Everything is awesome

I'm luckier than most people, I know. I intended to write this "count my many blessings" post a few days ago, but unforeseen circumstances arose and I thought a public bragathon would be in bad taste.

But I really wanted to share a few things with InternetLand.

Age 30 was pretty great to ol' Ru over here, and I feel I'd be remiss not to acknowledge it.

I finished my most recent book. I got into PitchWars and made a great friend in my mentor, Emily Martin.

 
AND THEN ... I signed with potentially the coolest agent ever, Maria Vicente.

[There was no silent-screaming-excitement GIF beautiful enough for this moment. Just imagine whatever you consider to be simultaneously the most exciting, the loveliest, and the most Zen, and insert it here.]

[Have you done it?]

[Thank you and namaste. Eeeeeee!]

Seriously, check out her Instagram. She's smart (duh), she loves my book (what?! get outta town...), and she loves cats and books and Buffy and comics, what else is there to know?!

OK, here's a GIF anyway.

YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY

That secret news I keep alluding to over and over again? Well, that's still a secret, unfortunately, but I still feel pretty good about it. And someday I might actually be able to tell you all about it!

I think I am both the fox and the girl in this GIF.

AND THERE'S MORE!

I skied several black diamond runs. (Yes, they were at Brighton, a fairly easy ski resort. Yes, I fell down a lot. No, neither of those facts changes my level of smug self-satisfaction.)

I taught a class on descriptive writing at LDS Storymakers. I ran a dirty dash 5K (poorly, but completely). I finished remodeling my kitchen! I had no new fights with my neighbors. I baked several lovely cakes! Spencer is snuggly and happy as always. I was financially responsible (mostly) and if I do say so myself, I'm kind of knocking it out of the park, Secret Day Job-wise too.

Things are not always perfect (understatement alert) but my family is the bomb.

I have really great friends across the board. If I could give them all Leslie Knopeish nicknames, I would, but this post would become absurdly long. So let's leave it at this, friends and family: I COULD JUST HUG ALL YOUR FACES OFF!*

* IF I DIDN'T GENERALLY HATE PHYSICAL CONTACT!

So until next time (hopefully sooner than a month from now), this is Ru, expressing her thanks to the universe and signing off.

This is just because it's adorable.

The after

The To-Do List

I have a bad habit of making big plans.

It's a bad habit because, although I can almost always follow-through (eventually), I tend to get overwhelmed in the meantime.

Take my yard, for example. It's not huge, but when you break it down into it's composite parts, I have a parking strip, four flower beds, a front yard, a back yard, a rose arbor, and a garden box that I should be taking care of. And every spring since I've bought my house, I get really fired up in April and start weeding and fertilizing everything -- but as someone with minimal gardening skills, it has never really come to much. At some point during the summer, I suddenly realize the magnitude of a parking strip, four flower beds, a front yard, a back yard, a rose arbor, and a garden box, all of which look terrible, and realize there's no way I will ever dig myself out of this hole.

I am hoping I have learned my lesson this year, and am focusing my efforts on only two things: improving the lawn in the back yard and properly xeriscaping the parking strip. But even with those limited goals, it's hard not to remember all the failures of summers past and feel like any effort or money expended will just be a waste.

Organizing my kitchen, post-remodel. Eating healthy. Working out. Saving money. These are things that should be easy -- things that are, in fact, easy -- but that I can't think about too much, or else I'll realize how poorly I am doing at each of them and lose my enthusiasm. Cue a weekend of marathoning The Americans and eating Ben and Jerry's. 

Weirdly, I have no problem keeping my goals little when it comes to lawyerin. Take one thing off the To-Do List at a time, whittle it down bit by bit. First this project, then the next one. Assess the To-Do List at the beginning of the day, and again at the end. Do a few little things whenever you can, and it will result in a big thing eventually.

When it comes to my writing habit, however, I (very unfortunately) tend to fall more into the gardening camp than the lawyering camp.

I had a goal for 2013 -- finish drafting two more books. This weekend, when my busy season at work simmered down, I opened up my drafting files to assess my progress so far.

Would you like to know how many works-in-progress I currently have in various states of beginnings, middles, and ends?

(I'll warn you. It's embarrassing.)  

...

...

...

Sixteen.

That is SIXTEEN ideas for novels that have been mulled over, outlined, partially drafted, and left in a dropbox folder titled simply "projects."

And in my defense, two actually are near-complete stages. If I could focus on those two, I could meet my 2013 goal, just six months late.

But those fourteen other files just sit there, like an unpruned rose arbor, reminding me that I have dug myself a hole that will be very, very, very difficult to climb out of. And (as much as I hate admitting this -- both out of personal pride, and the fear that someday an agent or editor will find this blog post and realize how pathetically inefficient I can be) the feeling of being in a giant hole makes it very, very, very difficult for me to focus on little things, whether it's xeriscaping a parking strip or completing one draft that is really only 10,000ish measly words from being done.

I know this post is a bit of a downer. I wish I had a happier note to end on.

But sometimes you just have to admit you're in the hole before you can start to climb out.

Check out the before

In case you were wondering about one of the many reasons I've gone MIA on this here blog for the last few months ...

I've made a terrible mistake

People, you know how mamas are supposed to tell their babies not to grow up to be cowboys?

I'm here to tell you, don't move into neighborhoods filled with people who have too much time on their hands.

I have been reported to the city for having a messy yard.

My neighbor also threatened to sue me a few months ago. I didn't blog that one in detail because I was too angry and anxious at the time, but here's how the story goes:

I had the big trees ripped out of my yard today, at the suggestion of both my neighbors. It cost $2,500. My brother Charlie stayed at the house while I was at work and overheard my neighbors talking about how they're going to sue me because I didn't get their permission to have "heavy machinery" on their (read: OUR) driveway and the landscaper's cherry picker left a SKID MARK on the ground.

Repeat: on the ground.

So that night, when my neighbor came over to my house to yell at me because someday his cement might crack (in Utah, where temperatures freeze in the winter and boil in the summer) and that will be all my fault because a cherry picker once spent thirty minutes on his cement (and the fact that he parks two boats, a motor home, a F-250, and an SUV on it on the reg is apparently irrelevant), I told him to go ahead and sue me already.

Most lawyers, myself included, would recommend against encouraging people to sue you. Suing is, generally speaking, a bit of a hassle. But frankly, I was in no mood to be threatened with a bogus lawsuit. As my neighbor blustered about his "potential THOUSANDS in damages"* to his cement, I calmly pulled out the proof of the landscaper's million dollar insurance policy and told him to get off my porch.

(And then later panicked because OH MY GOSH, I JUST TOLD A CRAZY PERSON TO SUE ME.)

A week later, Hannah moved out of the house. I decided not to go camping over Labor Day weekend, as I'd planned, so I could help run interference with her and our neighbor. While we didn't actually end up having a fight, he did sit on his porch for fifteen minutes, swearing and yelling at us as we loaded up her aunt's truck with furniture.

That neighbor and I haven't spoken beyond "Merry Christmas" since this summer, but don't you worry, he finally got his revenge on me. Today, in fact.

When he called the city today to report me for failure to get a permit before knocking down the dividing wall between my kitchen and dining room.

Now, to be fair, I was supposed to get a permit. (I didn't know I needed a city permit for a cosmetic alteration to my own house, but that's a story for another day.) But the point is, my neighbor had to get on the city's website, look up my address, find out I didn't have one, and then call the city to report me. That's a whole lot of steps to take out of sheer spite.

Don't worry, it wasn't that big of a deal. I went down to the city this afternoon (I will be working quite late tonight to make up for that little detour) and two hours later I got my $200 building permit. And then out of curiosity, I checked the permit site myself, to see if my neighbors got a permit for their new fence. (They didn't. I won't report them though, because I am not terrible.)**

But seriously, it's a life lesson to us all.

Avoid people who have nothing better to do than mess with you.


* Spoiler alert: Speculative damages are not real damages. This message brought to you by law school.


** If you live in Salt Lake City, here's something you probably didn't know: You need a permit to do ANYTHING to your house other than paint the walls and carpet the floors. You want a new door? Permit. New fence? Permit. New windows? You betcha. Don't even get them started about tearing down a non-load-bearing wall.

And the thing is, while I understand that this is the sort of thing that drives otherwise normal people to become libertarians (joke: please don't come after me, libertarians), I'm not even annoyed with the city officials. The inspector and the folks at the permitting office were as nice as can be. They didn't fine me over my ignorance, though they could have (a fact I'm sure will rankle my neighbor), and very kindly gave me a day to fix the permit situation before citing me for my failures. 

So it's not the city I am annoyed with. What I can't understand is what drives some people to live their lives looking for an unearned payout and opportunities to dick people over. I am quite sure that no matter how long I live, I will never figure that one out.

At least it's good writing fodder.

Remodeling

The blog has been silent as of late, but that doesn't mean I am not learning life lessons all over the place. Oh, no.

Take this one, for example.

IKEA is great for many things -- inexpensive furniture and meatballs being the best examples. They are not great, however, at efficiency or accuracy.

Take my new kitchen remodeling project, for example. It took IKEA three tries to deliver all the cabinets and parts I'd ordered, and once I began opening boxes, I realized immediately that at least one was wrong.

The best part of this story was that I let the IKEA people sucker me into paying them $200 for them to design my kitchen, because that way, "Nothing would be wrong when you go to checkout."

Oh, IKEA. Oh, you kidders.

Or the countertops I ordered. They waited until I was about to pay -- having already planned and scheduled the remodel -- to tell me that the pale gray quartz I wanted was on back-order until February. (For the record, I paid IKEA in November and spent TWO sessions with their kitchen planners before they mentioned this. That's one long back-order).

I ultimately ordered the IKEA countertops, hoping there would be an update (or a miracle). There never was, and when I went back to the store for the fourth time last weekend to cancel my order it took a half dozen (no exaggeration) different employees to refund my money.

Of course, all this drama has to be balanced against the fact that IKEA is cheap as hell and relatively easy to assemble. But if you, like me, find the failure of others to do their jobs supremely irritating -- to the point of near-rage-blackout-levels -- maybe live with the 1960s-era kitchen until you can afford the custom job.

Why, is that beige and red checkerboard underneath your old yellow linoleum? Indeed it is!

But either way, stock up on face masks.

Won't you be my neighbor? Part 2

A day after I received the certified letter from the city, Hannah and I were out working on the yard. One of our few Good Neighbors (TM -- trademarked because they are so very rare) popped over to explain, apologetically, that he had seen a car with a city seal taking pictures of the yard, and did we want any help? We said we were good, but thanks.

In order to offset the bad karma we were about to receive by unleashing dog urine on Bad Neighbor's parking strip, and parking in front of her house whenever possible (yes, INCLUDING when spots closer to our own house are available), I decided that we should probably bake Good Neighbor some cookies.

Sunday night, around 8:30pm, Diego and I walked Spencer over to Good Neighbor's house and rang the doorbell. Spence was off-leash, as I am trying to teach him (in small doses) that he is to stand by me on walks and not run off after every butterfly that catches his eye.

After waiting a few minutes, we decided they must not be home, so we turned back. As we reached the sidewalk, the door opened to reveal Mr. Good Neighbor standing there in his robe.

"Oh hey, I brought you cookies to thank you for ... ya know, being so nice and everything," I blurted out, running back up the steps and shoving the plate of cookies at him. "Sorry to wake you!"

(Here's where my brain automatically wanted to add ... Or interrupt you. Rawr. Because, come on, it was 8:30pm.)

"Oh, umm, thanks," he replied, seeming very uncomfortable. I don't know if it was the robe, but he was definitely not glad to see me and Diego standing there.

So of course Spencer chose that moment to run into the neighbor's house.

I froze, looking at Mr. Good Neighbor. He looked at me. And then I made a split-second decision, and perhaps it was not the right decision.

I followed Spencer into the house, hissing, "Spencer!" as loudly as I could--because for all I knew, Mrs. Good Neighbor was inside sleeping.

Of course he didn't listen to me. A new environment is like puppy crack -- so many smells! The dog who normally would have run over to me if I'd raised my eyebrows in our house was waaaaaay too busy investigating Casa De Good Neighbor.

After running through three different rooms (and yes, my panic grew larger every time I crossed another threshold, I finally caught Spencer and we ran out of the house as quickly as we could. Mr. Good Neighbor waved half-heartedly as Diego and I quick-stepped it back to our house.

The worst part of the story is coming up in Part 3: Ru realizes Mean Neighbor might be innocent ... but hey, still kinda mean.

Won't you be my neighbor? Part 1

Things have not been going so smoothly around the Casa De Diego, Hannah, and Ru lately.

For the last 3 - 4 weeks, the weeds in our yard have gotten out of control. I don't wish to downplay this in any way -- we've honestly joked about them becoming sentient, overrunning the house, and killing us for our worldly goods.

I don't know exactly what happened. We spent one weekend meticulously caring for the yard and it looked (briefly) awesome.

And then all three of us got crazy busy at work.

And then Diego left for a week-long vacation.

And then Hannah did, too.

And I spent a few days taking off work to write.

And the next thing you knew, the weeds were the size of a kindergartener. It was the worst it has ever been - they literally sprang up over EVERY SQUARE FOOT of lawn, killing every other plant and rising up like a botanical horde ready to invade Russia.

So Diego and I made plans to attack the yard during the long July 4th weekend. We knew it was going to be ugly, but we also knew it had to be done.

On July 3rd, Diego weeded half the yard while I was at work.

On July 5th, I was putting on my own yard-workin clothes when I got a knock at the door from the postman -- certified mail. 

One of my neighbors (you may remember her from this story) had reported us to the city for violating the weed ordinance. We had seven days to remove all the weeds or be fined several hundred dollars, and that one letter would be our only warning of the calendar year. If the weeds ever grow over 6 inches between now and December 31st, the city will swoop in, cut that weed down for us, and send us a bill for their services, plus a fine.

To say that I blew a gasket would be understating things.

I raged to Diego about how I didn't want to give our neighbor the satisfaction of watching us weed -- I would weed in the dark of the night, damnit! I would wake up at 7 AM every Saturday and Sunday to weed-wack, edge, and mow, just for the satisfaction of depriving her of sleeping in!

Because while I acknowledge that my yard was, yes, truly hideous for almost a month, I just don't see why someone would leap straight to informing the authorities.

Although, considering the source, I suppose it does make sense.

This particular neighbor is a grade-A busybody, and I have tried for nearly two years to please her. She doesn't like Hannah and I walking our dogs by her house. (She lives two doors down, which means we have to walk across the street then back across the street to get home.) She doesn't want the dogs peeing on the parking strip near her house -- which, to be clear, is not part of her property. She doesn't like anyone parking in front of her house, even though she has a carport. She will put her trashcans out two days early to prevent people from being able to get a spot. She spies on her neighbors and then brags about it. She has told Hannah that our neighborhood used to be a nice neighborhood, but it's really gone to hell in the last few years. (The only people to move in during the last few years are ... us.)

This woman has yelled at me, Diego, Hannah, Hannah's boyfriend, and various other friends who visit our house at least a dozen times. And each time, I try to find a way to accommodate her craziness.

No more. You know how Spencer has to pee between 6 and 8 times a day?

Guess where he's going to be doing it from now until the end of time.

Ode to my weekend

There were lots of things I planned to do with this weekend.

I was going to finish revising a couple of projects. I was going to decorate for Halloween. I was going to do some yard work. I was going to finish my Halloween costume and go to a party. I was going to the Blackout game when Utah played Cal.

Instead ...

The basement flooded Saturday morning,* prompting many shrill phone calls to a plumber. I showered at Diego's grandma's, hopeful that the problem would be resolved swiftly and additional weekend plans need not be derailed.

Long story short = not swift and definitely derailed.

I must say, the best part of adult life is saving up for a kitchen remodel only to need your money for potential dog brain surgery ... and then redoing your plumbing.

(Farewell, kitchen dreams. May we meet sometime around 2015.)

And planning a patio for your backyard, and spending weeks meticulously completing it, only to find out you need to jackhammer through the cement so the plumber can reach the buried valve he needs.

(Farewell, sweet patio. You were actually a giant pain in my butt, and it gives me a sick sense of pleasure to destroy you.)

And then, the worst part of all. Diego and I went out to fetch breakfast for our intrepid flooded-basement-cleaner-uppers (namely, Hannah and her boyfriend). McDonalds is advertising something called "holiday pie" for 79 cents, and it looks delicious. But despite having it on the menu, NEITHER McDonalds we went to had any yet. No, apple is not ok.**



* I am positive this is a direct result of me making fun of Taylor Swift and undecided voters. I hereby repent of all my snarky opinions, with due and proper consideration, in perpetuity.

(Not really, obvs.)

** Yes, we went to two. It was a rough day.

I built that

And by "I," I mean "my dad, brothers, and I."

And by "built," I mean "started."

Yay patios!

Because this is just how life goes sometimes

Some weeks, everything goes wrong. This was one of those weeks.

Aside from a flooded basement, a malfunctioning vacuum, a tragically struggling strawberry patch, some work disasters, and some writing disappointments, there is something that smells horrible on the white rug in my living room.

Hannah, Diego and I cannot figure it out. Much scrubbing and Febreezing has occurred, to no avail. (Oddly enough, the dogs don't seem bothered by it, but then again, dogs love rolling around in dead things, so there's that.)

The carpet cleaning guy came out on Monday and told me if the smell wasn't gone in three days, he'd come back. He's coming back tomorrow.

Yesterday I had a root canal. After a childhood of zero cavities, my adult mouth has suddenly betrayed me. At 21 I had two cavities. At 26, those fillings broke and had to be replaced. At 28, it's apparently root canal time.

I was pretty nervous about the whole situation, having witnessed a root canal in high school as a part of shadowing assignment (blood! smoke! pulverized tooth dust! burning smell!), so my dentist called in a prescription for a single dose of Valium.

(Also, can I just say, the reason why we have a problem with prescription drug addiction in this country is that when a dentist calls in a prescription for a single dose of Valium, the pharmacy gives you 5. Lortab? 20. I wish I'd had my wits together enough to ask for Vicodin instead, since Lortab makes me throw up, but there you have it. I have 20 unusable Lortabs in my house now, so please don't rob me, drug addicts.)

For anyone who has never taken Valium, the idea that it is going to make you blissed out and calm is bunk. As I was driving to the dentist office, having taken my single dose of Valium, all I could think was, "I feel stupid. But I'm still smart enough to know that I am stupider than I should be. Is it weird that I can tell that my reflexes are seriously slower than normal, but I can't force myself to fix that situation? Sorry other drivers!

And also, I am still terrified at the prospect of someone drilling into my face, so Valium is a lose-lose situation."

On the upside, the dentist (apparently scared that I would attempt to bite his hand) gave me some nitrous oxide as well. And can I just say, I don't know if laughing gas is supposed to actually make you laugh, but it did make me fall asleep for an hour while someone chiseled into my nerve, so go team nitrous oxide.

After the root canal, I sat on the couch at home and attempted to eat some ice cream with the half of my mouth that was still functioning, and obsessed over the weird carpet smell.

I lit candles. I turned off the air conditioning. I opened windows and doors in an attempt to air out the room.

Nada.

I have to say, you know a smell is bad when it's less pleasant than recovering from a root canal.

I suspect that there's a weird metaphor for my life in there somewhere, but at the moment I feel too stupid to figure out what it is.

V is for very disturbed

Remember Bondage Barbie?

He's now emailed Hannah, asking to clean our house.

For the record, yes, there are pictures of me with Hannah on Hannah's profile, and Hannah with me on mine. (Rule for life: Never date someone who doesn't have group pictures of them and their friends. Never date someone who has an ab pic online.)

How wrong would it be ...?

(I know, I know. Pretty wrong.)

(But it is spring cleaning season ...)

Welcome to my hovel

Don't ever let anyone tell you home ownership isn't hard. 

Recently I decided to rewire the Casa so it wouldn't burn down on top of us.  You would think this would be a fairly simple, though time-intensive, process.

Or maybe you, unlike me, already know better.

So far the electrician has been out to my house six times.  Once to evaluate the house.  Twice to rewire the basement.  Once to rewire the attic.  Again, to continue rewiring the attic.  One more time to do some more stuff (I'm not sure what).

And he's coming back today.

The best part of having your house rewired (aside from the giant mess the electricians leave behind for you to clean up) is when the new wiring overpowers the old wiring and the ceiling electricity goes out all weekend.  Notice I said "ceiling electricity." So lamps and TVs work, but you better get used to showering and cooking in the dark, because my bathroom and kitchen are death traps without light. 

Last night I made spicy Thai noodles for myself, Diego, Hannah and Echo before The Bachelor came on.  We had to pull a shadeless lamp into the kitchen so I could cook by the light of one bulb. 

It looked like we were Romanian refugees.

I want to go to there.

the things to do

Do you ever look at your life and think, "I know this is all manageable individually, and yet collectively, I still feel like I've bitten off more than I can chew"?

The Casa

• Needs to be rewired, but according to the electrician I met with yesterday, will cost 50%-100% more than I originally budgeted.
• Did you know I have a rose archway?  I do.  I also don't know anything about roses, much less climbing roses.  But I do know my archway is severely overgrown and it has come time to hack away at it arbitrarily.

 

We're going to take over! Just like in The Happening!

• I need to get a door for my office.  And posts for my porch.  I'd explain this in greater depth, but basically now I walk through Diego's room to get to the office.  And my house is in danger of falling down in the next snowstorm.  No big.
• I also need to get serious about cleaning my room and organizing my office.  Enough said about those topics.
• (As a final note, does anyone else find formatting bullet points on blogger extremely difficult?)

Work 

So ... much ... needs ... to ... happen ...

Christmas

What is a girl with no money to do when it comes to Christmas shopping?  You might suggest something like thrift stores or homemade goods, but I have some really materialistic siblings, and that is not going to cut it. 

I can imagine Christmas morning, Echo offering me some DVDs, new earrings, and sweater ... and I give her the calendar I made on my iMac and printed off at work.  On the color printer. 

No, friends. Just no.


Writing

Remember what I just said about the office?  Well, back when I thought I'd only have to spend X on new wiring, I bought myself a lovely new computer for my office. As it turns out now, that was a poor choice.

But I digress.

When it comes to being creative, I need to have organized space.  (When it comes to being a lawyer, however ... well, let's just say my office does not reflect that personal ethic.)  But I am currently overwhelmed about the piles of books and electronics piled up in the office.  Am I the only one who has an extremely difficult time getting rid of wiring?  It's like hoarding for the electronics generation.  Who knows when I might need that Nokia phone charger again!?

And cleaning with Spencer running around is one of the greater banes of my existence.  I will be organizing a file cabinet ... he will be chewing on paperclips.  I will be trying to figure out why I have 15 ethernet cords.  He will be chewing the ethernet cords.

It's not a good combination.

But ... for all of you who were wondering when I'm going to get back to the subject heading of WRITING ... I do have a new sassy idea that I'm pretty stoked about.  So my writing to-do list looks like this:

• Sass up first 10 pages of old project, send to final agent.  If said agent does not care for said project, investigate Kindle Direct Publishing.  (Yes, it's happening.)
• Evaluate NaNo project.  (Official final word count?  21,000 words.  Yes, I'm terrible.  Suck it.)
• Start new project.
• CLEAN OFFICE.

 In no particular order.

Spencer

Yes, he gets his own to-do list.  You see, little Spence knows three tricks -- sit, down, and shake.  He's masterful when it comes to those tricks. An Olympian, if you will.

But does he come when called?  Only if you have cheese.  And can I get him to settle down when I want to eat dinner unimpeded?  Certainly not.  These are issues I must address if I want to be a good pet-owner.

And while I know it's frivolous, I also want him to learn to play dead if I point my gun fingers at him and say, "Bang!"  Because that is just damn adorable.

Finally, and perhaps most importantly, I have made a grievous error in my pet training.  Namely, I believe that people and pets should maintain separate sleeping spaces.  It's fine if you believe otherwise, but I think my bed should be a HUMANS ONLY zone.

But when Spence was neutered, he came home really dopey and in pain, so I let him sleep on my bed.  And the next night, when I realized he couldn't fit his coned head into his kennel, I let him sleep on my bed.

And this went on, for two weeks, until the cone and his stitches were no more.

So now, even though I don't want my dog to sleep on my bed, much less a dog that is inclined to start pacing three or four times a night to sleep on my bed (and yes that happens), Spence knows that if he starts whining at 3am every morning, my sleep deprived brain will inevitably cave and let him sleep in my bed.

He had a taste of the good life, my friends.  And there's no going back.

Which means every morning l blearily wake up for work with paws and puppy breath in my face, and mentally (and verbally) berate myself for cracking again and perpetuating the whining = special treatment cycle of bad behavior.

But at 3 am, I can be convinced of pretty much anything.

I need to figure out a way to make this not happen any more.

So I guess this all boils down to me saying that CHANGE SPENCER'S BEHAVIOR PATTERNS may be Number 1 on the To Do List.  Perhaps even before "prevent house from falling down."

I told you, I'm serious about this sleeping space issue.

What is the very worst part of _________?

When I'm lawyering, the very worst part of my job is checking citations and cross references. So. Boring. And yet ... so necessary.

The worst part of trying to be a writer is querying. Hands down.

The worst part of owning a house is trying to figure out where I've gone wrong in my attempts to winterize.

The worst part of having Spencer pie around is scooping out his food in the morning.  (Seriously, you thought it was going to be picking up poop, am I right?  That is pretty bad, but those bags are easily disposed of. The smell of puppy chow lingers on your hands even after you've washed them.)

Indulge the grumpers with me, people -- what are the worst parts of the things you do?  Never fear, we can talk about the best parts of things another day.

Tricky tricky

One of the many problems with home ownership is that a lot of people set out to screw you over, either deliberately or through their own negligence.

When I bought the Casa, my real estate agent recommended that we ask the sellers to include this Magical Insurance in their closing costs -- that way, if any major appliance or utility breaks down in the first year of home ownership, I can get it repaired or replaced for $60.

Well, a little while back my furnace stopped working.  The effort I went to in attempting "self help" shall not be recounted here -- way too long. 

The short story goes like this -- after awhile, I called my sorority sister Chrissy, who has a brother who does HVAC and recently located to New Denver.  Chrissy's bro spent a couple hours cleaning my furnace before letting me know that without the rest of his HVAC guy equipment, there was no more he could do.

But he told me to call my Magical Insurance provider and have them come out and fix it for a $60 fee -- and he told me there were two things that needed to be fixed and/or replaced.  But whatever I did, I wasn't supposed to tell the insurance company I already had an HVAC guy come out to look at it because they might try to invalidate my insurance.

So here's how the conversation went.

Insurance HVAC guy: Yup, looks like there isn't anything wrong.

Me: Oh ... really?  Because it turns on for a little while, and then turns off before it ever gets up to the right temperature.

Insurance HVAC guy: Are you sure?  It looks like it's going pretty well.  (At this point, he had been looking at it for roughly one minute.)

Me: Um, yeah, pretty sure. 

Insurance HVAC guy: Well, everything looks fine.

Me: Really?  There's not something wrong with that blower-motor thingy?

Him: Hmm.  I guess it is a bit dirty.  I could clean it, if you want.

Me: That would be super.  (And for $60, kind of the least you could do.)

Twenty minutes and a giant pile of dirt and cat hair later ...

Him: Wow, that was really dirty.  Well, everything should be in tip-top condition now.

Me: Oh.  So everything else is fine?  It's all clean and ... that temperature gauge isn't broken?  Because ... I googled it.

Him: (getting suspicious)



It's a fun game we played.

Spencer pie

Whenever I let Spence drive with me first without stuffing him inside a cage, eventually he climbs onto my lap.  (I know, danger, blah blah.)  I usually allow this because it's preferable to me strong arming him into the passenger seat while driving with one hand.

I used to think that Spence did this because he loves me and stuff. And then Diego and I took a trip to Home Depot, and within five minutes, Spence was climbing all over Diego.

As it turns out, Spence is just attracted to power.  Vroom vroom!

Home Depot update? Working dryer, still-not-working shower head.

Our long Amish nightmare is at an end

So in case you were wondering why there was a gap in my bloggage (and of course you were, because this biotch cannot shut up when it comes to the Internet), it turns out I was preoccupied with some housey-house stuff this weekend.

Namely, the fact that my house was 50 degrees all weekend.

Here's how the saga begins.  On Thursday night, it becomes obvious during a reality TV marathon (classy reality TV, for the record -- Heavy, not Keeping Up With The Kardashians) that the furnace is blowing cold air.  Our conclusion that the pilot light was out was correct; however, it was far from the only thing wrong with the furnace.

As it turned out, the gas company never turned on the gas at my house, and I didn't know since I was on autopay at my old apartment and I have no sense of fiscal responsibility because I rarely, if ever, check my online balances (please don't steal my identity, Internet.)  A snarky customer service representative berated me for my lack of foresight (though, to be fair to me, I did ask to have the gas turned on waaaaaaay back in June, and that seems like a boatload of foresight) and told me they could turn the gas on sometime Monday.

Thank goodness I grew up with all those stories of pioneers who froze their footsies off, because otherwise, I think I would have gotten quite hyperbolic over my ordeal of huddling under a comforter with Spence, pointing three space heaters in my direction, and turning on Scream 4 ... only to blow a fuse and be without heat or power.  Curse me for forgetting to buy that Duraflame at the grocery store!

The good thing is, the heat is on (sorta ... that's a longer story altogether) and three days without warmth gave me a lot of personal fortitude. I'm now totes ready that an apocalypse that is non-zombie based (e.g., Cormac McCarthy apocalypse).  I ordered my Dutch oven on Overstock yesterday.*



* Lie.

It's my pioneer heritage coming out

When things get rough and I don't know where to turn, I mentally redo my kitchen.

I mean, don't you think doing dishes would be a lot cooler if you had a red sink?

A slacker's guide to a housewarming party

So you've realized you're having people over in six hours, have you?

And you've realized you have no idea what you're doing?

Follow these simple steps.

1. Google "easy recipes" and find a bunch of recipes posted by smug jerks that are in no way actually easy.  Then hopefully you find this blog where I just go ahead and tell you the easiest of easy slacker BBQ menus:*

Gourmet hotdogs - hotdogs, buns, regular fixings, and then the "gourmet" part --coleslaw with BBQ sauce, mango salsa and teriyaki, chilli and crushed Fritos with cheese.

Step one: Grill hotdogs.
Step two: Assign someone else to artfully arrange fixings on the table.

Grilled pineapple - pineapple, butter, brown sugar, honey or brown sugar

Step one: Slice the pineapple into spears or rings (doesn't matter), put them in a Ziploc with 3 tablespoons of melted butter, a little honey, and a dash of Cholula or Tobasco.  (Some people also like brown sugar -- it's impossible to go wrong.)
Step two: Let marinate in the bag for an hour or so.  (If you weren't a slacker --  but you are -- three hours would have been a good choice.)
Step three: Grill.

Pulled pork sandwiches - pulled pork, bread

Step one: Go to Costco, buy a tub of Kirkland brand pulled pork.  If there's some Famous Daves BBQ sauce available, get that too.
Step two: Go to wherever you buy bread.  Buy buns.
Step three: Dump pork and BBQ sauce in a container.  (Crockpot works, if you like it warm.)
Step four: Assign someone else to artfully arrange fixings on the table.

Corn and black bean salad - this one will sound complicated.  It isn't.

Step one: Put 2 drained cans of corn, 2 drained cans of black beans, juice from 2 limes, diced avocado and red onion, and grated cheese (pepperjack or sharp cheddar) in a bowl.  Throw in some mango salsa and minced garlic if you're into that kind of thing.
Step two: Refrigerate, if you have time.  It tastes better when all the flavors have had a chance to get down with their bad selves. But since you don't have time, just know that everyone's going to be really impressed that you didn't do a bagged salad, so WELL DONE.

Appies - this is the easiest one of all.

Call your sister and friends.  Pressure them into bringing food, although you had told them earlier in the week that would not be necessary since you had such lofty goals.

Voila!  You now have Hannah's homemade guacamole, Kate and Ryan's famous meat-and-cheese tray,  donuts from that one place Echo really enjoys, and cupcakes from Sadie.

2. Leave work early.  You're not a real slacker until you've shirked some duty.

3. Go home, get your puppy.  You're a slacker, you're not heartless and he's been alone all day.

4. Do not let earlier Gchat conversation with friend Manuel dissuade you from attempting to assemble a grill and propane tank mere hours before your barbeque.  If the Battle of Waterloo was really won on the playing fields of Eton, all your future success will come down to your ability to put this grill together -- or find someone who can -- so MAKE IT HAPPEN.

5. Go to Unnamed Retail Outlet.  Thank the Unnamed Retail Outlet corporate gods they allow dogs in their store.  Pick which ever cheapest/nicest grill looks like it will fit in the backseat of a Yaris.**

5. Go to Costco. No, they don't allow puppies either, but fortunately you have a puppy that fits in a purse.  Buy the pulled pork.

7. Cable puppy in the yard.  Damn grocery stores!

8. Go to grocery store.  Buy everything described above.  Then do that stuff.

9. Call roommate. Have him stop at the liquor store on the way home from work. All non-Mormon, non-pregnant, and non-former alcoholic guests will get so smashed they'll think your party is FABULOUS. All the Mormons and prego ladies will be too polite to contradict them. The former alcoholics are usually grumpy anyway and there's nothing you can do about that.  

10. Make plans to go to the pool the next day, because you deserve it.


Still stressed out?

Here's a cute picture of someone trying to put aviators on Spence.

Awwww, little fella.

* Of course, the point is you don't want people to KNOW you're a slacker, hence the "just slightly more effort than minimal" required by these recipes.

** This is assuming, of course, that you don't run into the problem that I had at Unnamed Retailer - namely, that an employee would refuse to sell a grill on the basis that you don't have a large enough car.  Despite all my arguments, measurements, anecdotes about fitting a 42-inch TV in my backseat, offers to use multiple bungee cords, the employee refused to help me carry the grill to my car.

And have you seen my weak arms?  I can barely carry Spencer by myself.  So in my case, replace grilled pineapple with fruit salad, forget the hotdogs, buy double the pulled pork.


(All in all, it was a pretty solid party.)