Chesterland's Happy Ending

One of the first things I noticed upon moving to Chesterland is that there were a lot of spas. Like, a ridiculous number of them. Because after a day of shooting coyotes and burning large piles of rubbish in your backyard, who doesn't want a facial?

But one spa in particular, the Silver Spa, always stood out to me. It didn't look like much-- just a white house with a sign in front that said "All are welcome." About three minutes from my house, I drive by it constantly. But there was one thing that always bothered me about it.

"Why do you think that place is always open?" I'd ask Ben whenever we drove by. Because it was always open-- when I took the cat to the vet at seven a.m. on a Wednesday, when I drove to Drug Mart for a last-minute beer run at ten p.m. on a Sunday-- always.

"I don't think it is open," Ben would say. "I think they just don't turn off the sign."

"I think it's a whore house," I said.

And I was right!

Please feel free to congratulate me on my Columbo-like powers of deduction now.

Requiem for a Dying Computer

I came home to find the black screen of death on my computer today-- even more ominous than the blue screen of death, which at least has writing on it, the black screen just stares at you, a yawping maw of desolation and emptiness. "I ate your thesis," it says. "And all your pictures, and that live recording of Barenaked Ladies performing 'McDonald's Girl' that you worked so hard to find."

Luckily, Ben was able to resurrect the computer through a complex process of unplugging and plugging the power cord and hitting random buttons-- apparently, the escape key is now somehow imperative to the start-up of the computer for some reason, as is that weird Spanish squiggly button. But I know this laptop isn't long for this earth, so the time for harvesting its bounty has begun.

I actually discovered the black screen of death right before I had to drive to my parents' house to pick up a chainsaw, which isn't as interesting of a story as it sounds, so I'll omit it here. But on the way there, I found myself musing over what I really would have lost if I came back and the computer couldn't be saved. In the past, this concept has driven me to insane, panicky tears-- what if I never get to hear "Oh Sherry" again? But tonight, it didn't seem so bad.

After all, I did the smart thing and saved all my digital pictures to CDs the last time the black screen of death darkened my door, along with all my important word documents, including the fragments of the fabled John Boston Story, which is the worst novel ever written, and which I've been working on since I was thirteen, so at least that would be saved for the ages. And maybe it was time to admit that I never, ever wanted to hear "You Spin Me Right Round" ever again. I could rebuild my music collection, make it bigger, better, far less embarrassing ("Pray," by MC Hammer? Really?).

But thanks to the random button poking of my computer savvy husband, I have been given a second chance. Maybe now I can finally use this computer to write something of substance-- my entire thesis was actually composed on my old computer, and the John Boston story was from the computer before that. Maybe, in its dying days, this computer can become home to my masterpiece.

And then, just to be a dick, it will eat it.

I'm all that.

Today I found out that someone hates me.

This, in and of itself, does not really phase me; I have been the object of hatred from time to time, mainly because of my awesome good looks and obvious modesty. The actual problem I had was with the reason given for said hatred: apparently, I believe myself to be "all that."

This struck me as bizarre on many levels-- mainly, I was unaware that people were still considering themselves "all that," since that particular statement has gone the way of "talk to the hand" and my least favorite, "don't go there, girlfriend." (On a side note, please don't ever refer to me as "girlfriend;" I can be considered a girlfriend, as in "My girlfriend Kim thinks she's all that," but I do not accept being called "girlfriend" without a proper article attached. Perhaps this is one of the symptoms of considering oneself "all that.")

Secondly, as a person who pretty much made a career out of explaining my lameness and serious personality flaws to anyone who would listen, I resent being considered one who thinks of themselves as "all that." I'm kind of the opposite of all that-- I'm like the least threatening person on the face of the planet. I posed with a dead stuffed lion in my senior pictures! That is the exact antithesis of "all that"!

So please, if you must hate me (which you really shouldn't, because I'm totally really nice!), please don't do it because you think I think I'm "all that." If anything, hate me for my wicked Guitar Hero skills. Those really are all that.

Oh, grow up

Yesterday, at a cookout at my Aunt Emily's house, I caught myself being an adult.

Somewhere between discussing home decor with my cousin Jennifer and trying to determine if my new prescription for Flonase (to aid in my attempts to reduce my new, scary slack-jawed mouth breathing habit) was going to give me a nosebleed, I found myself sitting on the cement patio, watching my cousin Anthony's baby crawl around, saying "You know what's weird, is that we crawled around on this exact same patio when we were babies."

And it is weird-- not just because it's actually probably not a good idea to let babies crawl around on cement pads. It's because it's time. We're it. We're the new babymakers.

This is something that I just kind of assumed was not going to happen-- I figured Anthony, Jennifer and I would just continue to be relegated to the basement, play Root Beer Tapper on their Commodore 64 and do tumbling routines on that old piece of foam furniture that I discovered years later was actually universally described as a Flip and Fuck.

But then one year for Christmas I began receiving underwear (which I still stubbornly choose to call underpants in secret) in my Christmas stocking instead of My Little Pony accessories. This should have been a major hint at what was to come. The Grownupification of the Shable family children.

In what I choose now to view as a desperate attempt to stave off this process, and not so much a testament to my supremely annoying personality, I managed to hold out the longest, wearing my Simpsons t-shirts and watching professional wrestling far beyond what is actually socially acceptable. But now even I'm married, and one day in the not-too-distant future, an Oja baby will be scraping its not-yet-fully-formed kneecaps across that patio.

This doesn't mean I'm not looking forward to it by any means-- if Anthony's kids are any indication of how fun mine will be, it will definitely be a blast. But I'm going to ask Aunt Emily to hold off on the gifting of underpants for as long as she can, because the slow realization that I am, in fact, an adult, is sort of freaking me out in a way that makes me want to call Anthony and Jennifer and see if they want to play Scooby Doo one more time before we all have to get accountants and open mutual funds and worry about our lawns. I won't even fight to be Daphne, that's how serious I am about this whole endeavor.

I spotted this fake fingernail outside the women's restroom at work after lunch today. I wanted desperately to stop and take a picture of it, because it's not everyday you see an appendage, fake or otherwise, just lying on the floor somewhere, but I was with a bunch of girls from my department and didn't want to appear macabre.

So I had to launch a recon mission later in the day to return and capture it with my camera phone, which was harder than it seems, because our main reception area looks out on the bathrooms, which I imagine provides no end of enjoyment for our receptionist.

Disgustingly, but not surprisingly, the nail was still there-- I suppose no one wants the job of squatting down in front of the ladies' bathroom and, with their bare hands, picking up and discarding a Lee press-on. After loitering nonchalantly for a few moments as several people wandered through the entranceway, I was able to snap this stunner.

I'm not entirely sure why I'm so fascinated by the presence of this nail-- I suppose it has something to do with the questions it dregs up, namely:

1. Who still wears Lee press-on nails?

2. Who could lose one and not notice?

3. If they did notice, why did they not pick it up? It did, after all, come unstuck from their own hand, which means that they of all people should feel the obligation to pick up after themselves.

The real test will be to see if the nail is still there tomorrow morning (it was still present at 5:05, when I left this evening). If it's not, I'm going to pretend that our cleaning lady spotted it and, finding it chic, affixed it to her own pinkie, ensuring that her pimp hand would be strong.

The Very Hungry Kimmerpillar

In an effort to get back on track with my life after months of house-based neglect, I decided to go to my doctor and get a physical, because:

a) My body is a finely honed machine that needs maintenance like any other other superbly-crafted apparatus

b) Secretly, I constantly believe that I have contracted some sort of horrible disease, like typhoid fever or lupus

c) I've been having a lot of trouble breathing through my nose lately, which is turning me into a slack-jawed yokel.

So since I was going in for a battery of tests anyways, I figured it would be a good idea to have some bloodwork done to ensure that my cholesterol and sugar levels were okay (and that my blood had not been replaced with concentrated amounts of Hawaiian Punch, which would be disgusting, but tasty).

Blood work, of course, requires you to fast for twelve hours to ensure that your tests aren't tainted by any of the sugars or fats from food that you eat (and since my diet consists almost entirely of sugar and fat, this seemed especially important in my case). So while a normal human being would schedule their physical for eight in the morning, requiring very little actual fasting, I chose to go at 4:15 p.m.

Why? Partially because I wanted to be able to leave work early, because a little blood-letting is always preferable to suffering through late Monday afternoon at an insurance company. But partially, I imagine it was also because I enjoy constantly informing people of any agony I may be in, and fasting offers a multitude of opportunities to remind people that you haven't eaten in fourteen hours. You're going to Chipotle for lunch? Sorry, I can't-- I'm fasting.

You'll note that I never actually tell anyone why I'm fasting, thus giving off the false impression that I am on a hunger strike for the people of Tibet. Not that I am particularly known for my symbolic acts of dissension, although I have successfully managed to never see an episode of Navy NCIS in protest of the fact that it stars my arch nemesis, Mark Harmon.

Ultimately, though, the fasting was less impressive to my co-workers and more of just a giant pain in the ass for me, as I apparently require food every thirty-seven minutes in order to remain functional, like a rusted-out car with a gas leak. At one point I attempted to fill my stomach with water in an effort to feel full, but this merely resulted in me being really, really cold and full of pee. I also worry that I might have incurred a mild case of water intoxication, as I have never really found auditing so funny before.

But I persevered and made it through to the blood-letting, after which I crammed my face full of crackers to hold me over until I made it to McDonald's, where I ate enough food to tide the US ladies' gymnastics team over until the closing ceremonies. Full of chicken and soda and potato-esque product, I drove home, a crumb-covered testament to good health.

Dear Evil Cable Corporation,

First off, please just let me apologize for writing this on the back of a Burger King bag; I have been unable to order my favorite stationary for the last week or so, because our Internet is out, and I believe it to be all your fault.

Okay, maybe it was our fault at first. Maybe we spliced a cable we shouldn’t have in an effort to supply precious, life-giving cable television to another room of our house, so Ben would no longer be forced to sit through countless episodes of I Love Money on VHI. We did that, and then the Internet didn’t work. Okay. Our bad.

Then we had to call you for help, which really means talking to The Demonic Machine—one of those recorded ladies that asks you questions like “Did you turn off your computer?” and then, when you scream at her, “YES, I TURNED OFF THE FUCKING COMPUTER, YOU PRERECORDED RETARD!”, she says, “sorry, I didn’t quite catch that.”

And when we finally got to a real person, we were informed that no one was coming to fix the Internet until at least Saturday. Thus, an entire week passed with Ben and I falling further and further into Internet-deprived depression and despair, until finally our house was like the last few days in Lord of the Flies, with an old computer monitor stuck in our front yard with a crudely shaved stake.

But then—salvation! In the form of Randy, the Perfectly Acceptable Cable Repairman, who had the whole problem fixed within ten minutes, giving us a full day of glorious, glorious Internet access. Thank you, Randy! If you ever return to my home, you will be greeted at the door by several comely virgins, as a mere “thanks” can’t possibly explain our gratitude.

Sadly, though, it was not to be.

Yesterday evening, I returned to my computer after a long day of painting Ben’s basement office only to find the ominous absence of the “online” button from the front of the modem. No service!

And so I ask you, Evil Cable Corporation, what you intend to do to make this right. Merely fixing our Internet is no longer enough—I have spent so long without it that I have become feral, getting my gossip fix by following the exploits of Lucky on the back of my Lucky Charms box and crafting e-mails from leaves and twigs I find in my backyard. It may be too late for me—I might actually have to go back to living off the Internet grid, a terrifying prospect that I haven’t had to look in the face since 1996.

Look at me! I’m even having to blog from work. FROM WORK! Every blogger’s nightmare—what if the boss catches me? Or that weird coworker that always peers at my computer as if she’s trying to see into my soul? I cannot allow this to continue!

My first request is the hearts of each of your children brought to me on a platter made of the deeds to all your homes. I will stick a leaf in your mailbox once I have come up with a second request.

All best,
Kim

Blog, Interrupted

Just when I thought I was in, they pull me back out-- the internets are down at my house for the foreseeable future, and (other than this emergency posting), I don't like to blog at work. I'll be back as soon as I can, but to tide you over, here is a brief tidbit-- last night, I had a dream that I lived with Michael and LaToya Jackson, and LaToya had to drive me to work because I couldn't get my car to turn off, and I didn't want it to die in the work parking lot, and Michael was super mad that I had broken my car again.

Life with the Jacksons, man. It's wacky.

Whatever Works

One thing that you are told when you move: your catalogs are not coming with you. (So long, Crate and Barrel, Gump's and Victoria's Secret!) What you don't realize is that that means you inherit all the catalogs that the previous owners of your house had forfeited upon vacating (Hellooooo, Lillian Vernon!).

And apparently, the people who lived here before us accumulated quite a few mail-order friends during their 30+ years of living here-- about seventy percent of the mail we've received thus far has included glossy pages picturing birdbath cleansers, pet stairs and sassy fashions for voluptuous ladies. But my new favorite catalog of all time is one that arrived yesterday, called "Whatever Works: Garden - Home - Pest Control."

While it, too, included pet stairs (because you never want your pets feeling excluded from the events in your house that take place at a height of about two feet), it also featured a variety of items that I had no idea existed, and now cannot live without, including:

1. Onion Goggles-- safety eyewear for those who fall victim to the evil stink rays of the nefarious onion. For contact lens wearers only, apparently.

2. The Super Kegel (tm) Exerciser-- which is sort of gross? Because I thought this was a sex exercise? And I'm really disturbed, because I can't tell if we're looking at this lady's butt, or her front. But apparently, aside from giving you awesome sex skills, it also has the added benefit of improving your bladder control!

3. The Escape Hammer-- which I can't believe my dad doesn't know about, because as Safety Man, it makes no sense that he would have allowed me to go all these years without a method of breaking my car window from the inside should I be caught in quicksand or trapped with a really aggressive bee. I'm particularly enamored of the man in the illustration, who so calmly wields the hammer and uses its sharpened indentation to cut his seat belt, all while thrusting his cheekbones out.

I think my favorite thing in the world would be to encounter a situation in which all three of these implements was necessary at once-- your bladder's about to fail while trapped in a car full of half-cut onions.

SoLong TiVo

In an effort to conserve cash and not become the kinds of homeowners who live in one room of their home, spending their free time sewing sock monkeys and watching cassette tapes of The Mikado on their VCRs by the light of a single, unshaded lamp (as I actually did spend one harrowing month in Wilmington back in 2001), we have had to make some cuts, and sadly, TiVo found itself on the chopping block this week.

This was depressing to Ben and particularly to me, as I had developed an almost gross love for the machine itself, with its happy glowing be-legged television icon and its Wonka-esque booping noises. After a rocky start, in which TiVo became convinced that we were middle-aged black people who enjoyed reruns of Martin and Amen (where are they still showing Amen? Does anyone even remember this show besides me? And TiVo?), we have gotten along famously. By the end, TiVo had introduced us to some of our favorite friends-- Bill Kurtis of American Justice; the guy who does all the voice-overs for the various Battle Against Nature shows on the History Channel ("Chase doesn't know it yet, but this could be the very tree that kills him"); the plucky interventionists of Intervention (my favorite: the one who always tells the drug addicts that they have a family "that loves them like crazy").

But Evil Empire Cable offers a vaguely similar, sort-of adequate faux TiVo (FoVo) for ten dollars less a month, and for some reason, adding it to our list of services somehow lowered our cable bill, not even counting TiVo, by another fourteen, so we had to let it go.

Not, however, without a fight-- Ben did some of the most strenuous flirting I have ever witnessed with the TiVo representative in an attempt to get the far superior Two-Shows-at-Once TiVo receiver out of her-- our logic being that if TiVo could out perform FoVo, we could keep it. The exchange went something like this:

Ben: Hey, baby.

TiVo Rep: I hear you want to cancel your TiVo service? That makes me sad.

Ben: I don't want you to be sad, Sugar Tits. Daddy wants you to be happy. And you know how you could make Daddy happy? With the Two-Shows-at-Once TiVo.

TiVo Rep: Aw, baby, you know I can't just give away the Two-Vo.

Ben: For me you could. Because if you do, we could make sweet love all night long. And I'll even scratch your back after. Awww, yeah.

TiVo Rep: Your offer intrigues me, as I enjoy making sweet love with TiVo fans. Let me see what I can do.

But sadly, in the end she could do nothing for us, even after Ben promised to wash her car in the nude and buy her the rights to the photos of Brad and Angelina's newest babies. (At which point, he called her a Tease-Vo and hung up on her.) (Also, please note: this conversation may not have actually occurred in this way.) So our TiVo box moulders, unplugged and dusty, on a shelf in our basement, while FoVo usurps its glory and spits in our faces by recording the same episode of Intervention four times for no reason. I loved the episode like crazy, but still.

Shaby's back-- back again

I. Am. Officially. Back.

Because as you may have noticed? I've kind of been maybe? A bad blog owner. Not just in my lack of postings, but rather in the quality of the postings that have gone up in the last, oh, say, year. Or so.

But get this-- I'm married. I did it. We bought a house. We did it. And until I have a baby, I can officially go back to being a normal human being. Of outrageously awesome hilariousness.

Throughout this whole getting married, buying a house process, I found myself really wanting to post on my blog, but not really having anything interesting to say. I contemplated deleting it, and just succumbing altogether to my life of audit manager-ness. But I could never bring myself to do it-- my blog is as close as I come-- right now, anyway-- to being an actual writer, as opposed to a relatively funny but mostly indistinguishable insurance drone.

That guy at work, that always tells the jokes, that comes to your cube and then won't leave and you kind of want to kill yourself? I was becoming that guy.

So once the move was complete, I decided-- the blog was back in action. And as evidenced by my severely awesome new background, you can see I totally mean business.

Since readership has dwindled to pretty much Ashley, Alan and my Aunt Kathy (hi, Aunt Kathy!), I realize I'll have to work pretty hard to regain your interest. But please, give me a chance-- I promise not to disappoint. And if I do disappoint? I promise to turn in my MFA and start studying for my CPCU (which, for those of you who don't know, is an insurance designation-- which means I just made an insurance joke, which means I have to go kill myself now, if you'll excuse me).

So please, if I promise not to talk about getting married, or buying a house, ever again? Will you please read this? Because I'm totally all about talking about anything but that, and if you're into it, too, you will be granted one ticket onto Battleship Awesome. For reals.

Ojas Versus Euclid: The Score So Far

Euclid:

1. Brown-out (one point)
2. Water stoppage (one point)
3. Garmin stolen (five points)
4. Recent citation demanding that we cut our grass, or pay a $150 fine (one point)
5. Sudden appearance of new crazy man named Pete living down the street who won't stop talking to me when I walk the dog (one point)

Total: Nine points

Ojas:

1. Acquired new Garmin, which will be carefully hidden, more than likely in one of my bodily cavities, until we have officially vacated the premises (one point)
2. Kim's Euclid city tax bill was inexplicably only $9.06 (one point)
3. Moved to a much nicer community with no grass-mowing related laws, where Garmin will remain safe forever (one bazillion points)

Total: One bazillion and two points

So HA! In your FACE, Euclid! You have been powned by our superior level of awesomeness

And don't forget...

...there are still six minutes left in Ashley's birthday, so wish her a happy one!

Happy birthday, man! I love you!

Casa De Los Ojas

...if this were the 1800s, and I were a man, I would be able to vote, because I am now a property owner! (And so is Ben. So I guess he WOULD be able to vote. Lame.)


Check out more pictures at our Snapfish site-- Snapfish gets no end of plugs from me, so some free pictures would be nice (ahem). We're in the process of moving in right now, so I may be gone again for awhile, but once we're in for good, I'll be back to blogging, so please don't leave, because without your comments, I die. Literally.

Clearly, God is angry that I haven't left Euclid yet-- ever since we started Operation: Get Out of Dodge, He has been inflicting us with a multitude of plagues, including the theft of my beloved Garmin (still pissed about that, by the way-- I've been wanting to drive by my new house all week, and without Garmin, I am incapable of finding my way there-- screw Mapquest, I'm done with that garbage!). Recently He decided to up the ante with a brownout, and tonight, I am without water due to a massive water main break about five houses down from mine-- a different water main, mind you, than the one that exploded on my street last year. Why are there two water mains on my street? Because Euclid sucks. That's why.

Even more distressingly, I was in the middle of a crucial load of laundry when the water was shut off, so now my outfits for this week are wet and soapy and no doubt forming some sort of crud crust down in my stinky filthhole of a basement. So now I have to break into my junior varsity clothes, which include a lot of polo shirts and ridiculously cuffed jean capris.

And more distressing still was the fact that I spent the whole day cleaning the house, and so was a disgusting smelly wreck-- "this is okay," I thought, "because once the house is clean I will shower and be a fresh morning lily!" Not so! Filthed up and sticky with cleaning residue, I drove the forty minutes to my parents' house, showered, and drove back, thus killing the evening I had planned to spend watching The Nanny Diaries, which I will most certainly not be allowed to watch once Ben is back in town.

So at least now I'm clean, and I have a gallon of water for teeth-brushing and hair-refreshing in the morning, should water not be restored. And I'm doing my best to avoid the inevitable situation that will develop when I need to use the bathroom. I think I can hold it for the next twelve hours, until I get to work. Right?

Robbed!

Dear Asshole That Stole My Garmin,

You're really lucky you got that when you did, because I'm about to move away. So I hope you enjoy the drugs that its pawning afforded you, unless you're actually using it to plot routes to some other, unrelated drug score, in which case I hope you enjoy the pleasant Englishman voice I programmed into it for you.

I do appreciate that you didn't take my CDs, and also that you very gently shut the car door so that I wouldn't wake up to a dead battery. That was really nice of you, really.

Since I will be leaving town in a few short weeks here, I would appreciate it if you didn't come back and try to take any of our other shit, although I imagine that I will likely spend most of my remaining evenings here hiding in the bed of Ben's truck with a baseball bat. You know, just in case.

In conclusion, I hate Euclid, and I hate you, and I hope your face is eaten off by vicious dogs (which are also abundant in this neighborhood, just to warn you). I would also like to give a special shout-out to the Euclid Police Department, who always stop patrolling our street as soon as school lets out (which would explain why we were robbed DURING THIS EXACT SAME MONTH two years ago).

All best,
Kim

The most heinous woman EVER

Today, driving home from work, Jeni, Erin and I encountered a woman driving a Rav-4 who was somehow driving, smoking a cigarette and PLUCKING HER MUSTACHE, all at the same time. It was both the most freakishly hideous display I had ever seen, and also one of the most deft.

Psych!

In an effort to thoroughly confuse everyone we know, we are currently in negotiations to buy that same house again. Yes, the exact same one. Because we are lazy, and looking for other houses is just too hard.

(Note: not really. Really, it's because I was so mad that we didn't get that house the first time that I had several satisfying dreams about burning it down, just so no one else could have it. So if dreams of arson aren't enough proof as to how bad I wanted that house, then you know what? I don't know what would be.)

This time around, negotiations seem to be going a lot more smoothly-- thus far, no one has threatened to auction the house off, and the new bank that we're working with actually returns our phone calls, which is an exceptional service that I feel more banks should provide.

I realize that I'm probably jinxing the entire thing by telling all of you about it-- I mean, I don't want to cast blame on any of you, but all I know is, I told you about the house, and then it fell through. So don't blow it for me this time, okay?

Hey, um, never mind

We ended up walking away from the house-- I think it was when they threatened to just put it up for auction even though we had a contract signed that really did me in. All in all, this all went quite possibly as badly as it could possibly have gone, short of the ghoulish corpses of Indian burial ground zombies rising from the earth, coated in shit from the bad septic system, to ensnare us and drag us back into their hellish abode.

Anyway. I'll tell you more about it when my eyes aren't so puffy, or my contacts seared to my eyelids. In the meantime, if you know of any houses for sale in the area with no fucking septic system, please call me. We're interested.

Indeed: Movin' on up!

We got the house! Pending inspections, mortgage applications, etc., that mo-fo is OURS. I'm still trying not get too excited, in case things still fall through, but secretly I'm redecorating the whole place in bold blues and greens in my head.

And also? Ben's going to be out of town when the house goes into escrow, so I might get to have power of attorney. Which means I'll have a superpower of sorts. Rad.