Real (pain in the ass) Estate

For the past few months, the boyfriend and I have been looking at houses. His lease is up in August, and he doesn't want to rent anymore. Me moving into whatever house is picked will happen eventually, so I've been very active in this search. Plus, he's not a big fan of paperwork, or talking on the phone (both of which happen a lot when trying to buy a house). So I've basically been the point man for the whole thing.

It's been extremely irritating. We found a house that we both adored (which is a rare thing, since I'd much rather get a run down "fixer-upper" in the city, and he'd prefer something a bit nicer, out in the suburbs.... I shudder to think....), and we went back and forth with the bank that owned it until agreeing upon a price and closing costs and all that. Then we dropped $300 on an inspection. An old colleague of mine does home inspections around Atlanta, so he came in and did a stellar job. But, unfortunately, we found some issues. There was leakage around the fireplace. There were drainage issues. The previous owner (who did all the renovations himself) had basically poured concrete around the entire house, so it was impossible to see what kind of shape the foundation was in. The gas stove was leaking a bit. Blah blah blah.

And then the bank backed out. They didn't want to make any of the repairs needed, and they walked away like douchebags, after jerking us around for about a month.

So we went back to the drawing board, and started looking all over again. And looking. And looking. Every time we come across something even remotely promising, it's either in a shit area, or it turns out it needs far more work than we could deal with, or it ends up going under contract as our agent is writing up an offer.

What the hell, Atlanta? Where are all the fabulous, cheap houses that are close enough to midtown to keep me from feeling disconnected? Where are all the great "fixer-uppers" in EAV? Where are all the damn properties?

Talk about trying your patience. 

A day in the life

And now, an exact account of what I experience when the guy that lives in the other apartment in my duplex comes home.

Neighbor, yelling to his morbidly obese bulldog: "CHARLIE!!! Oh, CharlieCharlieCharlieCharlieCHARLIE!"

Charlie: Says nothing, because she's a fucking DOG.

Neighbor (to the tune of When the Saints go Marching in) "She shakes her butt!!! She shakes her butt!! She shakes her butt, because she's CHAR-REL-LEEEE!!!! SHE SHAKES HER BUTT!!!! SHE SHAKES HER BUTT!!!!" [The song continues for at least another chorus, at full volume.]

Charlie: Still says nothing, because she is STILL a dog.

And then he takes his poor, lumbering dog out into the FRONT yard, where she almost always takes a giant dog crap. And he leaves that huge dog poop in the front yard, because it's oh so lovely to smell baking dog shit when walking up to my front door every day. Oh, and also because the almost ACRE of backyard is far too small for such a fat bulldog. Clearly. Good thing my 120 lbs GREAT DANE is so svelte, or she'd have to shit in the front yard, too. And there's only so much space in the shared front yard for dog poops.

He then goes inside and turns on Folk/Stoner hits of the 70s and 80s. His stereo must go to 11, because you can hear it throughout the entire house (which includes the half that my apartment is situated in). 

Between poorly written, rambling songs, I catch the sound of him yelling his dog's name over and over. Sometimes, when I walk by the bathroom (I feel the walls have to be exceptionally thin between the bathrooms, for some reason) I can hear him half yelling, and half singing off key to whatever retarded song is on.

Let me just go on to say that I don't find it odd that he talks to his dog. I talk to my dog, too. I'll tell Lucy hi when I get home, or call her dumb when she refuses to come inside and I'm forced to find shoes and wander into the huge backyard and make threatening gestures at her. But I don't go around chanting her name like she just threw the game-winning touchdown during overtime against the Oakland Raiders (yes, I'm a Broncos fan, suck it). 

I guess I should be glad that that's really all I have to deal with. I could live in an apartment building, and be completely surrounded by loud, obnoxious neighbors and their smelly dog poop. And despite the loud, inconsiderate neighbor and his poor taste in music, or the hippies that smoke pot and have drum circles that last way later than I would like because I have to get up for work in the morning, and the chickens that live next door and seem to hold chicken council meetings at 6am on Sunday mornings, it could always be worse. 

Cheers to bad neighbors, and a lack of neighbors that are even worse than the ones you already have. 

<3

-L

Well, fancy seeing you here.

I've been not writing as of late, and it's come to my attention that it isn't a good thing. Even if I'm worried that my blathering on about nonsensical, everyday life is dull to readers/followers/whatever, it's still somewhat therapeutic for me to do it anyway. Plus, getting over the fact that I'm the only one entertained by my ramblings helps me to be less insecure and self-conscious, so there's that, too.

Everything has changed, but it seems it's for the better. I only have a year of school left for my BA, and then a bajillion years until I have my PhD, so so I figured the smart thing to do would be to stop taking classes altogether and just work. Actually, that wasn't my first choice. But the whole "winning the lottery so I can stay in school and not be forced to get a full-time job" thing didn't really pan out. However, I really enjoy my new-ish job, and I love the people I'm surrounded by every day, so I suppose I'll have to find a way to finish school during non-school hours once I'm ready to move forward in that process.

Speaking of the new job, it's stellar. I get to do graphic design that's far too advanced for me (and pull that shit off, if I may say so myself), I get to wear yoga pants and tank tops if I so desire, I don't have to get there until 10ish every morning, and I'm surrounded by liberal, creative, like-minded people 95% of the time. I can see myself becoming an integral part of this business in the next year, and just never leaving (well, by "never leaving" I mean "staying for at least another 10+ years, until starting my own practice").

Other than that, life has been fairly steady. The boyfriend is great. Wait, have I mentioned the boyfriend? Has it been so long since I've written anything that no one knows of The Boyfriend? Well, we met and started dating in August. We had an instant spark, we're totally in love, blah blah fairy tale ramblings blah. Of course, the relationship has its occasional rocky moments, but those just tell me that it's a real relationship. People that are out to use you or take advantage of you rarely allow for disagreements. So, you know, mild occasional bickering is a good thing. It proves that you aren't being courted by a scam artist that has mistaken you for the daughter of a business mogul or heiress to a laundromat fortune, or something.

Anyway, that's where things are now. And things are good.

P.S. I'm taking bets on how long I manage to keep this thing updated regularly.

Drunk Lindsey. Ready..... GO.

Here's a video of me talking about why Halloween is the ultimate supreme holiday. I also talk a bit of trash about the other holidays, but, you know, until they try being as badass as Halloween they'll get no drunken compliments from me.
Enjoy.
-L

Why isn't it called a platinum lining?

Insomnia can be a huge pain in the ass. Whether it's brought about because of overwhelming worries, or because of nightmares, or because of your obnoxious dogs barking at invisible, late-night pedestrian trolls, insomnia is widely viewed as an all-around bitch.

It's a funny thing, though. As irksome, as frustrating, and as terribly dull as late nights spent by your lonesome can be, I do (every so often) find my evenings spent awake to be somewhat refreshing. Clearly I don't mean refreshing in the "well-rested" sense, but more so in the "I've spent this forced consciousness being at least a little bit productive, which has to be far more productive than laying in bed drooling on myself and having occasional, nonsensical mumble-conversations with my own subconscious brain" refreshing. Which is pleasant, I suppose.

Now, don't be fooled. There are times in which you'd love nothing more than to use your insomnia to be the teensiest bit productive, but you're not quite able. For example, I have this insatiable desire to start working on a concept I recently came up with. I want to sketch with graphite and felt tips and charcoal and colors, and maybe even paint. I want to put these ideas onto paper. And, in a strange but positive turn of events, I'm here, awake and in my house, with not a shred of an obligation on my schedule.

And then... oh, how the gods must laugh maniacally... and then my fucking wrist decides to act like a douche. I occasionally have joint troubles, by the way. But the most ridiculous time for me to have issues with my right wrist is, of course, the exact time I have sudden inspiration to try my hand (har, har) at sketching again, and fleshing out a new concept, and creating motivated ART.

So I'm sitting here, staring at my miscellaneous art supplies as they taunt me, wearing a wrist brace that makes me feel retarded, and slowly tapping each key on my macbook, one at a time, using only my left index finger.

Insomnia fucking blows.

At least SOMEONE in this house is getting some sleep.

Few things are worse than a gummy eraser covered in hair

Actually, that's not true. A gummy eraser that's covered in hair and also has rogue bits of tobacco in it would be much worse. Is much worse. Believe me. I know.


- - - - - - - - - 


I've been thinking a lot about life, lately. Not really in the existential, "why do we exist in the universe" way, though. I never really had the time for all of that lofty nonsense. Nor the energy, or even the patience for it, honestly.

No, I've been thinking about life in terms of what it means to have it, what people choose to do with theirs, if anyone under the age of 50 is actually aware that it has an expiration date, and why I feel as though mine is pulling that bullshit where it seems to go so much faster, the less there is, like sand in a (... shit. What the fuck are those called? Sand clocks? Curvy desert watches? The things that tell you when everyone has to stop in Scattergories?).... I'm sure it'll come to me eventually....

But yes. Those are my current dilemmas surrounding the vague as hell concept of "life" (also, I can't possibly express how nice it is to type the word "hell" and not have to delete and then retype it at least three times before I'm able to keep it from becoming "he'll,").

You know, I spend so much time worrying about grades, or money, or the fact that I've been procrastinating on getting my car's alignment taken care of, that I-

HOURGLASS. It's hourglass. That's the word. That's what I was trying to come up with. Haha, fucking "sand clock".

.... As I was saying, I spend so much time stressed to the nines about pointless(ish) bullshit that I end up taking far too many things for granted. But my awareness of that doesn't change the fact that every time I get into my car, I pause to consider if I'm able to take her to the shop that day, decide that I'm far too busy and will do it tomorrow, and then have a brief but well-deserved guilt party because of it. Yes, I know that I have somewhere to live, am getting a college education, have amazing friends and family and a reliable car and a gas stove so I can make s'mores from my kitchen. My life is somewhat stellar, usually. So why is it that I can be both grateful and super stoked about all of those wonderful things, but still have mild moments of panic and frustration because an extra (and quite unexpected) bill or two showed up at my door and my bank account was quite precariously balanced already?

I mean, shit, there are so many people (it's tragic, there are so many people that I know personally) that are in crisis mode, or at least have their foot in the door of a meltdown. I feel for all of them, and am glad to help or offer support in any way that I'm able. Unfortunately, my unconditional offer of support for the people that are important to me won't keep me from worrying about Honda pulling a little to the left, or from feeling like a total dick immediately after my guilt party.
Love, love, love.
-L

"...board certified physician, addiction medicine specialist."

Side note (can you have a side note before actually saying anything?): I've been listening to a lot of old Loveline lately. It's so wonderfully nostalgic and entertaining.

Anyway...

Not to be all Jerry Seinfeld-esque or anything, but what's the deal with girls in their early 20s? I may only be 24 years old (Christ, 25 in January...), but I know how to be polite in social situations. Even if I'm forced to interact with someone that I have an immediate distaste for, I can smile, and converse, and exist without coming off like Ms. Trunchbull giving a toast at a wedding. 

My manners, while not horrible, are far from impeccable, too. That's why I just end up staring, mouth half-open, when I find myself privy to people behaving like the middle school morons that teased me once upon a time about wearing glasses, or having an odd sense of humor, or having love affairs with puppets as a child. 

I'll never understand why 75% of the females I meet that are in my age group try to treat me like shit. At least I can usually find some guys to stand around with during these quasi-forced situations. They make me so much more comfortable by just drinking heavily and occasionally mumbling in my general direction.

Bitches be trippin'.

Drunken Poetry (It's the best type of poetry)

I was going though the notes I keep on my iPhone the other day, and I discovered that I managed to get really drunk the other night and type out a few lines of strangely-inspired poetry. It's been so long since I've felt inspired to write anything, drunk or otherwise, that I figured I would share.

"It's 8am and now I must
set down this whiskey-laden cup.
The sun's soft, and unlike this glass.
Instead of falling, it comes up.

And now my cliche-riddled head
can bend to rest upon my bed
despite the light and fights of mind.
Had I gone at 4, instead of whined
about my life and things to do
I might be sleeping, now, like you."

-Surprising drunken poetry

<3

How'd they do that? With MOVIE MAGIC!

What are the major things involved in any one person's life? Finances? Relationships (whether platonic or romantic)? Your car? Your house/apartment/cardboard box? Your job? Your family or furbabies? 

Well, it seems as though most of those things in my life are crashing and burning. My family is doing well, as are Lucy and Rabs, so no worries there. My car and house are tied in with wonky finances, so I'm guessing that's all just one issue. Regardless, I'm finding myself increasingly frustrated with... well... myself... as well as almost everything around me. 

So what the hell do you do when life goes from being a positive influence (like a friend that helps you study for a big exam; or brings you soup when you're sick; or shares their whiskey with you because it's better than the cheap shit you brought to the party you're both attending) and starts acting like a total dick (like someone that sits in front of you at the theatre and plays Angry Birds with the brightness on their iPhone at 100%; or that asks you what you think about something, only to correct your opinions with their different, but "more right" opinions; or tells you they don't care where you two go eat and then shoots down every single suggestion you offer)? 

And don't try to talk to me about life giving you lemons, blah blah blah. I've played Portal 2, and lemons will never be the same. However, I highly doubt that combustible lemons will solve my current problems. 

When I'm at my lowest, stuck with lemons with nothing to do with them, I find very few things that help me get through all the bullshit. Painting is a good distraction from negativity, and reminds me that I'm not a total failure at everything (because while my art is not incredible, it's above average, and that's reassuring). Lucy is a fucking trip, and the attention and positive interaction I get from strangers while with her at the dog park (not to mention the snuggles and hysterics she provides) always manages to lighten my mood.  Making lists with at least three points is also good for making shitty situations/circumstances/checking account balances feel less shitty.

But, you know, it's rare and amazing when another person (whether one you know well, or not so well) steps in and manages to accidentally, drastically alter your mood for the better. And you can never tell that person how horrifically hopeless you were feeling, or to what extent they managed to pull you out of that emotional Bog of Eternal Stench. 

So thank you. If you've ever said anything, knowing that it would make someone feel good (especially unsolicited), thank you. If you've gone out of your way to be a thoughtful bastard to a person you hardly know, thank you. And if you've ever shared your top shelf whiskey with an almost complete stranger because she can only afford Jim Beam, thank you. 

Everyone needs that sometimes. And it's incredible how often some random act or random words of kindness will be all that even the most dejected person needs in order to take those first steps, and climb out of the hole they've been wallowing in. 

I'd share my Balvenie 191 with you guys anytime. 

<3

Thank god I haven't been murdered by a stalker in an orange Pontiac Vibe.

Yeah, yeah, it's been forever since I've written anything, god how could I be so negligent, I feel so guilt-ridden, blah blah blah....


Moving on.


I have an interesting, disconcerting, weird story to share. A few nights ago, I loaded my art crap and my 120 lbs dog into my car and proceeded to drive 30+ miles in order to visit with some friends of mine. About 2 miles from my house, I came to a red light. In front of me was, you guessed it, a cat-shit orange Pontiac Vibe. When the light turned green, the guy in the car just kept fucking with his GPS phone dick whatever, so I flashed my brights at him, as if to say, "Hey, distracted guy, I sometimes get distracted too, which is why I'm not honking my horn. But, you know, the light is green now and I'd like to spend as little time as possible with my Great Dane in the back seat, panting on my right ear, if you don't mind." 


The guy blinked his hazard lights at me, waved nicely (a.k.a. waved instead of shooting the bird) and moved on toward the interstate onramp. 


It took about four miles of highway for me to notice that this same guy had managed to get directly behind me in his gross, orange hatchback. I noticed because he flashed his lights at me. Again. I thought to myself, "Self, this is a bit odd. But, you know, he could have accidentally hit the brights. I've done that before," and went on listening to Dave Ramsey tell me how to fix my finances on the shitty talk radio station we have here in Atlanta (I love Dave Ramsey [despite his religious nonsense] and Clark Howard, but the other programs this station airs just make me feel argumentative and ornery). 


A few more miles pass, and then I hear a horn on my immediate right. I look over, and it's the same motherfucker, with an ear-to-ear grin, waving at me enthusiastically. I give him my best "I don't really give a shit about whatever it is that you're doing, and thought you should know that you look like a jackass" face, and continue driving. 


He then pulls behind me, flashes his lights, and then turns on his right turn signal (while still flashing the lights) without changing lanes. I keep driving. My thought process was something like, "I have another 20ish miles to go, as well as a 120 lbs Great Dane leaning her giant, toothy face out of the back passenger window. There's no way anyone would go that far out of their way just to harass someone, ESPECIALLY someone who has their giant dog with them."


Boy, was I wrong. 


The light flashing continues. The Pontiac Dipshit keeps pacing me on one side or another, and waving his hand like an over-enthusiastic kid waving at Mickey Mouse, before falling back behind me. I try speeding up, and then cutting cars off in order to get him off my tail, but he almost runs two cars off the road in order to maintain his position. 


I became increasingly aware of this maniac's presence, and of my inability to shake him. I mean, Christ, I'm not a fucking stunt driver. I maintain two to three car lengths between me and the random bastards in front of me. I never go over 80 mph, because that's when the You're Extra-Speeding fines and whatnot kick in here in Georgia. I check my blind spot twice before changing lanes. 


My safe driving skills are going berserk, but I am determined to get this bastard to back the fuck off. 


I finally make it to my exit (after changing highways, varying my speed between 45 mph and 79 mph, and attempting to get off at the wrong exit before swerving back onto the interstate). The son of a bitch pulls up next to me at the offramp red-light, and rolls down his window. My windows are already down, because otherwise the entire car ends up reeking of dog breath because Lucy is accompanying me. 


"You drive pretty fast," he says with an odd, maniacal grin. 


"I do. Because I'm not interested. Back the fuck off," I respond (probably not the most clever retort, had he been armed or something, but I was livid that someone had made me feel so helpless and I figured that were he going to shoot at me, he would've done it already), before rolling up all the windows on the passenger side of the car (much to Lucy's dismay).


I turn onto the main street, and the dickwad follows like a lost, mentally handicapped Rottweiler. I then take a somewhat unnecessary turn, and he follows again, flashing his lights and trying to signal me to pull over. I make another turn, onto the street that will lead me to the neighborhood. When he follows that turn, I start freaking out.


I call the friends I was going to meet. No response. I know for a fact that there are 2-5 people there, 2 being the worst case scenario. I have to decide what the fuck I am going to do about this potentially homicidal, maybe-rapist lunatic.


I make up my mind to do one of two things. I decide to try to lose him in the somewhat confusing neighborhood. If that doesn't happen, I'll bypass the house and use my handy-dandy iPhone to find the closest police station. 


I take a left into the neighborhood and immediately floor it. It was fairly late at night, and I'm familiar with the area, but there are a lot of twists and turns and blind curves. I try not to go above 50 mph, and I make my turns and end up at the house I was headed to. I turn out my lights, roll up the windows, and wait. I force myself to count to five, and then grab my shit, open my door and the back driver's side door (because Lucy still doesn't have thumbs), and yell at Lucy to get inside. She runs up to the front door of the house with me, and we burst through it, me slamming it behind us. I quickly inform everyone of what happened, and tell them that I'm worried that the psychotic son of a bitch may be roaming the neighborhood, looking for my car. They grab a sledgehammer and a baseball bat (which are conveniently stashed by the front door, along with a crowbar and a 9-iron), and stand with me on the front porch for a few minutes, waiting and listening for the sound of a poorly-constructed Chevy engine carrying a discontinued Pontiac chassis. 


Eventually it was decided that everything was okay, and we all went back inside. I would be lying if I told you that every engine I heard for the next few hours didn't have me staring out of the front window, holding my breath (when you're worried and paranoid, all engines sound alike). 


Never in my adult life have I felt so threatened. I have no idea if this person intended to hurt me because I flashed my lights at him at the red light, or if he was just looking for an excuse to murder/rape/stab someone, or if he was just interested in getting my number and completely socially inept, or what. One thing that I do know, however, is that I will never again leave my house without my asp.


Let that be a warning to you, loves. People that willingly buy orange Pontiac hatchbacks are morons, and ought to be avoided (unless you have one, and love it, in which case DON'T EVER FOLLOW ME FOR 30+ MILES LATE AT NIGHT AGAIN, OR I WILL FUCKING DESTROY YOU). 


<3