I Give Up

Supposedly there is a "buyer's market" going on in the real estate world right now, meaning there are more houses up for sale than there are buyers to purchase them. So if a seller gets an offer, shouldn't they be thanking Jesus?

Josh and I are trying to buy House #3 right now, and things are not looking good.

House #1
I talked about this one back in June. It was in a nice subdivision, had a great yard, and needed some work. Josh and I offered a lower amount than they wanted to accept, so both of us moved on. That was understandable. That happens all the time. (I must admit that I take guilty pleasure in knowing they haven't had an offer since then.)

House #2
Josh and I really liked a house that we saw a few weeks ago. We looked through it once and then set up a time to look at it again a few days later. There was a good chance that we were going to put an offer in after that second showing. So I called up my parents, loaded them into the car, and all four of us headed over to the house. Our real estate agent had not shown up yet when a confused looking girl came out to see what we were doing in her driveway. As it turns out, she had sold the house the night before, and her real estate agent had never called our agent to cancel our showing. If he weren't such a big fat idiot, he would have tried to get some competing offers going on between us and the buyer. Needless to say, I was very disappointed. In my mind I had already decided where I was going to put a piano in this house.

House #3
Fast forward to last Thursday. Josh and I just happened to be driving by House #2 when what ho! We saw a For Sale sign three houses down the street. What luck! It was for sale by owner, or rather owners, so we had our real estate agent set up a time with these two fruitloops for Josh and me to see the house. We looked at it on Sunday and fell in love with it, so we decided to act fast. It was even better than House #2! It was our favorite that we had seen yet!

Monday night we looked at it again just to be certain that we loved it, and then we put in a very generous offer that night. They were supposed to respond on Tuesday. When Tuesday night rolled around, they were in panic mode because they didn't know what to do, so they asked for another day to think about it. I didn't think my nerves could handle another day of waiting, but we agreed to give them another day. When Wednesday night rolled around, they were in an even bigger frenzy. Apparently they had not given any thought to where they would move if their house actually sold. They asked if they could have until Friday to think about it.

So that's where we are now. Waiting on these two idiot fuck-faces to make up their mind if they even want to sell their house. This is MISERABLE. If this doesn't work out, which I'm guessing it won't, then I give up. I will just spend hundreds of thousands of dollars on a boat instead and go live in the middle of the ocean.

I Swear It Wasn't My Fault

My work day got off to a stellar start this morning. I actually managed to erase off my computer all the work I have ever done over the past two years. I didn't just lose one important file, or one important folder of files - I deleted everything.

The other people at my work are not very computer savvy, so they do stupid shit all the time. For example, on a regular basis my boss deletes a backup file called, "BACKUP - DO NOT ERASE" that is hidden way deep down in some cryptically named folder. I don't even know how she finds that file often enough to erase it. Other people open e-mails with subject lines that say, "This e-mail will give your computer a virus." And almost everyone at one point or another sends a mass e-mail with an attachment so huge it crashes the whole network.

I thought I was better than that.

I was very cordial when I called the help desk because I knew that screaming, whining, or hyperventilating would not get me very far. Still, they strung me along for way too long making me think that the files were lost forever before they informed me that there was a way to get them back. Some poor nerdy help desk guy could get in his car, drive over to another building, and physically get my files off of a tape. Wow. I know nothing about how this stuff works, so I thought they were joking, but several people have confirmed that that really is what they have to do.

So now I have all my files back, which means I can continue to work, which maybe isn't as relieving as I thought it would be.

Garbanzo Bean Extravaganza!

You are looking at 8 quarts of chickpeas. That doesn't sound like much, so let me put it a different way. You are looking at 32 cups of chickpeas.

Josh and I discovered a super delicious chickpea curry recipe last week, so we decided that cooking a whole bag of dry chickpeas would be a good way to christen my new pressure canner/cooker. I had no idea that so many chickpeas could come from one small bag. Now I know.

If you need any chickpeas, just come over to my house. I have a freezer full.

Public Awareness

I have worked in a state government public service agency for two years now as of today. Five days out of the week, every week, I get all gussied up, drive 40 minutes to Frankfort, throw my femi-briefcase over my shoulder, and scan my badge to enter what feels like a mental institution. The environment and the workers there are their own brand of crazy that I am positive you don't find in any other professional setting.

I have talked about the physical surroundings at work before. Cubicles are all mismatched, and equipment is grotesquely outdated. I have also talked about the workers who decorate their walls with pictures of retarded kids, calendars that show crazy cats getting into trouble, Christmas lights, and fake tropical plants. What I have never mentioned, however, are the public awareness posters that adorn nearly every vertical surface in the dilapidated building.

All the workers there (except for me and my fellow data geeks) are very passionate about their cause, whether it's child abuse, elder abuse, substance abuse, domestic violence, public health, or adoption. Therefore, every time they churn out a new poster to hang in high schools or health departments, they sprinkle a few around the office to gauge their reception. To me it comes across as preaching to the choir, but I don't mind. The posters' serious tones and (usually) subtle hues make an interesting juxtaposition against the insane pattern of country blue, beige, neon orange, and dusty rose cubicle walls.

The messages of these public awareness posters are usually spelled out in plain English or embedded in an obvious metaphor, but here is what I have managed to glean from them:
-People who do drugs lean against brick walls.
-Women who find out they are unexpectedly pregnant stare out windows.
-Men who understand that "no" means "no" have thug-staches.
-Old people who are abused in nursing homes sit around looking pitiful.

My favorite poster of all hangs in the basement entryway and appears to have been there since the eighties. It says in bright rainbow letters, "Think TB!" in the same font that you would expect to see "The Partridge Family" written. All around it written in smaller letters on various diagonals are the symptoms and risk factors, like "Coughing!" and "Fever!" and "HIV!" It makes me want to go make out with a homeless man right there on the spot in hopes of catching this glorious disease.

You'd think I would want to find a job outside of this crazy, crazy building, but no. I have applied for a job exactly one floor above me. It's in another department and pays better. It's also a more prestigious position than the one I currently have. Considering the pace at which state government works, I expect to hear back from them in the year 2012.

You may remember that I applied for another job back in June at a local college. They pretty much offered it to me, but I turned them down because I didn't want a huge pay cut. Blah blah blah. Work work work.

Diabetes on a Table

Josh has perfected our whole wheat sandwich bread recipe. It has the perfect fluffiness, and it's not too sweet. Naturally it has some white flour in it because otherwise it would be a flat, dense loaf, but Josh has figured out how to use as little as possible. Delicious.

In the background you will notice my canned peaches. They turned out pretty tasty. Unfortunately there is a lot of liquid in the jars because they got mushy and floated to the top during the canning process. There are ways around this, which I will explore with my remaining SIXTY peaches.

I know it looks like I staged that picture, but I didn't. I had to move everything from the counters to the table while I was "cooking" dinner (sandwiches), and that's how they ended up arranged.

On to more important topics: Today is my nephew's 11th birthday. E-lev-enth. That is a whole lot of years, and I'm not entirely sure I believe it.

He will be entering sixth grade this year, which makes me sad for two reasons. Number one, middle school sucks and I wouldn't wish it upon anyone. Number two, he is going to become an obnoxious middle schooler. Right now he still runs up to me and hugs me when I see him and plays with Legos. I am anticipating that will end soon. Frowny emoticon.

Happy birthday, Kris! (Don't worry, he has never seen this fucking website and has no goddamn idea it even exists.)

When Did This Become a Food Blog?

I know I have talked about food a lot lately, but that's probably not going to stop any time soon. It is summertime, and summertime food is one of my favorite things in the world. Does it get any better than fresh fruits and vegetables? I do not think so.

Today Vicki and I played hooky from work to traipse around rainy central Kentucky. The first stop on our agenda was a winery. We traversed windy one-lane roads and got our cars muddy to go to Lover's Leap in Lawrenceburg.


The wine was tasty, but we probably should have eaten lunch first because we got a little tipsy. Rhett is slightly under legal drinking age, so he mauled some oyster crackers with his one and a half teeth. When we left it had stopped raining, so the 30 acres of neatly manicured grapes appeared to have smoke rising off of them.

The next stop on our agenda was lunch somewhere. Anywhere. We were going to go to Midway, but so many cutsie little restaurants are closed on Mondays so we went to downtown Frankfort instead. That was a safer bet since so many of the restaurants there cater to office workers, such as senators and law makers. We had nasty Meditteranean food.

Our final stop was a coffee shop still in downtown Frankfort. Rhett somehow fit an entire lemon cookie in his mouth and proceeded to emit yellow sludge for about five minutes, while stuffing his face with more bits of lemon cookie. Lemon cookies are very high ranking in my book, so I could understand where he was coming from.

On my drive home I passed by a small produce shop that I see every day on my way to work but usually ignore. Today I was finally lured in by a sign that said, "Case of Georgia peaches - $12." I thought to myself, "Mmm. That sounds tasty. How big could a case of peaches be?"


The answer is apparently, "Very big." That is my kitchen table holding about 80 peaches right there. Let's see... If I eat two peaches a day, every day, that will take me... one and a half months. Unfortunately peaches don't last that long.

It looks like I have some canning to do.

Free Samples!

I recently ordered a bunch of natural hippie crap online like lotion and soap, and the package arrived two days ago. When I opened the box and dug through to the bottom I was very excited to find two free samples. How fun!

Then I examined the samples more closely and promptly returned to having the mood that would be expected of a person who just received a box of hygiene products in the mail.

The first sample was a small foil packet containing gel that helps get rid of bruises. I must say that bruises are not on the top of my list of unsightly body imperfections that need to be remedied. Belly fat? Yes. Pasty white complexion? Sure. But bruises? ...Not so much.

The optimist in me said, "Hey you know what? I could get a bruise tomorrow and be happy that I have this free bruise gel!" So I turned the foil packet over and read the directions. Let me summarize them for you here:

- You must apply the gel within an hour of getting the bruise.
- You must coat the bruise as thick as possible.
- You must leave the gel on the area for at least an hour.
- You can use it for pre-existing discolorations such as dark circles under the eyes, but you must apply it generously three times a day.
- Do not use for more than 5 days.

That sounds a little high maintenance if you ask me. I guess you're supposed to use as much gel as you can for as many times a day as possible. But once you hit Day 6 - watch out. Bad things are gonna happen. I'm lucky that I work in an office and have a boyfriend without anger management issues.

The second free sample fulfilled that fatty acid need that so many of us have: a delicious way to get your daily omega-3 intake through an orange flavored gel! Fuck salmon. Fuck nuts. Small foil packets of orange fat are where it's at.

Here is a picture of it on ice cream:


NASTY! Here is a picture of it on a cupcake:


SICK! Here is a picture of me trying very hard to recreate those swirls on a partially eaten bran muffin:


DISGUSTING!

I can't even get myself to taste this stuff. I can't smell it. I can't look at it. I can't even touch it to the tip of my tongue. Every time I think about it my stomach does a flip-flop, which doesn't happen very easily unless you talk about needles or surgery.

So much for free samples.

THESE TASTE LIKE SHIT

The pickles were not quite a complete disaster, but close enough. I rinsed the cucumber slices off after they had sat in salt for three hours, but I guess I didn't rinse them enough. In pickle form they ended up tasting like sweet vinegary salt discs.

I got the cucumbers at the farmers' market, so they were extra delicious (before I ruined them). Then I sliced them with my mandolin slicer, giving them all a uniform thickness. That was the most fun part.


It was all downhill from there. Let me tell you that boiling vinegar smells worse than just about anything. It burns way back in the part of your nose where ancient Egyptians would have pulled out your brains to turn you into a mummy.

The whole batch including everything but the jars cost less than five dollars, so I think I will throw it all out and try again.

Oh yeah - this is my 400th post. RepruhSENT!