Overwhelmed. So. So. So Overwhelmed.

I am in agony. We had the inspection eight days ago. It took 7 days for the owner to respond to our demands on what to fix. Which, let me tell you, were NOTHING. Not compared to the repairs that we took on. Then he comes back haggling over a mere $850 dollars and we are being stubborn. Because, fuck, we are THOUSANDS of dollars out of our comfort zone here. And I am going from excited to pissed. Fucking. Fuck. Pissed.

We may have to walk away. From this house that we have already in some weird way made a home. Despite both of us cautioning against it, we fell in love. And now we are sitting here, both of us knowing that last $850 is a deal breaker. Because that leaves us with almost nothing. That leaves us vulnerable. I am not sad, I am mad. This is often how I find myself reacting when I put myself out there and am let down. I don't get hurt, I get fucking pissed. And spiteful. It's silly, this amount of money. The haggling that is taking place right now is just petty and it PISSES ME OFF. Because it is important to us. And I am 99% sure that $850 is not important to them. If it comes down to it, will we walk away? I don't know. Maybe. It's not a good feeling.

All of this has lead to me not sleeping for (almost exactly now) 36 hours. Like, I did not sleep last night. I started to doze off around 5:45 and was up by 6:00 at which point I turned the light back on to read. My eyes hurt. Burn. I have been putting eye drops in all day like I was 20 again. 

Work is equally as stressful. I found out that I will be cooking food on Thursday that Hubert Keller will be eating. If you don't know who that is...pick a sport. Then pick your favorite athlete. Then play him in your favorite sport and tell me that you didn't almost shit your pants when the TV station dropped off the fucking fuck menu inserts with his picture all over the front. Tell me that you didn't almost hyperventilate when your plan was a fucking goat cheese crostini and you had THREE DAYS to come up with a dish that would make this man remember your name. Because, oh yeah, the owner put MY NAME AND MINE ALONE on this food. Tell me you didn't want to walk away and cry all day long because you hadn't slept and you were exhausted and overwhelmed. BECAUSE YOU WERE TOLD TO JUST COME UP WITH A QUICK, SIMPLE APPETIZER FOR PEOPLE TO MUNCH ON. Yes, I get that he is a man like any other man. Please don't patronize me with that bullshit. Because when one of your idols is about to eat your food, you don't give a fuck which leg he puts in his fucking pants first. You just want him to eat your food, raise his eyebrows, and say, "this is excellent." (there was a lot of "he puts his pants on like any other man" bullshit today that made me stabby. Clearly.)

And then tell me you didn't almost murder your coworker who called off for a hangover. !@#$!%!$!#$#!

I don't even have words.

I have gotten so much better at handling stress. This industry has taught me self control and to expect everything and nothing. It has taught me to just take the blows as they come and that tomorrow is a new day. It even taught me to sleep, because when your body is exhausted, it is hard not to. 

But, fuck, if everything doesn't come all at once and I am so overwhelmed sometimes it is hard to breathe. I am on the edge of everything I want. And I am SO. FUCKING. SCARED. Because what if it all falls apart? It is somehow harder for me to prepare for this. 

Because if it all fucking works? If everything turns out perfect? I can deal with that. I will have no idea how to and I will probably stare at things and excessively blink a lot, but that is easy. That is just easy.

It's really hard to be standing in front of everything you want and wondering when it will all get taken away. Because I am still a pessimist at heart. And I am thinking so many positive thoughts that I worry I will, quite literally, shit out rainbows. I am sending so much happy out into the universe it makes me gag. 

I just want all of this to work. For Hubert Keller to say, yeah, that was some good ass food. For all of the seven gazillion other things going on at the restaurant to work out (I can't share this publicly, but things are grim for the moment.) To get this house. To be able to afford all of the expenses that come with fixing up this house, moving, just being there.

I just want to BE THERE. In so many aspects of my life. I just want to be there.

Something tells me I won't be sleeping tonight either.

The hoarding story, as promised

I am a blogging fool this week. Also, that phrase just made me want to punch myself. I am leaving it so that you all also want to punch me.

Tonight was operation guest room. And here is where the hoarding story comes in. The guest room is kind of a black hole in our house. (Because we never have guests. AHEM. COME VISIT ME.) If we don't know what to do with something, it ends up in the guest room closet. If I get a gift that I hate, it ends up in the re-gift pile, in the guest room closet. If I have a pile of mail that is taller than me on the kitchen counter and someone is coming over for dinner, it goes in the guest room closet.

The only thing remaining in the guest room closet are the board games we want to keep (we got rid of about 25) and clothes. There was a point in time where that closet would barely close. And I was always terrified guests would open it and in turn hate me for my closet (ha! see what I did there) hoarding.

Out of it...we got an entire car trunk full of stuff for my dad's church garage sale, an entire city issued trash can full of trash, and about 4 boxes of stuff to actually keep. Oh, and all of our bookshelves are in that room as well, which is SEVENTEEN boxes of books. I love books. I really, really love books. (hoarding books)

But, the real hoarding tragedy is the mail. I have lived in this condo for 11 years. That is a long time. In that 11 years, I have never thrown away a single piece of mail. At first this was because I didn't have a shredder. (YES I REALIZE I COULD HAVE THROWN AWAY THE RANDOM CATALOGS, LEAVE ME ALONE.) Then I bought a shredder and it was too much. This is a thing of mine. If I get really overwhelmed by a project, I sort of abandon it. I do not do well when overwhelmed because I just don't know where to start and then I see something shiny and I am like, ooh, shiny and the project is forgotten. There is probably a therapist somewhere sensing dollar signs, but I prefer to just not think about that and find something shiny. Please don't diagnose me.

I went through EVERY SINGLE piece of mail in this house. I sorted them out into trash and shred, shredded them and this was the result:

Yes, that is in fact TWO 50 gallon trash bags of shredded mail. And three trash bags of junk mail.

My name is erratic. I am a hoarder. Please still love me.

Sometimes I think, I shouldn't even post this. But I always do.

I should just re-tag these posts as "I feel like blogging, but don't really have a complete thought."

1. I may be a hoarder. There will be a post about this, but I felt you all deserved adequate warning. Don't worry, even Big Jed suspected nothing until I told her yesterday. It is still safe to visit my house. I hide my hoards.
2. I am, well, a bit bull headed. But, not in a way that you would ever know until YOU KNOW. I think most people that don't know me that well would find this surprising. I got into a screaming match on the line today. It was the first time anyone at work has seen this side of me. But, don't call me a liar when I am not lying and don't accuse me of something I didn't do. And most of all, don't put words in my mouth. Guaranteed recipe to see the ass hole in me come out in a shouting, finger pointing, red faced kind of way.
3. As I was typing that, THE CAT went running across the room and threw himself at the screen door, latching to the top of it. I jumped about, oh, 7 million feet. And before I could even recover he was across the room cleaning his paws. MOTHER. FUCKING. CAT.
4. Have you ever had that thing everyone is talking about but you can't figure out what it is? And you don't want to ask because you SHOULD know and you played along the first time because you didn't care and now you just look stupid because everyone thinks you know what they are talking about? That is The Chew for me. I finally broke down and asked, to much mocking. And let me tell you, I don't know if I love or hate this show. It has Carla Hall (my favorite Top Chef contest of ALL TIME. Hootie Hoo, mother fuckers) and Michael Symon (he is from Ohio and his laugh is infectious. Not annoying. Stop saying annoying.) Two huge positives. It also has Clinton Kelly (from What Not To Wear and also starring regularly in my nightmare as my fabulous gay best friend that I stab repeatedly in the face) and Mario Batali (whose food I will cook ALL DAY but whose is a little pretentious and wears orange clogs.) Anyone else seen it? Thoughts? I am filing it under "hug then stab."
5. I should really stop openly threatening to stab things on my blog. I mean, lets be honest. I am more of a passive aggressive homicidal maniac. Arsenic all the way.
6. I made dirty rice (with ground beef, not organ meat, so the boy would eat it) and it was spicy last night, as it should be. Today? I have been eating it for an hour and gone through three glasses of water. I have to keep taking breaks. I love spicy food, but shit. 
7. I got invited to the neighborhood bar of the new house tonight! I am officially on first name basis with the bartender and had their famous sauerkraut balls (this is what happens when you move into the German part of town.) So stoked. The general manager of the restaurant I work at practically lives there. I walked in and said his name and I was a VIP. I see myself spending a lot of time there. Especially since I can walk there.
8. I am a wee bit impatient (note: wee bit means most impatient person ever.) So, all of the waiting for various emails about the house is killing me. Right now, I am waiting to find out what the homeowner is willing to fix from the inspection. It all makes me feel crazy. Er. Crazier. 
9. I really only had 8. Well, probably 3. And you all probably only care about 1. I am kind of the worst blogger ever. So, I am going to post pictures of some of my favorite parts of the house. And we'll just call that 10. Because it is all I think about. And, I promise, there will be a video tour of the house posted as soon as we have possession. And the post title will be "feel free to skip this if you are not me." Because, lets be honest, on a scale of 1 to FUCKING SHUT UP RIGHT NOW you guys are all about a 7.

 Crown Molding throughout the whole first floor. Plus, I love the kitchen cabinets. At first I hated them because I prefer dark wood, but have grown to love them with the grey walls. 

 Exposed brick columns in both bedrooms. Ignore the very bachelor decor of the current renter. But, I cannot get over how much I love the exposed brick. It makes me so happy. That tiny closet...not so happy.

The yard. It needs SO. MUCH. WORK. and I am so excited about it. It has the potential to be an amazing space and I can't wait to have all of you over for dinner and drinks on the patio. Also, who needs some ivy? Because I have some to spare. In case you didn't notice. (behind the fence, there is a concrete slab parking spot next to the garage and off the alley. 1/4 of that is covered in ivy. That shit is predatory.)

And finally...and not pictured. The ice maker. I realize all of you are probably like "ice makers are so 2003" but I have never once lived somewhere that has one. And I can't even tell you how excited I am to get rid of the ice cube trays. Cannot even tell you.

I cannot handle a bedazzled Letterman's jacket.

I hope that this doesn't sound conceited. But, it probably will.  So, right. 

I would also like to add a disclaimer that the boy and I have been CHUGGING margaritas in order to not kill each other because closing on a house is FUCKING STRESSFUL and the mortgage company just informed of us of their obligatory surprise costs. Fuck that.

And some bitch on The Voice is singing in the middle of a heart. This what happens when my "How I Met Your Mother" line up isn't on. I watch stupid bullshit TV and they sing in a heart and I get angry and want to throw the cat at the TV. AND NOW HE IS WEARING A FUCKING FUCK BEDAZZLED LETTERMAN'S JACKET.

So, my time is valuable. And I am not talking about sitting and hanging out with friends and drinking. I am talking about when you ask me, as a person with a skilled trade, to help you, a person without said skilled trade, to use that skilled trade to your advantage. 

Would you call your electrician friend and ask them to rewire your house for a party and then ask them to bring a gift to said party? No. You would say, hey, it's my birthday and in lieu of a present, would you rewire my house? And he would tell you to go fuck yourself and it will cost $1000. And no, he does not accept credit cards.

I have a skilled trade too. And it is SO FRUSTRATING because people always ask me to cook for things and never think, hey, she should be compensated for that. This is what she does for a living. 

Here's the thing. If you read this blog, and I know you in real life, I would cater your wedding, cook you dinner, throw you a dinner party including a 5 course meal. Hell yes I would. And I would charge you absolutely nothing for it. But, I would not buy you a wedding gift unless you paid me exactly what I cost. I would cook for all of you, even if I don't know you in real life, dinner. No strings attached. I am sure as fuck not making a 5 course meal and then buying you some bullshit digital picture frame. 

If you don't care about food, fine. Call some local restaurant that does catering cheap and regret it later. If you ask me to cater something, to give you a sit down, coursed out dinner, expect awesome. Because it will be. And I guarantee you, I will get ripped off in the process, even if you pay me.

Let's just say that I make $10/hr to cater your dinner party for 10 people. I will spend about 5 hours menu planning. Another 10 testing the recipes. Another 10 doing prep. At least, depending on the ingredients, $200 on food. (that is cheap) and then probably 5 actually executing the dinner. That is $50 a person. Except all I will actually get to charge you for is the prep, execution and food costs. That is $35 a person.

I do that shit for free ALL THE TIME. So, please don't ask me to do all of that and then bring a fucking gift. I will stab you. I want to stab you right now, person who doesn't read this blog but should because then they would understand what a total asshole they are.

Yes, all of you cook everyday and don't get paid for it. I do. I am not saying I am better than you. I am saying this is how I pay my bills. This is how I make a living. I am more than happy to come over and weed your garden for free, because if I fuck it up, my reputation isn't on the line. (note: there is no way I will come over and weed your garden.) 

I would love to cook everything for every one of you. I would. But, please don't ask me to bring the wine too, ya know?

Inspect this, bitch

I apologize for all the house related posts. But, as you can imagine, this whole process is kind of taking over our lives. 

We had the inspection today which went...OK. Obviously, the ideal is to walk away from the inspection with everything in the acceptable category. That didn't so much happen. The house was built in 1911 and remodeled in 1998. The remodel was done properly and all the electrical and plumbing are up to code, but there are just some odd things. Like a step that is 4 inches too tall. And the water heater and furnace are sitting on the dirt floor of the cellar. 

There were a few things that were a little more concerning. We need a new water heater. They closed up the access to the attic. Like, dry walled over the hole and we have to cut a hole in the ceiling. Because, you know, there are birds living up there. Birds that we REALLY don't want to lay eggs and have babies and then we either have to kill the babies (which I am not even sure they will do nor am I willing to do) or sleep with incessant chirping until fall. You know, because THAT is ideal. Maybe we can get some monkeys up there and have a live noise machine.

A few plumbing issues and other minor shit. Oh, and the dishwasher doesn't work. Like, won't even turn on. I get that we are doing this in a very non-traditional way, but I find it odd that nobody, renter or owner, even mentioned this to us. Because, you know, a non-working appliance is kind of key to know. I think the owner didn't know and the renter is kind of like "fuck these ass holes, taking away my home and shit" about the whole thing. Except he doesn't talk like that.

There is SO MUCH LANDSCAPING to be done. While all the boys wandered around the outside of the house, I took pictures of the landscaping situation. The back pretty much needs the grass taken out and re-seeded. It is 98% crab grass. The front is better...except for the random concrete in the yard. You know, that is good for lawnmowers. And there is ivy EVERYWHERE. Growing on the fences, the house (in very small amounts), the garage, etc. I am in a fight with ivy.

There is a rosebush. Now. I doubt I have told you the story of the rose bush at the condo...but when I moved in (11 years ago!!!) there was a rose bush adjacent to the front porch. The first few years, I thought it was pretty. Then it just became overgrown and I didn't know how to care for it, so I dug it out.

It came back the next year. I poured salt water on the roots (I read that this kills plants.)

It came back the next year. I dug it out again.

It came back the next year. You get the picture. And this thing wasn't just like, hey, pretty roses. It was taller than me. And it overtook the front porch and attacked anyone trying to enter the house. Sort of like the geese that try to kill me at least once a week. 

It could not be killed. The boy finally managed to kill it last year because I have not seen signs of it.

Until today. And it is growing next to the porch on the new house. 

You guys, I am being stalked by a rose bush. And I contemplated calling the police, but it will be hard to enjoy the new house from the insane asylum. But, it's the same bush. The same mother fucking rose bush that I know I will not be able to kill. And it is creeping onto the front porch to wrap around my legs, cartoon style, every day when I get home from work. 

Once again, everything fell into place with this house. There was a time in my life where I thought nothing good came easy. You had to work hard for everything. That saying is stupid. The boy and I came real easy. No relationship is without work, but the beginning; easy. I never even filled out a job application at my current job. Just got a phone call, went in for a 4 minute interview, and was hired. This house just fell in our lap. 

Yes, working hard is important, that is not what I am saying. But, the best things in my life have just landed on my lap, all wrapped up with a great big bow. Life is mother fucking good.

And thank you everyone for the kind words on the job front. I was not trying to confuse anyone...I honestly don't know if I am excited or not either. It is just an odd situation that I am going to take day to day. Because, really, that is all I can do.

We're moving. Holy. Fucking. Crap. Balls. We are moving.

It truly takes a special kind of person...

I got "promoted" today. I think. Maybe.

Fuck. My work is so fucked.

So, our kitchen staff consists of 8 people. A pastry chef, a baker, a dishwasher, and 5 supervisors. I am now one of those 5 supervisors. 

The dishwasher is not all there. He works 9 - 2 everyday and cleans everything and lives with his grandmother and sometimes I never know what he is saying. I love him. But, he is odd, to say the least. And his meds are frequently talked about but I am too scared to ask.

Our pastry chef is the fucking shit and brilliant and amazing.

Our baker used to be our night dishwasher. He is an old friend who I brought in because he wanted a foot in the door and somehow ended up opening a bakery within our restaurant and...right. Just. Right.

Then there is the rest of us, which is my former 4 bosses and me. Now we are all supervisors. Can't be called a sous chef because, well, that requires a chef. Also, we only supervisor that one dishwasher. So...

I had a long talk with the owner who basically told me that he sees me as his executive chef but wants to me to prove myself among the boys. So, I am tasked with running circles around them for a while. Which is just, yeah. Easy. 

I don't know. It is all very vague. I am now doing all of the special dinners as well. I am doing a wine dinner in May, another in June, and a mead dinner somewhere in between. 

AND I am now a salary employee. And, kids, let me tell you, being salary is not all it is cracked up to be. I am still making below the poverty line and will probably work 60 hours a week. AWESOME. (Kind of awesome, because I love what I do and love the idea of unlimited hours doing it. That's weird, right?)

I sort of feel like that 3 seconds after someone slaps you...except it was 6 hours ago and I still am just like, what the fuck just happened? 

My job sounds so incredibly fucked up and poorly organized and unstructured and I really wish I could tell you that all of those things aren't true. But I can't. 

I really love my job.

Just...holy shit. This is happening.

Remember how I was excited about buying a house? I still am. It has been almost 11 years since I last purchased a home of any kind. I forgot the stress of it all. I forgot what it was like to see the numbers in front of you and go, HOLY FUCK I CANNOT AFFORD THIS. But we can. We are. We are doing this.

I had dinner with friends tonight while the boy read through the mortgage and all the contracts. I drank a beer while the boy spent an amount of money that could buy at least a car. I came home and he had taken a fair amount of tequila shots and beer and was hyped up on mortgage anxiety. 

We are doing this.

The boy is buying the house. This is a story I am not going to tell here, yet. Maybe ever. There are lawyers and a lot of shit involved with us selling the condo that are just, well, shitty. So, I feel a little disconnected. I feel a little sad that I am going to be a renter, in the legality of things. I feel a little sad to leave my home of 11 years. A home that Kobi grew up and died in. A home that housed Krackle and I. A home that held Kaya and Ally - Krackle's dogs. A home that holds so much of me. It's hard. It's hard to be going through what I am going through. So, yes I am ridiculously happy. Yes, this is exactly what I want.  But, I am sad. 

It is hard to talk about this because I am trying so hard to focus on the future, the new, the next step. I am writing garden journals and so many spreadsheets. I am trying to just get my mind off of the fact that I am leaving my entire adult life behind. In this one place, this one home.

I grew up moving a lot. I lived in 6 houses by the time I was 17. 9 houses before I bought this condo at 20. This is the longest I have lived in one place by, well, a lot of years.  At least 5 years. 

And I have always been in control. For 11 years I have had my house and my car and my things. This changes that. The house will technically be the boys. We are selling my car, so I will technically have no car. 

It is easy for me to focus on the good. The things that are going to be amazing about all of these changes, because, well, I have to focus on those things. If I start to think about everything else, well, I find it hard to breathe. 

I am so excited, I really am. I am just overwhelmed. I am scared. I am putting my faith in someone else and I don't think I have ever done that before, not on this level. I am in love and happy and trust the boy, but holy shit. I am about to give away everything that is me so that me can become us. And it is fucking awesome. Terrifying. But, awesome.

Signing the contract on the new house!

Uh Oh. I got angry. And very vague.

I am writing this because I am frustrated. I am thirty years old. I am not a child. I am not stupid. I am capable of making adult decisions ON MY OWN without the assistance of others. Sometimes they may be poor decisions. But you know whose problem that is? MINE. THAT IS MY PROBLEM. Sometimes they are decisions that are best for me in a certain situation. But, the bottom line is that they only effect me. Me alone. And if they do happen to affect someone else, well, that person is OK with them as well. Because I would never make a decision without consulting those that it effects. And I get that people have my best interests in mind. I really do. I get that people are trying to protect me. But, here is the thing. You know who else is trying to protect me? ME. I would never do something that would put me in a position I am not comfortable being in. (Yes, that is indeed, what she said.) And I am just so fucking sick of people questioning everything I do. Yes, I am impulsive and emotional and bat shit fucking crazy sometimes, but I am also rational and responsible and think things through. I AM NOT A SINGLE FUCKING ADJECTIVE. I am made up of a lot of things. And to compare the way I act about, say, what's for dinner, to major life decisions is unfair to me. And frankly, it is fucking insulting. So, if you have no faith in me, then just leave me the fuck alone. Because I have faith in me and I know that I am making the right decision. I don't need your doubt to ruin everything.

Rant over. I had nowhere else to post this, so thank you for listening. Well, reading.

I will now resume the blissful state I was in before my phone rang and ruined it all. Happiness trumps pissed the fuck off.

My imagination is spiraling out of control, here.

I have dreams of having a farm in the city. Not a farm the way America looks at farms now. No, just enough to feed my family. Live chickens clucking around the backyard making fresh eggs for my omelette. A goat to milk. Goat's milk cheese made in my very own kitchen. 

I imagine myself in a tank top and shorts, dirty knees and a sweaty face, pulling weeds with a grin from ear to ear.

I walk out to the garden in the middle of cooking dinner for friends to snip some thyme or rosemary. 

I pick strawberries in the morning to put on my cereal.

I see rows and rows of canned goods in the basement as the leaves start to change outside. Homemade salsa, tomatoes, carrots, peas, and beans. 

I see myself sipping iced tea on the porch after a long day toiling in the garden. The short dog lounging at my feet.

I never make omelettes and chickens are expensive. 

I don't particularly like gardening, but do like the spoils that come from it. It is more likely that the situation will turn into "I weeded the garden last time. It's your turn."

I don't eat cereal. I hate peas. And I would much rather sip a beer than iced tea.

I have to rein myself in and not take on more than I am willing to do. Is walking a mile to and from work unreasonable? No. Not at all. 

Is it unreasonable to gather the boy every Sunday and walk to the grocery store? I don't think so.

Is it unreasonable to think that in one week I can paint a whole house, unpack all the boxes, walk to and from work, walk to the grocery store, plant a garden, and shoot rainbows out of my ass? Why, yes. Yes it is. 

Moderation, Erratic. The garden can wait until next year. I am going to need someone to text this to me daily.

Another boring 10 things...Ugh. I am boring.

1. I have never had an actual anxiety attack. I think I have come close...heart racing, uncontrollable fear, palms sweating. When I get really anxious, I lose the ability to move my hands. I don't know how to explain it, it's like they form a claw and I can't un-claw them. Not a fist. A claw. My heart starts racing every single time I see that camera angle at the top of a roller coaster. When faced with the actual thing, I get the claw. Just thinking about it is making my palms sweat.
2. I am doing a mead dinner next month at work. I am really excited, but also terrified. People are going to pay good money for this dinner and pairing is not my strong suit. But, in an effort to be more of a bad ass and hence more confident, I am going to kill it. KILL IT.
3. I found a sweatshirt that I thought I lost and it was the best thing that has ever happened ever. It has a strange story...when my ex and I started dating, I went to Seattle for a week and bought him a sweatshirt. I gave it to him and he wore it once, then I stole it back because it was so incredibly comfy and amazing. It is huge on me and I just don't care. That isn't really that strange. Or really a story. This entire bullet point should just not be a thing.
4. The new guy at work hasn't figured me out yet. I said the phrase "Start at the back" and he said "I always start at the back" and then apologized for making me uncomfortable. I almost laughed in his face. Instead, I just walked away. My safe word is gang rape...dude, my grandmother wouldn't have been offended by that lame ass joke. Speaking of my grandmother...
5. My grandmother turns 80 in May. Today she told me that she hung an entire art show by herself. Now, let me tell you, I have hung art shows with her. And I left sore, sweaty, and exhausted. Art work is HEAVY. And the gallery never ever likes the first place you put anything. I am so proud to be her granddaughter. She is a tough old broad and I can only hope to be as strong, independent, and intelligent as she is. And, let's be honest, I've already got the crazy part down.
6. If you are not playing Draw Something with me already, mother fucker, not cool. I am addicted. DO IT. DO IT NOW. My username is SwithanH. I am terrible. You have been warned.
7. I can't decide if I love or hate Zoey Deschanel. It kind of plagues me. Reason number 742 I need therapy. 
8. My dad went to StL for the weekend to see my sister and brought me back cupcakes from some bakery that won cupcake wars on Food Network. He stopped into work today to give them to me and holy fucking balls, they were delicious. I shared, of course, so they were gone in about 3 seconds.
9. We have been cleaning out shit because the new house has no storage. I came across a notebook of poetry I wrote. Maybe I will publish some here...but it brings up the question...do you have notebooks? I have so many I can't even count. Notebooks for food, for writing, for poetry...is this weird? 
10. I am ridiculously happy. Not just the house shit, just everything. Perfect job, perfect boy, soon to be perfect house...shit is just awesome right now. I am much funnier when everything sucks, I realize this. Sorry about the cheese...

Guess What...

Pending an inspection, we got the house. At a price we are mostly comfortable with. 

Now to deal with all of the bullshit that comes with not having Realtor's involved. Mostly, just me googling a million things and the boy trying to crack protected PDF files so that we don't have to pay for the contracts. 

Holy shit, you guys. Holy shit.

Just this moment.

We put in a "final" offer. This is the most we can afford, the most. This is the last offer we will make. I am equal parts ecstatic and having an anxiety attack. Josey brought up a point that we don't want to be house poor and I feel the need to clarify.

This will not clean out our savings, nor will it put us in a situation where we can't pay our bills. We are going to look at things like our $760 a month food budget. WHAT? This is what happens when you live with/ are a chef. You spend ridiculous amounts of money on food. When you could easily just not. And still be happy.  Can I tell you what I can do with a $1 bag of rice, a $1 bag of dried beans and some spices? Because it is amazing and can make 6 meals. I just prefer extravagance. So, the food budget will be re-evaluated. We are also selling my car because I will now walk to work. So will the boy. So, we will have a car sitting out front for when we need to leave the city. Which, hopefully, is rare. 

I am saying that we will be house poor because we will no longer be able to spend whatever we want on whatever we want. We will have to be frugal. I want you guys to be excited, not worried. That is why I am clarifying. Also...can somebody please hold an intervention on our food budget? THERE ARE ONLY TWO OF US. Putting that on paper hurt a little.

On another note, the boy and I sat down at dinner and talked about other options. Options that included renting for a year in a one bedroom apartment (!!!) to save money so we have a larger down payment and thus can afford a slightly more expensive house. He mentioned moving in with my dad and I almost murdered him with a butter knife and a spoon. But, I agreed to consider it. 

Unfortunately where we are now is no longer a healthy situation (the basement leak they won't fix is going to end in mold) nor is it a financially beneficial situation. So, moving on is definitely in the cards. And hopefully this house is how we do that. 

In my head, we have already moved in. I have decorated the house and planned the garden in the back yard. I have planned many food adventures in the cellar. I have already hung art on the walls. I even know where NCH's cat box will be and where the toothbrush will sit on the bathroom sink. (We have one electric toothbrush with two different heads. Is this weird? As I read that previous sentence, it made me think this was weird.)

It will hurt to let this house go, but more than likely, we will. And I am prepared for that too. But, for a moment, just a moment, I am going to sit right here and pretend like this house is ours. 

To buy or not to buy, that is the question.

You know what is really frustrating? Making an offer on a house. You know what is even more frustrating? Falling in love with a house and watching yourself pay more money than you wanted to. You know what is even more frustrating than that? Wanting the house so bad you don't care, even thought that is the exact opposite of what you should do.

I am not built for this. I caught myself thinking, well, if we can't get him to come down further, I'll just get another job. Or we'll eat Ramen noodles. Or whatever. We can afford it. But, we are going to be house poor. Something we both didn't want to do.

Is it worth it for the house in the neighborhood you never thought you could afford? Oh, wait. That you definitely could never afford. A house that you both really, really like. A house that has exposed brick in the bedroom and a backyard screaming for a vegetable garden? Is it worth the cobblestone street you will live on? And the walking distance to work and the grocery store and restaurants and C's house?

I am impulsive where the boy is cautious. Everything about me screams, yes. BUY THIS HOUSE.

We love this house.

There are other houses. Houses for $30K less in a less desirable neighborhood. With no cobblestone streets, no exposed brick, a less than perfect back yard. Houses that would require a lot of work to fix up. Other houses.

Sigh. Next time we move, I am just going to let the boy find and negotiate the house and just find out when we move. I am far too insane for this process.

UPDATE: I can't resist. I just can't.

Today is better.

I am better today. So much better. After, clearly, flying off the handle, I calmly sat down with the owner for an hour today and aired all my grievances. I feel better? I don't know if better is the word. I hate promises. I prefer actions and I got a lot of promises. But...I was told my hours on the line will be cut, but he wants me to do more of the catering and special events. I will be doing a wine/beer/liquor/mead dinner once a month. On top of spear heading most of the catering. I was once again promised the next sous chef position that became available. I was told up and down how good my food is and what a great contribution I am. 

I still feel a little cheated. I still don't understand why myself and one other person need FOUR supervisors. 

But, the guy I hate got fired today. And as long as I keep pushing, I will keep being allowed to create food and have unlimited creativity. 

Yesterday was a really bad day.

Today was so much better.

Thanks for the kind words.

Beware: Anger. But, surprisingly few capital letters.

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