but it's not coming up in their search.

I suggest contacting customer service and asking if they still carry them anymore. It may be last year's model.



"Unsubscribe.

Anonymous"

You take time out of your day and make an effort to let me know that you are unsubscribing without reason and then you don't even sign your name? I don't know if I should thank you or tell you to do a better job of insulting me. Go hard or go home, you know?

The Good News Is That It's Just A Flesh Wound

So the MRI results came back, and Andrew did not tear his achilles tendon like the doctor had promised. Apparently, he tore a ligament inside of his ankle, one that I keep forgetting how to pronounce, forcing the geekface orthopedist to preface each sentence with, "LIKE I ALREADY SAID," every single time that I asked him a question about the whatchamacallit thingamajiggy that Andrew ripped. That was NOT his achilles.

Anyway.

The upside is that he only plays Robocop for three more weeks instead of eight.



It also means that snowboarding in Vermont is still ON LIKE DONKEY KONG.

On a related note, the Robocop boot cost a hundred and eighty some odd dollars, and when Andrew was being fit for it he asked, "For that kind of money shouldn't we at least get a pair?"

Because you know we're going to need the other one.

And I was like, "Good idea in theory, except there's snowboarding and me and I also have two arms and a back and skull, so probably what we should really be asking for is, like, A PACKAGE DISCOUNT."

A big big big package.