Hee!

Every morning, the boy has been sending a new photo of his life in Cinci.

Today's photo was called "This Morning's Super Awesome Tie Knot!"

That makes me smile.

Still here.

Beware! I live!

Okay. Enough with the Sinistar references. The point is, I'm still alive, just really freaking busy and covered in paint. Literally. I've been scraping paint off my fingers and arms all night. The Boy has been down in Cinci, and I'm working on the house, as per The Plan.

I've also been nigh to gnawing off my own arms from stir-craziness and lack of social interaction. That's nobody's fault but mine, though. I could put down the paintbrush and call folks. However, actually leaving the house and doing anything is mostly out of the question, as the caddy is, for all intents and purposes, dead. At least currently. I'll find out just how permanent a death it is after I get money to take it to the shop.

I'm fortunate to have a madre-in-law who works a few short minutes from my house. Tomorrow I plan to abscond with her car during the day to gratuitously eat out, socialize with a sister, and putz around the bookstore. Sad that it seems so fresh and exciting. Ah well.

I'm getting an extraordinary amount of reading done at night.

Since Monday, I read Steven Brust's Brokedown Palace, which was pretty and sad in its way, but not all that remarkable. I can imagine it being really good the second time 'round someday. I'm currently in the middle of Douglas Coupland's Microserfs, and I find that though it's a book that revolves at least somewhat around computers, and it's ten years old, it still resonates-- even more so, maybe, because I have more inherent cultural nerdiness to draw from than I did when I first read it as a college student. I'm also older than most of the characters in the book now. That came as something of a shock. I recommend Microserfs for reading before breakfast or right before bed. The book is formatted as the journal of a young coder working at Microsoft. I find it hopeful, witty, calm, and interesting. One of the things the main character does to describe the people in his life is to think of what their seven ideal Jeopardy categories would be. It's such a neat (though by no means exhaustive) little encapsulation of a person. I adore lists like this. The book is full of them.

Perhaps my seven ideal Jeopardy categories would be:

1. underground christian music from the early nineties
2. urban legends & internet scammers
3. obscure unrelated facts about animals
4. webcomics
5. recognizing (but not necessarily being able to place) literary quotes.
6. graphic novels that don't have to do with superheroes
7. things to make with wire

That actually took more thought and energy than I'd anticipated. Tomorrow I might write that list completely differently.

Off the cuff, I think the Boy's seven ideal categories would be:

1. computers - programming and deciphering
2. a not-so-brief history of video games
3. obscure electronic music of the nineties
4. medieval history
5. the backwater of the internet
6. most effective chemical compounds for various stain removal
7. Usenet posts from 1991

Hmm. Seven is not enough, I find. I would also add a category called "Steph and her foibles," but that might come off as mushy.

What about you? What would your seven ideal jeopardy categories be?

A Farewell to (the Boy's) Arms

It's been quite a week, indeed. We've been thinking of and praying for various friends and relatives as they go through some spectacularly shitty times. We've spent pretty much every waking moment preparing for the realtor walkthrough before we list the house, and though that's been done, we still have a massive amount of painting to do to prep for putting the house on the market. It's been like Life has suspended lately. It's all we've been doing.

Tomorrow the Boy is heading down to Cincinnati, and tonight is the last night he'll live in this house (as in have all his stuff and clothes here and stay here mostly). Sad... Though he'll be coming back every weekend, we'll miss each other during the week. Realistically, it's probably better that he be able to start the new job without distraction, and I can concentrate on preparing and selling the house. Good thing we have free cell phone minutes between our phones, though. Also, it will be an opportunity to add mushy emails to my treasured "Mushy Emails From Boy" collection.

Bye, best friend. Thank goodness for phones and email.

A Strange Dust

Our house reminds me of Morrisey's song, Every Day is Like Sunday, only without the melodrama. Actually the only thing that really pertains is the not-so-fine layer of dust that's coating, oh...EVERYTHING downstairs, including my nose hairs, which are disturbingly white in the mirror.

Yes, Gentle Reader, we've been sanding spackle and drywall again. Our little random orbital sander kicks out an infuriating amount of dust, despite the fact that it has a bag that's supposed to catch that stuff. Ah well. The kitchen will be the better for it.

I'm not going to go into the seemingly endless saga of the renovation. Suffice to say, there are only a few things left to do, and my stomach will obediently unknot itself once they're done.
In the meantime, our kitchen is something like the equivalent of picking up a piece of poop and discovering that there's a diamond inside. It's so so so so so much better than it was. Sometimes we just stand in the door and look at it. Right before the latest flurry of sanding and dust, we actually cooked in it. Both of us. In the kitchen at ONCE. Cooking. With food on the actual counterspace we now have, and setting dishes in the actual, working sink we now have without being afraid of massive rust marks permanently staining them. All of these things were unheard of in our previous "kitchen." Once we're done painting, I will post before and afters.

I'm seriously thrilled about it. I may not be jumping for joy, because my muscles all over ache from all the frantic hefting, scraping, painting, sawing, nailing, shoveling, weeding, raking, etc. etc., but be assured that I'm jumping for joy on the inside. I also may not post again for a little while, because this week is the last before the Boy moves down to Cinci, and the last before our house goes on the market--ie, we must continue the crazy, no-sleep drive toward being ready for both those things. I've got so much to do here that I don't even care right now that my car is dead. I wouldn't be going anywhere anyway. I'm sure I'll care when this is over and I want to visit someone or need to do something not at home, but for now--whatevah. I have a new kitchen!

I sincerely apologize to people whose calls or emails I haven't returned. I will get in touch with you--promise! It might not be this week, though.

If you're feeling sinister

We're watching tv on mute for a few moments:

The eerily glowing, massive moth drifts through a carelessly open window. A woman is lying awake in bed, brow furrowed. The moth lands on her chest, and immediately her eyes drop closed, and her head slumps to one side.

Boy: Did that thing just steal her soul??

Nope. It's just a sinister Lunesta commercial. Look for it. The guy in the tent actually rolls his eyes up toward the back of his head before collapsing. Brrr.

We speculated that that's actually how the medication works. The Moth of Death steals your soul for the night, and the arch-villains at Lunesta use it temporarily toward their evil ends. In the morning, your soul is returned, and you wake up feeling refreshed, yet somehow...unsettled.

Or maybe not.

Must...maintain...girlish...looks!!

Here's the first installment of kitchy ads and articles from the 1950s magazine found under some flooring in our house. (click "all sizes" to view up close)

Stay tuned. Next up, a stunning expose' by the hired help of one of those damn commie reds: "Comrade on a Spree!" This article is kind of boggling.

Oh, and PS...

If any of you know folk in the Detroit area who would appreciate this kind of house, and the relative inexpensiveness compared to the rest of Oakland county, let me know okay?

As much as I adore this place, it will be a relief to get it sold.

PS. You can tell them it now has more kitchen counter space than most houses I've been in, even the ridiculously huge ones. You can tell them that 'cause it's the truth.

Things I adore that are not worth money.

Now that we're getting the house ready to sell, I've been thinking about the things I love that won't mean jack to the price of the house, and most likely, won't mean anything to the people who buy it. If I had my druthers, I'd want to sell to someone artistic and respectful of the era of the house. I'm sure I won't have my druthers, but it's nice to dream. Here's a list of things that will never be printed in the brochure or listed as amenities:

1. During the day in summer, the back balcony is up in a room with walls of trees. Though we're in a neighborhood, I feel secluded. The late afternoon sun up there makes me warm and sleepy. During the night, we sit out there and pick out constellations. It's generally really quiet, and the wind makes the most calming rushing sound through the leaves. Near the Fourth of July, it's not so quiet (!) and you can see multiple fireworks displays all around the area from the balcony.

sunset from the balcony

2. In the very end of the back yard is a place where the trees overhang our yard, and under it is sometimes like sitting near a pool because of all the swaying mottled shadows and bits of light makes.

3. There is a sparrow couple who live on a beam above the back porch. They moved in soon after we bought the place, and in the winter, if you turn around and stand on tip toes at the door, you can see their little feathered bodies all fluffed out, keeping warm together.

4. When we make a fire in the fireplace, the light of it makes a path across the wood floor in front of it, and reflects upward, onto the ceiling.

5. I love the little alcove with the leaded glass window in our study. 'Nuff said.

6. I love the arches in the living room. I love that they're not plain round arches, but that they have little casbah tops.

7. This definitely isn't a selling point, but I love the creaking of our stairs when someone walks on them. I gotten so I can listen and tell which cat is coming up or down, and I know where the Boy is in the house--I just like it. It's a comfortable and comforting sound.

8. I like the handmade tile over our fireplace. We convinced a tile place near here to sell us a sample board of handmade tile that a local artist no longer makes. Sadly, I installed it really well, so it can't come with us. Like many other things here, it has a story, and I find myself hoping the next owners will care, but knowing realistically, I should forget about that.

I'm going to quit. It's making me a bit sad. I know we'll find another amazing place, though. Cincinnati's just full of interesting houses filled with stories of their own.

Awkward poses! Confusing dialogue! It must be "Mary Worth!"

Sorry, but huh?? The comic strip Mary Worth has always been a headscratcher for me. I've always been interested in comics. I used to read "the funnies" voraciously when I was little, and though I even managed to read (notice I didn't say enjoy) Dagwood, I always avoided the bizarre newspaper soap opera that is MW.

Maybe it was the yawn inducing blandness of the story. Perhaps it was the awkwardness of the art, with people's mouths randomly hanging open, and entirely unnecessary hands lurking in the frame like lost birds. It also could have been the stilted, unnatural dialogue, I suppose. Nobody in Mary Worth really looks like a real person, and certainly no one talks like one. Below, Captain Kangaroo offers Aunt Bea's evil twin a little help with the groceries.

Amazingly, Mary Worth has been in newspapers since the 1930s. I've known of its exisitence since I was little, I suppose, but it wasn't until just a couple hours ago that I came to appreciate just how creepy and entertaining this comic could be. The reason for my enlightenment was this.

The link goes to a little film series on Zerotv that recreates to the tee about a month's worth of Mary Worth strips. Seeing the scenes recreated and voiced by real people underscores how freakish the strip actually can be. Prepare to be confounded yet inexplicably riveted.

Like Phoenix from the ashes... oh, wait.

I'm speaking of our kitchen, and that phrase would imply that at one time, it was beautiful and grand. But sadly, it never has been either of those things. Tiny, cramped and with a silly/disgusting floor? YES! Beautiful and grand? N-O!

Howeeeever, things are looking up for our ugly duckling of a kitchen. First, out came the frightening cabinets, 2 of which I had never opened for fear of what might be inside. Then, out came a bazillion layers of weird and/or ugly floors, along with that magazine from a couple posts ago (I will be scanning bits of it and posting those as soon as the printer/scanner is unburied). Then the new Ikea cabinets went in, and this morning the floors were refinished. And the floor is now Glorious. I meant to capitalize that. Seriously, in the space of about 3 hours, the floor went from being cruddy grey paper wads with nails sticking out of it, to a luminous golden wood. That was the original floor that was under all the crap.

The crap.

What was under the crap.

Whee!

You'll have to excuse me if I'm a bit giddy. We've been up till the way-too-late hours of the morning hefting things around, scraping, patching, sanding and painting all over the house--then waking up early to let in contractors and such. I've been boxing up clutter and/or giving stuff away, which is something I should have done ages ago, whether we were moving or not.

This is why I like Freecycle. You can get stuff out of your hair, and people who actually want it can have it. Plus, they come pick it up, which is a good bonus. Check to see if there's a freecycle in your town!

Crikey.... (sad voice)

RIP, Mister Crocodile Hunter.

Steve Irwin was killed by a stingray this morning while filming a show for Animal Planet called "The Ocean's Deadliest Creatures." Apparently in a freak accident, a stingray barb punctured his chest, and possibly his heart.

Although I thought Irwin was blusteringly foolhardy at times, he had a good heart, knew his business, and was really darn entertaining while teaching millions of people about wildlife. I have to give him much credit for the good he's done both envionmentally and educationally.

It's kind of amazing--people have already edited the Irwin Wikipedia entry extensively in the 2 hours the news has been out. I've been watching it change over and over as more information is known. People really loved this guy, and are affected by his death. Even among the most jaded of us have to admit the man was an institution.

It's sad he couldn't have died in his sleep of old age someday, but are any of us really surprised? I think he would have been a little disappointed.

Update

As they were ripping up strata of various horrendous layers of flooring in the kitchen, the guys came across a 1954 magazine stuffed, in its entirety, beneath a "tasteful" green and gold vinyl faux tile layer. How odd. I'll write more about it later if there's anything interesting when I've had a chance to look at it. I suspect it was the same person that hid an entire 1945 issue of the Pontiac News in the cover of the fold-down ironing board. I decoupaged it onto the inside of a closet door.

Another thing that revealed itself in the kitchen was a hole in the original wood floor that was corked with...well, a cork. It's a cork from an old wine bottle. I have no idea what the hole was for.

One more paper item we found soon after we moved in was a map of Vietnam torn from a newspaper in 1962, and tacked inside a closet door. The headline reads "Where Our Boys Are."

Small Stories: This one probably wasn't so small

Kitchen renovation draws near, as in "tomorrow" near. As I was moving things out of the room today, I came across an old postcard mixed in with my boxes. It caught my eye because the front was almost completely white, though it was scuffed and blotchy. I turned it over because I couldn't remember receiving anything like that, and lo and behold, I hadn't: (address erased)

There are a few mysteries to solve here:

The first was how this postcard came to mixed in with my stacks of boxes. As I flipped the card over again, I realized why the front looked strange. It was covered with paint. Then the tape on the front made sense--someone had taped this thing to the wall, then painted over it. Somehow I'd knocked it off and into my stuff. I scoured the wall for a postcard sized mark in the paint, and didn't find one, until later I happened to notice the mark on the bottom of a shelf in a cupboard. Mystery...uh, solved?

Here are the facts:

Holmes is the name of the people who lived here before us. Earldine and... her husband had some equally awkward name.

Here is Earldine in her heyday.

When we bought the house, Mr. Holmes had broken a hip and was unable to navigate the stairs. They were both in their 70s, it seemed.

Their son was supposed to be taking care of the house while they lived in an assisted facility. He didn't. There was a pile of trash out front that looked like a Jersey landfill when we first saw the place. There were heaps of junk in the garage, basement, and every other conceiveable palce something could be stuffed. Their son was supposed to move the remaining junk and furniture out of the house before we moved in. He took the tv and left everything else, including family photos and book keeping. I don't think much of their son.

One of the bedrooms was obviously used by someone younger (I can only assume their son). It was covered in chewed gum, and a lock was defiantly adhered to the bedroom door using several gazillion nails. Whatever kid lived there had absolutely no respect for the house. I assume it was the same kid who clumsily nailed a million random nails into the stairs to keep them from squeeking when he snuck out. Okay--that's a bit of artisitc license, but it makes sense, right? Some pissy kid--punches holes in his wall, insists on locking his room, leaves chewed gum all over everything, and sneaks out at night. Sounds like an absolute joy.

The second mystery seems to have solved itself. I can only assume that Bill was the son in question. It stands to reason that HE is that damn gum chewing kid. The postmark on the card looks like either 1986 or 1996, which would put Bill in his 30s or 40s at the time, maybe?

So for whatever reason, it seems Bill was living with/mooching off his parents, having an affair with a married woman (codename: Legs ?!), and bitching to his mistress on the phone (on his parents' tab) about how boring it was living with Mom. What a winner. I knew I hated that guy from the start.

Another mystery is who this "Legs" is, and why she didn't just hand-write the darn postcard. I also can't conceive of why she'd cheat on her husband with a whiney schmuck living with his parents.

Why the heck would someone tape this postcard to the bottom of a shelf, and paint over it? Was it Earldine, who found it first and was hiding it from her son? Was it the ever-juvenile Bill, hiding it from his parents, and if so, why the kitchen, of all places? Why paint over it? Perhaps someone stuck it there and it was inadvertantly painted over later? We'll never know.

The final mystery will most likely remain unsolved forever. And it is:

Cletus??!? Seriously??

It's good to have fiends. Er, friends.

First of all, it's even better to have fiends who also happen to be your friends. We spent the better part of an afternoon at IKEA yesterday buying a kitchen, and Shaundrea (That's 2 links in one word) stuck around the entire freaking time while we did ordering paperwork, waiting, and more waiting. I am kind of boggled. Thanks, guys! You're very patient and brave. Seriously. Next time we hang out, maybe we can do something other than sitting on a (albeit very cute) waiting room couch at IKEA for 4 hours.

Now that stuff has been delivered, the living room looks like a cardboard forest that's slowly blossoming into various cabinets as we build them. It's actually gotten to the point where the downstairs is so taken over by stuff that it's not distressing anymore, which is nice. It's more about anticipating a new kitchen, and packing up extras and having them out of the way. Whee! I can do both of those things very well.

One good thing about knowing where we'll end up living is that we know there will be a Costco there. Blessed be--there are 2 in Cinci, so we renewed our membership today and trawled the aisles, gathering massive packages of toilet paper and such.

We also got some fresh trout, which is NOT something we would have considereduntil recently, but for some reason we both ordered fish when we ate out not too long ago, and it was downright scrumptious. Tonight we improvised and made a variation on the earlier dish--trout fillets rolled in finely crushed almonds and spices, then pan-fried in butter. We cut up a whole lime and squeezed it over the fish, and it was really nice--suddenly the toasted almonds had more flavor, and it was nice with the more subdued flavor of the trout. Yum. I did homemade whipped cream with splenda and a vanilla pod, and we dipped a bunch of fresh strawberries in it for desert. Hurrah for low-carb meals where you still feel a tad luxourious! It's weird to realize we're actually losing weight while we're eating like that. Whatever. It works, and I'm not going to question. The evidence is both the Boy and I each being able to step out of our favorite jeans without undoing them. But, you know... not in public.

Surprise!

You know, Dream Cruise was really not that bad this year. We bought some new video games and stayed home all weekend. It was actually pretty nice, though I was only slightly disappointed that in this version of Zoo tycoon, park visitors cannot be eaten by escaped animals. It ups the stakes, and makes the game more exciting. I'm pretty sure that's not pathological in any way. The Boy was playing Sith Lords. After about an hour of freaking out every time a wookie talked, the cats gave up and settled down.

Traffic on Woodward is already completely back to normal as far as I can tell. We drove the new car down to hang with the Boy's mom tonight. It was good to see her. I think I must have the best mother-in-law the world has ever known. She doesn't play that passive-aggressive game many in-laws seem to do, she's not at all prissy, and she's totally laid back. "Are you glad to be done with asshole finance guy?" she asked as we took her for a spin in the new car.

One word of wisdom gleaned from our night, though--and I know this is probably an unnecessary warning for most of you, but sweet mother of gastronomical goodness!! --Stay the heck away from the buffet line-style restaurant called "Sign of the Bleefcarver" on Woodward. It was seriously almost funny how bad the food was. We thought it would be fine, since we're eating low-carb, and beef and beefcarving fits pretty well into that sort of thing.

Our first warning should have been the little sign next to the BBQ beef that said"Don't worry! Not very spicy!"

Now, when I say "beef," I'm talking "severe memory throwback beef." Every Sunday when we were little, and our mom would put a "roast" in the oven before whisking us off to church, and when we returned hours later, the meat was dry, grey, and not even redeemable with massive amounts of gravy and horseradish. Every Sunday. She'd also boil the heck out of various vegetables until they were sodden and sad looking, and then garnish the grey meat with them. No wonder we all lived for the yorkshire pudding. It was the only thing on the table that actually had a color.

Ah, memories.... uh, anyway, back to the restaurant. When I put a brussel sprout into my mouth, the mere pressure of being on my tongue caused it to collapse into a pulpy mass. It had no taste, to speak of, but it did have that strong, bitter smell that can be tempered by simply cooking them correctly. I didn't even spit it out. Mom would have been proud. However, I did get a wicked stomach ache later in the evening. Hmm.

So, on a scale of 1 to delish, I would rate this restaurant a little less than a 1. On the adjusted "Perfect for Old People" scale, this would rate very highly.

Buuuut, we did stop in at a place called Little Daddy's Parthenon earlier this week. We got omelets, which in my world, usually tend to be serviceable, unremarkable food (that happens to be low-carb) . Not these--they were just luscious, and opened my eyes to various omlettey possibilities. That meal rated a pretty darn highly, and wasn't all that expensive, either.

The science of car dealing

People who infuriate me in that... special way are people who lie and manipulate while assuming I have no idea what they're up to. In our search for the new car, we met a couple dealers who gave us the usual schpeal about extended warranties and all that, but that's their job. No hard feelings. The people who made me want to frog-kick them in the solar plexus were from the finance department. One guy in particular. We shouldn't have had any sort of issue whatsoever--we were already financed through a company that gave us a good rate, was lightning quick, and sent us a check we could take car shopping. It should have been simple.

First, let me say that if any of you are planning on purchasing a vehicle from Scion of Troy, for God's sake--think again! Second, please know that if there were any other xA's in the state, we would not have put up with the kind of crap this guy dealt. But the closest one was 350 miles away in Illinois. A long road trip. We decided it was worth wading through the BS to just be done with it and have this car.

Our salesman was just doing his job. We arranged a trade in. We signed papers. We handed him the check. He handed us off to the finance asshol--er, guy, and things should have been golden. However, Guy greeted us with the hard-sell on his financing, and wouldn't. let. it. go. "We can give you better rates than whatever rates you've got," he declared. We let him know we were done with the financing side of things. We let him know several more times as he pushed and pushed. We deflected unnecessary questions about our rate and our credit score. He tried to make us feel guilty by implying we were somehow trying to screw over the dealership. He claimed he'd never heard of our financing company before. Then he claimed they'd screwed over someone at that very dealership. Wha--huh? He read the back of the check over and over, aloud, making overly-dramatic hemming and hawing noises, and tapping it with his finger to emphasize just how out of the ordinary and fishy this was, and to scare us into taking his financing. "I don't know about this," he whined. Knowing exactly what he was playing, and that there was nothing wrong with the financing, we stuck to our guns.

When we didn't budge, he claimed he had to make some calls about it, and walked away, leaving us to "cool down" for an HOUR and a HALF. When he finally marched back, he pointedly dialed our financier on speaker-phone so we could hear the message that they were closed for the evening (They hadn't been closed at the point he'd walked away). "I'm helpless," he grunted, waving the check at us. "I can't let you walk away with a car, and all I get is a piece of paper. "

Pray tell, how do you sell cars, then? Do people often leave a large pile of cash on your desk? Isn't a personal check a piece of paper? Isn't your financing a piece of paper? Aren't you a piece of... ...something smelly and warm that's not paper?

Why yes. Yes you are.

We knew full well that it shouldn't be an issue. We'd spoken to our financier about what was supposed to happen, and they said the dealer should let us go home in the car, then the check could be deposited the next day. The people we know who've dealt with the same financier went home with the car. However, Finance Number One A-hole Guy was determined to punish us for not being malleable enough.

Having already switched plates and given them the title for our trade-in car, we were forced to drive the old car home with dealer plates on it.

The next morning I called our financier to ask what was going on, and found that Guy had faxed some of the info they needed, but he didn't fax 2 of the most obviously necessary things. I called Guy. Guy claimed he'd sent them all, and whined and moaned when I told him to refax. He said he'd call us just as SOON as he knew anything, and we could come get the car. Then he waited several hours before faxing anything to the financier. By that time, the workday was over.

Today, I called the financier again because I didn't trust Guy farther than I could throw him. Good thing, too. They let me know everything was set, and that they'd called to notify Guy of that 2 hours ago. She also mentioned that he'd complained to them about the fact that we hadn't gotten the extended warranty and tried to make a big deal out of it so they wouldn't finance us (presumably so he could do it instead). Now, that's out of the realm of slimy business practice and more into along the lines of bratty third grade temper-tantrums.

I called Guy a minute later, and before I could get a word in edgewise, he said he hadn't heard a peep back from our finance company, and that he'd been calling and calling and they were all rude to him and he hated dealing with such an "unprofessional fly-by-night outfit." Wah-wah, bitch. Sorry you have to do your freaking job.

When I informed him that essentially I knew he was flat-out lying about the fact that he hadn't heard anything from them, he got harried and defensive. "Well, I swear I haven't heard from them and maybe they left a voicemail, but I seriously haven't, but I guess they could have possibly left a voicemail. Uh, let me call you back, or you'll have to sit there on hold." I told him I would hold as long I needed to. He growled something, put me on hold for about three seconds, and then picked up again to tell me, yeah--he guessed they'd called. "Congratulations," he grumbled. "You have to be here before 6 to get your car."

Fuck you very much, Guy. Have a nice life.

I'm really looking forward to taking all the surveys I'll undoubtedly be inundated with about the dealership and our experience. Mwahaha!

----

Despite the fact that we had to deal with...that, we're excited to finally have our new car, and it's a little dreamboat with built-in satellite radio, mp3 player, and iPod connection and interface. Fancy, dancy. Okay, It's really not that fancy, but it's pretty sweet.

My favorite thing about it? When you unplug the pod, the interface blinks, "bye bye, ipod!"
Eeeee!

Infuriating Commercial Alert!

Does this make anyone else grind their teeth and shake their fists at the tv?

A woman is blithely going about her day at a fruit market, when two plastically chipper women appear out of nowhere. "That's a nice white shirt!" they chirp, lunging at her with mushy fruit, which they smear triumphantly onto her clean blouse.

My split second reaction to the commercial up until this point was, "wait--is this one of those celebrity pieings?" But no, Sandy is not a celebrity. She's just a nice lady who got up that morning, picked out a nice white blouse, thinking, "that'll look pretty," and went about her day, never expecting to be physically assaulted by fruit wielding yobs at the market.

Moving on. After mashing strawberries and whatnot into poor shocked Sandy's shirt, the robotically gleeful women demand, "How are you gonna get this stain out?? How about this one?"

_____

Cut to the smug fruit assailants applying some kind of stain remover to Sandy's shirt, as she cowers, shivering, in an awful t-shirt advertising the very product that has hijacked her day and will doubtless cause nightmares and teary therapy sessions for years to come. The humiliation!

I'm sure they carefully edited out the tape of the women handing Sandy the t-shirt and growling, "Oh you WILL be excited about our product. You'll be thrilled about our freaking product. Show it! MORE!!!"

Sandy clearly lacks self esteem and confidence, because, instead of clocking the women in the face with her purse and roaring, "What the hell, you asshats??!!!" she actually plays along. "Oh! That's...great!" she offers, as her shirt finally comes out of the dryer, 45 minutes after she should have been picking her son up from soccer practice.

The two women laugh, wild-eyed, and declare that their product is the best. I can imagine Sandy slinking off, humiliated, to cry in her car for a few hours before slowly driving home.

It's happening again. Hide.

I know it's coming when I notice people lounging in portable chairs on street corners, when the roar of engines at stoplights through downtown Pontiac is deafening, when more than 60% of people are driving 20 miles below the speed limit with their arms slung carelessly out the windows or over the edge of their meticulously restored convertibles, and when traffic, no matter where you intend to go, is intensely bottlenecked at all hours of the day and night.

It is the Woodward Dream Cruise, and it has no mercy.

It's not all that bad if you have no place to go and nothing to do during the weekend that it's held. One can walk to the end of our block and watch amazingly gorgeous old cars roar by. On the other hand, if we wish to go anywhere---anywhere at all, we have to wade through cruisers like a salmon trying to up-stream Niagara Falls.

Unfortunately, this is a weekend during which we have a lot of places to go and things to do. In anticipation of putting the house up for sale in about a month, we've got to work frenetically on getting things rennovated, organized, and ready.

*sigh* Ah well. I suppose Dream Cruisers could be far more annoying. There are many lovely cars to look at (though people feeling the need to rev their engines always makes me roll my eyes), and it could have been worse. It could have been the annual Nails on Chalkboards festival.

Well, I guess we shall move semi-south.

Yup, after the marathon o' interviews on Tuesday, the new company offered the Boy the job, and he's accepted. Assuming they're okay with his requirements for vacation, etc., I suppose that means we're heading to Cincinnati in the OH.

We're not going to be moving completely until our house sells, since we'll need the profit from this place for a down payment for our next. This means I'll probably be hanging here for the next several months (realistically), fixing things up and holding down the fort such as it is, while Boy lives in the housing the new company's arranged for him down there.

I'm still in a little bit of shock about the whole thing, but aside from a couple of inevitable future teary episodes, I'm really excited to see what the next chapter has in store for us. It will be hard not being able to hang out on short notice with the dear people who compose our friends/family. However, if you give us 4 1/2 hours notice, and we'll be there! That doesn't sound so bad. If we left at lunch, we'd be here by dinner. Also, we're planning on making sure whatever house we buy has enough bedrooms that we'll always have room for guests, if anyone wants a vacation or pit stop.

One of the main things that makes me happy about this is that it's a huge break for the Boy's career, and he deserves it after working so hard. (My freelance work is totally mobile, which makes one thing in this whole event that's very simple.) He's moving into a good position with some nice big steps up the ladder. If we eventually move back to SE MI, he'll be able to wrangle a job in a strata of jobdom (?) that involves things like bonuses, stock options, company cars, and no excuse for paying bills late. We plan to work on being really snobby and boring in order to fit the profile perfectly. I'm going to develop a nasally voice, bleach my hair, and tan myself leathery, and the Boy will yap pompously via mobile to his "business contacts" while looking down his nose at everyone else in line at Starbucks.

Har! Never mind. We'll always be nerds who think Alton Brown is awesome, have little crushes on our favorite authors, and thumb wrestle to solve our disagreements (the Boy cheats).

Er. Now to begin the daunting task of super-speed final renovation, and putting the house on the market.

I'll be in touch with our dear folk to let you all know the details as they come up. As for now, nothing will be happening for a little while, anyway, until the Boy packs down to Cinci in a little over a month. We'll be driving up and down on alternating weekends, so he'll be up here plenty for the next few months.

As for the lovely Traverse City, things aren't over there yet. There's an even better possibility after working this job in OH, that the Boy can get a really awesome job up there in a few years. Not that I want to consider a potential move after the move that hasn't happened yet. Either way, I think we'll try to spend a little time up there each summer.

I have a feeling it that though it won't be simple, whatever comes will be good.

Booop! Good afternoon--this is your captain speaking...

Attention all audiophiles and gear-lovers: Out the left side of the plane, you'll see Sinepost, the latest internet offering from sound genius, pal, and incidental brother-in-law, Justin.

It's a secret portal into the minds of people who know way more about recording gear than I could ever pretend to hope to know.

And it's a darn good read, too.