In Search of Mr. Right House

I've been house hunting for a while now. It was fun at first. Now, it isn't. It's been about six months of intense, hard-core home touring, comp evaluating, offer writing, nail biting, stress inducing schlepping. Yeah, after six months, that's what it feels like. Schlepping.

In the early months of the home search, I was full of enthusiasm and optimism. Every condo I saw seemed like the perfect fit. Just a metro or bus ride away from work and totally the place I could see myself wining and dining and relaxing in. I had visions of walking through doors and riding up elevators and arriving at each and every condo. The paint and the decor were all picked out in my head.

Then, I discovered comps and find out the dream places were over-priced. Then, I discovered new and transition neighborhoods and realized I could get more bang for my buck in a place that has yet to gentrify. Or, then I'd learn that the perfect condo didn't allow two dogs or find out that a small house with a yard was within financial reach.

I've burned through DC neighborhoods faster than a truck stop condom machine. You name the hood, I've been there. Toured the buildings. Seemed the crime rates. Learned the bus routes. Glover Park, Dupont Circle, Columbia Heights, Petworth, Pallisades, SW Waterfront, Eckington, Ledroit Park, Logan Circle.... you get the idea. Now, I've moved on to Arlington in the search that never ends.

I've written offers on three houses. On the first, in Columbia Heights, I got outbid. The second was a short sale that dragged on way too long so I withdrew my offer. The third, in Arlington, was overpriced... my offer was too low. And now, I'm thinking of moving to West Virginia and living in a log cabin surrounded by woods. Lots of woods. So much woods that I never have to see again anyone else who's ever bought a home.

I sometimes wish I could go back to where it all began -- to that cute little condo with parking and a patio. That I could be there now, with the paint and decor picked out, wining and dining. And relaxing. But, alas, house hunting is like dating. If you hold out for a better deal with a cuter guy, you often end up with no one. Or, in my case, no home. It's all about settling.

And so, this is how I've been spending my time for the last six+ months. This is all I've been thinking about and all I've been doing with my free time. I've become an obsessive bore. An obsessive bore in search of Mr. Right... or, Mr. Right House, as the case may be.

I Say "Ugh" to Craigslist Dog Boarders

I decided to save a few bucks and help out the little guy, and I responded to an ad on craigslist for dog boarding in some family's home-sweet home. You know, mom, dad, the kids and the cat. Needlepoint. Whitman's Sampler's. Win, win, win.

Not really.

I sent an email yesterday to see if everything was set. This is the message I received in return. (Lots of stuff redacted.)

Hi ______

I've recently come to the conclusion that I can't keep water-loving dogs because we have a small fish pond in our yard and water-loving dogs find it irresistible. One Lab mix actually jumped right in! I think it would be too hard for me to monitor the fish pond every time I let the dogs into the back yard. I'm pretty sure that _______ love the water. I'm sorry this won't work out. I hope you find a good situation for _______ and _________.

I forwarded the message to the Significant Other, currently in Munich. He responded, more eloquently than I. "What a freak. What dog doesn't love water????"

Yeah, so anyway, I guess I got what I deserved for almost entrusting the care of these two monsters to a complete stranger. They'll be checking into PetSmart's PetHotel. The end.

And I Expect Fisticuffs Soon

Metro's Orange Line, as of today, has become completely, totally, indignantly unrideable. We're no longer at standing-room-only, folks. It's crotch to crotch. Navel to navel. Every man and woman for him or herself.

It would be one thing if the trains were only crowded. I could live with it. People can't afford to drive their hummers 40 miles each way to work any more. I get it.

It would be one thing if the trains were only occasionally delayed. Yeah, it sucks. But it's life.

But seriously. Shoddy service and packed trains. Does it get any worse? Has anyone notice that our quality of life is depreciating by the minute?

Me, this morning, trying to not fall out of the rail car when it stopped at Rosslyn en route to DC. Me, to the girl in flip flops, who insisted on barging onto the train, when clearly there was no more room: "There really is no more room in here." Seriously, we couldn't move our elbows.

Girl in flip flops, pushing her way on, while more sensible Metronians waited for the next train: "Sorry, I don't want to be late to work."

Me, to girl in flip flops: "Here's an idea -- why don't you try waking up earlier rather than making an entire train suffer." Sorry, mob scenes bring out the nasty.

The ride home was far worse, but, yeah, I've done enough whining for today. Plus, I wasn't nearly as sharp and sassy. Only sad and defeated.

My Dogs Want Me to Lose Weight

Mmmmm..... donuts. I love 'em. I live for them. I wake up in the middle of the night to snack on them like a giant sloppy pig.

Apparently, my dogs share my fondness for the fatty. Or, as is more likely the case, they just want me to lose weight.

This (pictured right) is what I found when I returned home a few minutes ago. The last remains of eight uneaten donuts. Shredded cardboard. Taken from the top shelf.

Little bastards. Although, they may have a point.

Tragedy

I read this story earlier today and couldn't help but be affected by it for hours, saddened by the realization that no matter how many friends and successes one has, there's often no buffer between yourself and the absolute rock bottom.

It's the story of Dr. Ramon Gabriel Torres, a hero and pioneer during the decade of American history when AIDS was considered a swift, cruel death sentence. He was wealthy, respected, handsome, accomplished... he seemed to have it all. And then, he lost it all, thanks in large part to crystal meth.

I'll let you read the rest of the story, here. It's a sad one, for sure.

Almost

I was ready to blog, felt my self about to write something, and then I lost the inspiration.

Sorry, I've been trying to overcome this writer's block for almost a year now. I have so many things to say yet nothing at all to offer. Hmmm....

Politics, politics, politics: that's all anyone cares about. The election. The candidates. The debates. Yeah, what do I have for you that you can't get everywhere else?

I'll refrain from offering my opinions and hopes. I have a tendency to jinx candidates by supporting them. It's as if the cosmic powers assemble the moment I decide to support a candidate and then, instantly, cast doom upon that candidate.

True: you're all better off without my support.

Long Enough

After 92 years, this guy decided he'd lived long enough:

A 92-year-old man who jumped from a ninth-floor balcony to his death this morning has been identified as Floyd Snyder of Daytona Beach.

According to a police report, Snyder called the front desk of his residence in the Daytona Beach Ocean Towers and said he was going to jump.

A building employee went to Snyder's apartment and told him that she had his newspaper in an effort to get him to open the door. Housekeeping and maintenance staff tried to use their master key to get in, but couldn't because the door had been bolted shut.

Police were called shortly before 8 a.m. After Snyder jumped, a locksmith opened the door.

Daytona Beach police found a step-stool on the balcony, but did not find a suicide note.

I wonder what sent the poor man over the edge. (No pun intended, seriously.)

Was he terminally ill and unwilling to fight the ailment any longer? Did his great love passed away or, possibly, leave him for another man? Or was he overcome with sadness after the holiday season -- remembering the loss of so many friends and relatives over the years?

More musings on this topic, later.

Elderly man jumps from condo balcony, dies [Orlando Sentinel]

My Current Addictions

Clearly, I've settled in to old age just fine. Thanks go to makers of my current must-haves, which I couldn't live without (see below photos).

Coming soon: my critique on why the CBS show Jericho is, simply put, Touched by an Angel with nukes. (Yay! PAX TV! Yay!)

Sorry, Wrong Person!

I'm not a millionaire, and I'm not giving away money. Hopefully, the people posting comments to this old post realize this.

They will, otherwise, be grossly disappointed when, instead of a check, they receive in the mail a copy of my Sallie Mae statement.

Sorry, folks!

But, hey, if you know someone who knows someone who wants to pay off dear old Sallie on my behalf: let's talk! JUST KIDDING PAYING BACK STUDENT LOANS IS THE MOST FUNNEST, FUN, FUN THING I'VE EVER DONE!!

So Very

I haven't forgotten about this thing. I've just been so very bored by it.

This must ultimately be my fault because, as my dearly departed grandmother used to say, there not boring situations or places -- only boring people.

But I'll try to be a little less boring soon. And we'll share in the excitement together, naturally.

Until then, here's a little Bruce Weber-directed Pet Shop Boys musical action for inspiration...

What I Missed...

OK... I didn't really watch MTV growing up. I can't remember if this was intentional or not, but the cable box in our family room had only 30 clicks for 30 channels. MTV was 31-- beyond the reach of the wheel. VH1 was Channel 30.

You can imagine how cool I was during my teen years, knowing everything there was to know about Lionel Ritchie but having never heard of Nirvana. Right.

I recently saw the below video to Erasure's "Love to Hate You" for the first time.... I blame my childhood cable box for the delay in viewing it, but I can't be sure that this video was ever shown on MTV in the USA in the first place.

Nonetheless, I found the video brilliant -- and that's really all that matters.

Eat This, Malcolm Gladwell

This (pictured right) is Brett Ratner, creator of crap.

If you believe Malcolm Gladwell, our instincts are divine truth. The first time I saw Ratner's face (around the time he directed the hysterically dull Red Dragon remake/adaptation), I knew he was a huge shit muffin. Call me insightful.

The world will one day see the light.

Until then, enjoy marvelling at these milestones from Ratner's bio: "His previous credits include 'Money Talks,' 'After the Sunset' and Mariah Carey's 'Heartbreaker' video."

New TV Deal for Brett Ratner [Zap2it]

Nanki-Poo says, "Come, my poor fellow, we all have unpleasant duties to discharge at times."

I need a good chiropractor. My spine is no longer strong enough to support the expanding glob of fat that lives around it. A good massage might do, but my experience has been that the only people I want massaging me charge too much and only want to skip to the tawdry ending.

And yes, folks, I've returned to this here rusty blog for no other reason than to tell you how much my fat back hurts. I've also -- more importantly, perhaps -- deeply missed writing in a font called "Georgia." I guess you could say that "Georgia's" been on my mind. (Feel free to "gong" me at random.)

Coincidental to the reemergence of achy back, my best friend, S., called me tonight to tell me that I really should be watching Kathy Griffin's Double-D List show on a regular basis. Really? Really?

It turns out that Kathy vısıted Dublin on a recent episode and, while there, went to a gay club called "The George." Funny thing... S. (who's name I'm only protecting because it adds an element of mystery that's otherwise absent from this story) and I frequented "The George" a few years back.... during our younger, thinner days.

One night I was hit by a car in front of "The George," primarily because I raced across a busy thoroughfare in an attempt to make it in the club before they started charging cover. (We were broke students, ok?)

We had one minute to get in the door before they started charging.

I sprinted.

A cab plowed into me. I rolled up the hood and then flipped, falling on the road.

The cab stopped, and the driver ran to check on me. By the time he reached me, I was already on my feet and remained focused on the mission. I repeated several times -- at great volume -- "I'm ok. It was my fault." I grabbed S's hand and pulled her into the club.

Once inside "The George," I learned that the cover charge didn't begin for another hour.

And now, because of my stupidity and occasional obesity, I suffer. Time to take another Lorazepam/Ativan. It doesn't really help the pain -- in fact, it doesn't help it all. But without the pain, I'd have nothing to write. As Nanki-Poo says, "Come, my poor fellow, we all have unpleasant duties to discharge at times."

Murray Waas' Book Party

Tonight Velvet and I went to the launch party for Murray Waas' new book, The United States v. I Scooter Libby at the Knew Gallery in Georgetown. (Note to the world: if you want me to write about you -- or to write at all -- feed me stuffed grape leaves.)

The party was well stocked with serious writer folk, visual artists and political aficionados. And then there was me. And Velvet.

It was a good time -- much more fun than I expected -- and I was kind of sad when I had to leave to walk my dogs. My only regret is that I was possibly a bit too chatty.... something that's been happening a lot lately thanks to the pain killers I've been taking since undergoing extensive oral surgery.

Here's the description of Murray's book via Amazon:

Washington scandals come and go, but the one surrounding the investigation into the leaking of covert CIA operative Valerie Plame’s identity—now in its fourth year—has had unprecedented staying power. In October 2005, when I. Lewis Libby was indicted on five felony counts of making false statements to the FBI, perjury, and obstruction of justice, his trial became the latest chapter in the saga.

Murray Waas, one of today’s finest investigative journalists, has edited and assembled this instant book that covers the trial from start to finish. He combines the trial transcript, pivotal testimony from key witnesses, and his own original, incisive reporting and an over-arching introductory essay. The subject is certainly one with which Waas is intimately familiar: he’s done groundbreaking work for the National Journal covering the Plame investigation, as well as the Bush Administration’s use (and misuse) of pre-war intelligence. No one is better qualified, or has done more, to inform the public of these shrouded events than Waas.

Like the published reports from the 9/11 Commission and the Iraq Study Group, this definitive study is sure to become one of the most significant political documents of this Bush era.