People who work in Corporate America are not kidding about Halloween. I just rode up the elevator with Ali G and the Hamburgler, who were both thrilled that I recognized their costumes. ("Everyone keeps saying I'm Zorro! It pisses me off! I am obviously SO NOT Zorro!" - Hamburgler)
There are a LOT of people in costume here, and one of them just came up to my cube, noted my lack of costume, and asked -- in a very "ha-ha-i-make-funny-joke" kind of way -- "so what are you supposed to be?"
I told him I'm dressed as a slightly awkward web geek. Every day is Halloween for me.
posted by Kate at 9:48 AM link/comments
Thursday, October 28, 2004
I had eggs with onions for breakfast, and the cook in the cafeteria here at work didn't sautee the onions long enough, and now I have that nasty raw-onion taste in my mouth. I'm experimenting with various ways to vanquish these ghosts of onions past from my palate. Mints don't work; neither does Red Bull or water. Decaf coffee, however, seems to be doing a respectable job. I think a nice spicy curry would do the trick, but I don't think I can get kashmiri rogan josh out of the vending machine. Pity.
I'm still not very busy at work, so I have nothing better to do than to ramble about minutiae. If I don't ramble about minutiae, I'm going to start telling you about how down payments and closing costs are calculated (there's a tax credit involved! and some crap about having to pay $20 a day in interest during the first month we live there, but not during the second! what the fuck!), and about how I now know all about how personal liability coverages affect homeowner's insurance premiums, and I'm pretty sure you don't want to hear about that.
I could also tell you about how my mortgage guy likes to refer to money as "jack," and he says it like "jee-ack," in that sort of affected way one associates with broad-shouldered alpha males who coach football and sell home loans. And that's exactly what he is, but somehow, he manages to not take himself too terribly seriously, so I find it oddly endearing. I'm even willing to look past the fact that he drives one of those Expedition SUVs that occupy more square footage than my first apartment.
On another note, if you've been thinking to yourself, "Hey, self, I sure could use a lot of useless tchochke," you should come work here. Over the past two weeks I have received the following, all emblazoned with company logo: 1 large die-cast model racecar; 2 of those foam squeezy spheres that you're supposed to use to combat stress; approximately 72 pens; about 40 notepads; a set of golf balls; a tote bag; and one of these:
Do you have any idea what this is? Neither did I. Marc thought maybe it was some sort of golf tee cozy contraption, and I totally believed him, because he and I know about as much about golf accessories as we do about forensic pathology -- possibly less, if you consider the thousands of hours we've spent watching Law and Order. Finally, a co-worker set me straight. It's a thingy that you attach to the sun visor in your car, and you hang your sunglasses from it.
Um. Oh. OK.
posted by Kate at 10:22 AM link/comments
Thursday, October 21, 2004
Just an observation:
When did REM and U2 and Cowboy Junkies and 10,000 Maniacs go from being "the cool music we listened to in high school and college" to "Adult Alternative." What does that label even MEAN?
posted by Kate at 4:53 PM link/comments
Tuesday, October 19, 2004
I knew going into this whole damned home-buying thing that the process was going to be expensive. I knew full well about down payments and closing costs, and before I was even able to think about down payments and closing costs, I had to sink a hefty chunk of bank into Paying Stuff Off so that the mortgage people would not smite me upon review of my credit report.
I assumed, quite foolishly, that all Big Ticket Costs would happen at the END of the process; like about four seconds before the realtor handed us the keys, I'd write a check for the down payment and closing costs, and everyone would stand up and shake hands, and Marc and I would go skipping off to our new back deck to sit in our hot tub (have I mentioned that our house has a HOT TUB?).
For the benefit of those who have never purchased a home, heed this: From the moment you start thinking about buying a house, people start lining up to take your money, and there is no end to it. Last week I had to plunk down $500 in "earnest money," which the realtor will tell you is so "you can show you're really serious about buying the house," but which is really wacky realtor talk for "we just wanna soak you for five hundred bucks up-front." The money goes toward the cost of the house, so it's not a complete piss-away, but the fundamental problem I have with the whole realtor "give-us-money-so-the-buyer-knows-you're-serious" argument is that if I weren't serious about buying the house, I probably wouldn't sign a binding legal contract that says "THIS IS A BINDING LEGAL CONTRACT THAT MEANS YOU HAVE TO BUY THIS HOUSE, AND YOU CAN ONLY BACK OUT FOR VERY SPECIFIC, VERY RARE-INSTANCE SORT OF REASONS. IF YOU DARE TRIFLE WITH THIS CONTRACT, THIS CONTRACT WILL BITCH-SLAP YOUR WHITE ASS BACK TO LITHUANIA."
In addition to the earnest money, tonight Marc and I will go to the house with our realtor and hand over $250 to an inspector whose job it is to climb around inside walls and on rooftops and whatnot so he can assure us that parts of the house that are attached to each other will stay that way. Somewhere in the middle of the two hours of inspection fun, Radon Man will show up and spend 30 seconds setting down a can of some sort of Radon-detecting material, then return 48 hours later to fetch his Can of Whatever to make sure the house isn't full of deadly gases. For this obviously high-tech and laborious process, I will pay Radon Man $135. Tomorrow, I will fork over $95 to some exterminator people so they can check for termites or "other wood-boring insects" that might be chowing down on the frame of the house.
Tomorrow at lunch time, I have an appointment to drive over to my mortgage guy's office and begin the Official Mortgage Process, which involves W2s and bank statements and paystubs and a notarized copy of my third-grade report card. It also involves writing another check for $350 for a "mortgage application fee," which I'm pretty sure means that the mortgage company is charging us for the privilege of charging us tens of thousands of dollars in interest when we take up ownership of the house.
By my calculations, this means that I have sunk over $1,300 into the home-buying process in the past 5 days, and I don't even own the damned house yet.
posted by Kate at 4:27 PM link/comments
Monday, October 18, 2004
I've decided that if I had to sum up my life's philosophy with two existing songs, those songs would be "Don't Panic" by Coldplay and "End of the Line" by the Traveling Wilburys.
I don't have much to do yet at my new job, which is why I have time to sit around thinking about these things.
And now, something entirely unrelated ...
When I left my old job, I went from having an office with real walls and a real door and a real window that could be opened and closed for climate control. Now I work for a Very Large Company, and every morning when I come in, a man dressed like a farmer grabs me by the ear and shackles my ankles to my stall in the CubeFarm. I am surrounded by 3.5 gray foamy cube walls with a doorway-sized opening so that I may exit the cube. However, to me this space looks very much like not only a cattle stall, but like a hamster pen as well, and the urge to lay down some wood shavings and put a wire mesh lid on my cube is almost too great to resist. I just haven't figured out yet how the hell I'm going to install the giant exercise wheel and an oversized version of those ticky-ticky water bottles.
To compensate me for this very obvious blow to my comfort level, the Very Large Company pays me a larger salary than did my previous place of employ, and that is very good. I'm still adjusting, however, to the idea that 40 hours a week in the CubeFarm means giving up all semblance of privacy I once had. I'm so very acutely aware of the fact that everyone who sits within 15 feet of me hears every word of my phone conversations of a personal nature. There are roughly 10 people, most of whom I know only on a first-name basis, who know the following information:
1. Marc and I have been trying to buy a house for a while now.
2. We were having trouble getting approved for a mortgage because at one point in my life, I was very, very stupid with money, and I had to get that all straightened out before I could get a pre-approval.
3. We got a shitty counteroffer when we bid on the first house we wanted to buy, and we had to reject it, because it was just that shitty [what kind of asshole counters to ask for $2,500 OVER asking price?!]
4. Our realtor in the above scenario was very shady, and we had to fire her and get a new realtor ... a realtor who doesn't do things like encourage buyers to sign really shitty counteroffers because the realtor's best friend is the seller's listing agent.
Thankfully, my co-workers are not privy to other sensitive information divulged on the workplace phone, because I was smart enough to run outside with my cellphone when I had to make an appointment for a pap smear. I really don't care if my co-workers know the first name of our loan officer, but I draw the line at them having knowledge of anything having to do with my pelvis.
That's my sage advice for today, kids. Never let your coworkers hear you talking about your pelvis.
posted by Kate at 4:14 PM link/comments
Friday, October 15, 2004
The last couple of weeks have been incredibly stressful. I'm having trouble eating, I feel sick to my stomach most of the time, my heart is banging away like the Blue Man Group, I've had one long headache, and I've been prone to inexplicable fits of rage and depression.
Which can only mean one thing.
We're buying a house.
Ha! You thought I was going to say I was pregnant, didn't you? I'm so not pregnant. Let me repeat that ... SO NOT PREGNANT. Not that a baby would be a horrible thing, mind you, but Marc and I believe firmly that babies need parents who are willing to part with things like weekend mornings spent sleeping until 11 and weekend evenings spent drinking large quantities of Shiraz. So no. No babies yet.
But! Yes! House! Not only are we looking for a house, and not only did we find a house we like, but five minutes ago, our agent called to tell us that the sellers accepted our offer. Did you hear me, world? THE SELLERS ACCEPTED OUR OFFER. Never have five words sounded so bloody wonderful, and I'd venture to say that those five words are right up there on my list of Favorite Sentences That Have Been Said to Me in the Past Two Years, right up there with "Will you marry me," "I do," and [said by my dad when my mom had to have a heart catheterization this summer] "Your mother doesn't need bypass surgery after all."
Provided the financing ducks and home inspection ducks line up in an orderly fashion, we will move into our new house ("our new house" -- ohmygod, how wonderful is the sound of that phrase!) in the second week of December, which gives me almost 2 months to obsess about furniture and where to put that really cool Chinese folk art watercolor we bought on the honeymoon last year.
This is our house:
We're getting a house!
posted by Kate at 2:03 PM link/comments
Monday, October 04, 2004
One year ago today, I woke up in Pawleys Island, South Carolina on a stunningly beautiful Saturday morning, and my first thought was, “Holy fuck, I forgot to print copies of the programs.”
About 8 hours later (thank you, Nat and Amanda, for taking care of that program thing!), I married Marc Farnsworth.
In the days and weeks leading up to the wedding, I had been riding the Wacky Bridal Train, freaking out about everything possible and generally acting like a complete bitch to the man I was about to marry. Marc, however, was cool and collected, and demonstrated only saintlike patience when faced with multiple instances wherein he had to wrestle me to the ground to prevent me from hurling sharp/fragile objects or hapless living creatures across the dining room.
Much to the awe of my immediate family members, I became the Calmest Bride Ever on the afternoon of the wedding. Once all the appropriate garments were on my body and once my friend Autumn finished applying what I would normally consider to be an unholy amount of eyeshadow to my lids, I grabbed my bouquet, looked at my parents, and said, “OK. Let’s go.”
Conversely, in those same very moments, Marc was losing his shit. At some point about 30 minutes before the wedding, Steve the Groomsman was sent in from outside (we were doing that “not seeing each other before the wedding” thing) as the groom’s emissary to ask me, please, if I happened to have any extra Xanax on me, because as I’ve mentioned, Marc was FREAKING THE FUCK OUT. And the thing about me is, I always have extra Xanax lying around, because I am a diagnosed Panic Freak, and sometimes I need some Xanax. So I sent Steve off to the parking lot to dope up my soon-to-be husband and stood around being reasonable and calm until it was time for the ceremony.
What I didn’t know at the time was that Marc was sitting on the curb outside with his entire face shoved into a bag of ice, because he was pretty sure he was going to pass out from nerves. Even the Xanax didn’t help. About ten seconds before the bridesmaids and groomsmen started walking out toward the wedding ceremony area, Marc was still sitting on that curb, and someone had to inform him that he might want to get off his ass and get the hell up to the altar, because that’s where everybody else was going to be in about 3 minutes.
It was at that moment that Marc, now even more panicked at the thought of being late to his own wedding, began to run at full tilt toward the altar, still clutching the bag of ice in his hand. At some point during his sprint, one of our friends yelled, “Marc, the ICE! Get rid of the ICE!” And Marc, being fully out of his mind at this stage, did not stop running to dispose of the ice bag. Instead, he flung it with all his might – while still RUNNING – in the general vicinity of the folding chairs that were set up for guests to watch the ceremony. By some strange wedding day miracle, the bag did not hit any of the guests, but instead hit the ground and slid neatly under an unoccupied chair.
The very moment I arrived at the altar, I took one look at Marc, who was by now ashen and red-eyed, and immediately reached out to place both of his hands in mine. Later on, people would tell me how sweet it was, the way I reached out to hold his hands during the ceremony. What I usually don’t tell them is that the reason I reached out and grabbed him was that I knew he was about to klonk right out in front of everyone, and I was not about to let that happen. That move saved the day. Marc did not go klonk, and 15 minutes later, we were Official Married Folk.
And then everyone had dinner and got completely loaded, and there was dancing and very silly behavior, and it was a very, very good wedding.
I tell you this story not because I want to embarrass Marc, but because it exemplifies the sort of person he is, and it says a lot about why I love him so much. Do you want to know why he was freaking out that day? It was because we wrote our own vows, and he was terrified that his just weren’t going to be good enough, or that I wasn’t going to like them. And thinking about that even now makes me tear up a little.
Of course you all know that I love him because he’s nice, and he’s funny, and he sure as hell isn’t hard on the eyes, but I know I don’t always do a good enough job of telling him – or the rest of the world for that matter – how much he means to me.
For that reason, here’s a short list of Silly Little Things I Love About Marc:
• His freakish, uncanny knowledge of European History. Keep in mind that this is a man who hasn’t quite finished his undergraduate degree, yet sounds like a goddamned Rhodes Scholar at the very mention of the War of the Roses.
• Like any good American male, he loves himself a beer, but is totally unafraid of admitting that he also [really, really] enjoys a good strawberry daiquiri from time to time.
• He makes the best French toast in the whole wide world.
• He cleans the cat litter boxes.
• Hand him a tin can, a box of straight pins, a rubber Halloween mask, and an electric power supply, and he’ll build you a computer out of them.
• He used to be a Republican, but he let me turn him into a Democrat. A staunch Democrat who sits and yells at the TV with me when Dubya pronounces it “newk-yoo-ler.”
• He puts up with me, even when I am crying about nothing or explaining in a VERY loud tone of voice that I will NOT, under any circumstances, watch any movie containing serious puppets. The Dark Crystal and The Neverending Story are out of the question, for they contain puppets that are serious. If you want me to watch puppets, let them be Muppets. No other puppets are acceptable, not even Meet the Feebles, because puppets that fuck are also verboten.
• I have never doubted, not even for a second, how much he loves me.
I love you, Marc David Farnsworth. Happy first anniversary.
posted by Kate at 2:24 PM link/comments