41... and Done!

I was just reading over last year's birthday post... and, wow! I really sucked at turning 40!

What is it about that milestone that does so much damage to a woman's psyche?

As I ring in 41 this week, let's look back at the kind:cruel ratio that was my Year of Forty.

• The Quickest Mid-Life Crisis in History: I whined, complained and threw cyber-tantrums as I crested the middle-aged slope and fell directly off its cliff. It was a quick freefall and then I was like, "Oh, sorry about that world!" and went back about my regularly-scheduled business. I like to think that what it lacked in longevity it made up for explosiveness. Was it fair to the world? No. But the world survived it, so I'm over it too. 

• Finally Found a Home: The last thing on my "40" bucket list was to purchase real estate and be living in said real estate by the end of the year. Due to my stubbornness over price and location, it took me an entire year of house-hunting to achieve this final tick mark. (Not to mention, four different mailing addresses in the same amount of time. Believe me when I say that my year of homelessness is still confusing the local post office!) So, does signing the deed at the age of 40.8 still make the cut? It counts in my book! And, being stubborn paid off. I'm in exactly the location I had my heart set on and actually came in under budget, too!

• My Boobs are Playing Tricks on Me: It seems like much more than a year ago that I had my first breast cancer scare, but it was just last summer. Tacky as it may have seemed to some when I decided to share that journey; the conversations it started among friends and family really proved to be worth the embarrassing exchange. (Click link for a recap. To those who missed the follow-up, it was just a cyst in the end!) It seems most women at this age have had their "scares" and for someone who once favored male friendships over female, it really proved to me the necessity of the female-sisterhood. (Love you, ladies!) In other boob news, is there a once-a-decade law of physics that is keeping the bra industry in business?! It happened at thirty when the elasticity of the dermis began to betray me. New bra size! Must go shopping! And, here it is again at forty. Holy tit! As if gravity weren't enough of a foe, they've now decided to go running off in opposite directions! It's like each side is in a race to see who can reach my back first by the age of fifty!* And, of course, hello! New bra size again! This is getting old business is expensive business.

Somehow, this is the only Before/After depiction I could
find on my laptop!

• Lost Weight: I have always been cursed in the weight department. (By "American fashion" standards, at least.) I was a tall gangly child, who got called "String Bean", "Carpenter's Dream"** and the like, more often than necessary. (It's really not necessary to comment on children's body types. Ever. Or, anyone's, for that matter. Will the world never learn?!) Once puberty hit, I was hippy and bootylicious during the entire Kate Moss waif trend. Then, totally missing the boat on both ends, my body chose to revert back to waify twelve-year old proportions in middle-age, just in time to usher in the decade of the butt. I literally cried*** when that Meghan Trainor song was released because it was so catchy that I wanted to sing along, but in order to do so I had to call out "Skinny bitches"**** and lyrically agree that "Boys like a little more booty to hold at night.♫" Which leads me to publicly present a challenge to today's pop stars. It's great to celebrate all body types! But, please realize that you can celebrate yours without shaming others in return. Hear that, Meghan? Nicki? Other girls whose names I forgot because I'm not entirely up to date on pop music?

• Lost My Filter: My filter has slowly been slipping away from me since my twenties. The decline has only increased in rapidity at 40. I probably cuss more than I should. I definitely give more unsolicited advice than I should. I fast-tracked from age 39 to 80 in my comfort level of thinking I'm old enough to not have to censor myself. Which is not necessarily a good thing, I do realize. On the upside, it's caused me take better care of my self-worth. If somebody wrongs me, I suddenly have no problem calling them out on it. Which is something I could have never dreamed of doing half-a-lifetime ago. Has it made me popular? Of course not! But, it's sharpened my true friendships and pinched off the ones that were sapping my reserves. Forty had no time for drama. And, forty-one's schedule is looking pretty booked as well. 

• Lost My Grandma: Forty was a terrible year of loss for my family. Both sides lost their last matriarchs. Not just that, but personally my biggest cheerleaders as well. Through all the sadness, I had the privilege of sitting with my Grandma in hospice during her last weeks on this earth. I received from her the best compliments of my entire lifetime and advice that I will cherish forever and ever. Though, it was exhausting, I still miss her every day and have never fully finished grieving over that loss. As my birthday draws near, I will miss that yearly card from her where she would underline in ink pen every word in the lame Hallmark poem that reminded her of me. And, I will forever regret every year that I was too lazy to call and thank her for thinking of me.

• Lost My Way: This year, I decided to be good. Again. Like, daily. Constantly renewing that pledge. Every morning, asking God for a clean slate and yet another do-over. I'm learning to not only speak more kindly, act more kindly and (most importantly) react more kindly. (Powder Keg Mecham, at your service!) I'm really focusing on thinking more kindly, so there are no judgmental or unfriendly comments rooted anywhere to have any chance of slipping out. This used to come so naturally for me, which means my heart must have slipped into an ungrateful place somewhere along the way. I have decades-old walls I'm breaking down. Bear with me! They were there for good reason, but I've grown too old and tired to keep holding them up. I've heard unkind things about myself this year. I don't want to produce that same kind of hurt in others. If I love you, I'll show it. If I give you a compliment, I really mean it. There's no sugar-coating. I'm too lazy to waste my breath like that. 

• Gave in to the Stereotype and Became a Fur Mama: Forty and single equals cat mama... Der! I absolutely adore this girl. And, she seems to tolerate me in exchange. (Although, she's currently glaring at me for having the light on this late at night and impeding upon her 22nd hour of sleep for the day.) Is it cheesy to say she completes me? No, just creepy? Well, thanks for keepin' it real. 

So, last year's post... What did I know? I was just a young 39.99 year-old when I wrote it. Little did I know 40 was bringing with it the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. If this trend keeps up, 41 may possibly leave me with whiplash!*****

But, seeing that I won't see another milestone for nine years is quite a relief. What's on my "50" bucket list, you ask? Let's just start with "Not Dying" and take it from there.******

No pressure this decade.

*Okay, maybe slight exaggeration on my part. They're still pretty cute for their age. Supported or not. And, healthy, most importantly!

**ie. Flat as a board.

***Disclaimer: Hormone surges may also be partly at fault for tears.

****Don't argue that the following, "...Just playin' , I know you think you're fat.♫" lyric makes up for this. No, we don't think we're fat. We're now just doubting our desirability thanks to your insensitive lyrics. Big or small, booties are soft to the touch... and that's what really matters. Trust me, I'm older and wiser. There's no need to cut others down to build yourself up. Lecture over!

*****Whiplash. Best movie of my fortieth year. Go see it!

******And, less footnotes. :)

Love Thy Neighbor

Somebody just got shot! Somebody just got cut! Somebody just got hit by a car!

I didn't know what exactly had happened. But, the manly screams and moans coming from the driveway of my condominium complex told my wild imagination that something of the like was going on.

I took my usual nosy neighbor position: Standing at the floor-to-ceiling windows of my Florida room, backed to the corner as to remain inconspicuous.

"UGH! AUGH! [MOOOOOAAAAAAANNNNNNNNNN!!!!!!!]," it continued.

I couldn't quite spot the source of the commotion, but could hear another neighbor shout out, "Are you okay? Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

"NO!"

I've now pinpointed the screamer's voice to be coming from behind the large pine tree that stands in front of the neighboring building.

I felt safe enough to move to the Adirondack chair that is placed with its back to the window. Closer to the "danger", but out of sight with my nose peering above the back of the chair.

"Where are you?!" the helpful neighbor hollered out. It was after dark.

I could hear him now shuffling behind the tree. He found him! The source of all the belly-aching!

After some clattering and grunting, I finally saw something. A thirty-something year-old man walking a bike to the other side of the complex, with a late-teen/early-twenty-something male limping slowly behind him.

No one was shot. Someone had fallen off of their bicycle. I was safe from any crossfire.

The Good Samaritan would continuously stop and wait until the injured party could catch up to him again. G.S. (Good Samaritan) walked I.B. (Injured Biker) all the way home.

Mystery solved (although anticlimactic...) I smiled at what a good neighbor G.S. was.

But, what kind of neighbor was I?

I could have just as easily hollered down to see if I.B. was okay. I just didn't want to get involved. I was willing to risk bullets whizzing by the nose I had stuck into his business, but not the inconvenience of getting dressed and going downstairs to actually check on things and offer some assistance.

Let's break down what kind of neighbor I am.

These are the things I like about my neighborhood: 1.) Awesome location. It's walking distance to a small downtown with a city park and decent enough smattering of shops and restaurants. 2.) There are enough neighbors around to not feel isolated. As a single woman, it's assuring to know that if I ever needed to shout for help, someone wouldn't be too far away. 3.) These neighbors seem to keep to themselves. Which, for an introvert like me, is ideal.

No one brought pies to my doorstep when I moved in. No one has tried inviting me to dinner. And, this is fine! I'm not expected to provide dinner in return.

I've been to two board meetings, but only remember one board member's name. (I think I remember what it is, at least.)

I've met three neighbors since moving in two months ago. Only one of them offered a name (after a month-and-a-half.) It's not an American name and begins with an "N" sound. I'm pretty sure with two syllables.

The neighbors I've met are:

1.) "Pitbull". I don't know his real name, but he looks, dresses and acts like the rapper Pitbull. He wears tinted shades like Pitbull. He talks with the Hispanic swag of Pitbull. He rides his bike low, as I imagine Pitbull would, were his Mercedes ever to break down on him. And, I honestly think he would answer to "Pitbull" were he ever to be beckoned by that.

Pitbull has a sweet-natured girlfriend. She is also Hispanic and she always smiles and says "Hi!" if we cross paths. She even smiles and says, "Hi!" when Pitbull's bickering with her in the doorway and not letting her inside. Pitbull was wearing his bathrobe that day. Pitbull thinks he's God's gift. I'm not sure that he is. I once saw his girlfriend bring a plate of food to another neighbor. I'm not sure his girlfriend even lives there. But, she does seem like God's gift. And, a good neighbor. Whatever her name is.

2.) The blonde hermit, next door. I've seen her three times total. She writes lengthy letters to the Homeowners Association but doesn't come to the meetings, even though they take place in the room directly beneath her unit. She left a note on my door one day. How sweet! Oh, she was just inquiring about the paint fumes coming from my unit. I was painting kitchen chairs at the time. She almost rolled me over with her car in the parking garage later that same day. It was just an accident. I'm sure of it.

3.) N-something. She's a Muslim woman. Maybe my age or a bit younger. Her unit is like a clown car, with countless relatives always pouring out of it. She has at least three children, one husband and maybe a mother or mother-in-law who live with her. With the constant stream of visitors, I'm not really sure who goes where. She was the first to offer her name. But, her accent was so thick, I only caught the opening "N". I need to find a better code name for her. She is nice. And, loses alot of little socks in the laundry room.

There are three other units in my building. I have not bumped into any of these neighbors in eight weeks.

There is another building adjoining mine. I share a bedroom wall with a Middle-Eastern family. They have a baby who cries sweetly at night. Only sometimes. And, never a screamer. He's a good neighbor.

His parents fight once every week or two. Sometimes light murmuring. Sometimes shouting matches. Always at night. Sometimes at 2:00 or 3:00 am, jolting me out of my sleep. They're not fighting in English, so I can't really eavesdrop. Which is all I have left to do once I'm awoken and can't go back to sleep. If only I could take sides. If only they didn't wake the baby again.

This leaves me to wonder which neighbor I am. Only one of them knows my name. I'm probably the American girl who starts with a "K" sound.

I'm probably the one who sings too much in the kitchen and who is talking to who-knows-who in the shower*. The lady with the big white SUV. The one who walks upstairs too loudly. The woman with the nosy cat.

I'm the one who made too much noise moving in and will never be forgiven.

The lady who yells at her nephews on Sunday afternoons. Why doesn't she close the windows at least?

The girl whose still in her p.j.s at eleven a.m. on the weekend. What kind of slacker is she?

She hasn't even introduced herself. She watches that TV all night. Blogs about her neighbors. And, I saw her watch that boy who fell off his bike out her window and not even offer him a Band-Aid.

The Bible says, to "...Love your neighbor as yourself. No commandment is greater than these." [Mark 12:31]  I love myself, no doubt. But, for now, I'm at the stage were my neighbors are just a'ight.

I'm glad I.B. is okay. And, I'm glad there's at least one G.S. in the hood... just in case I fall down one of these days.

One day I'll be the G.S., I think.

Maybe. One day...




*Answer: Myself or the cat.

Life + Cat

So, I may have jumped the gun on something. 

Before I have finished unpacking... Before I've refinished all the furniture or have gotten things totally organized and settled... I went and invited this little furry turd to come live with me.

"Oh, furry turd?! Kim, you're so cruel!"

Yeah, yeah... she's cute in pictures, but let's run through her first night here.

• 11:00 pm: Lights out.
• 11:01 pm: Repetitive meowing from Cat.
• 11:02 pm-4:00 am: Horrendously repetitive meowing/squawking/live exorcism taking place out in the Florida room.
• 4:01 am: Human worries for the sleep of the entire neighborhood, slams both doorwalls shut and chastises, "Now NOBODY gets to enjoy the fresh air!!!"
• 5:00 am: Cat scales every piece of furniture in the living room.
• 6:30 am: Cat discovers alarm clock on nightstand. Human fears her stepping on the "alarm off" button and deactivating it. But, Human needn't worry about waking up, because Human hasn't fallen asleep yet.
• 8:30 am-5:30 pm: Human is excessively grumpy due to lack of sleep and manages to avoid most human contact for an entire work day. Forgets the word "brass" at one point and refers to it as "the one that's like gold, but uglier. I forget the word. I just said in two minutes ago, but can't think of it now. You know..."

In Cat's defense, Human may have provided cat nip right before bedtime...

Day Two went a little more smoothly. She didn't greet me when I got home and was hiding under the bed. She still hadn't eaten, but there were signs of piddle in the litter box.

Night Two was a total 180. She stayed out in her favorite spot (kitty condo in the FL room) for what sounded like (or I should say, "lack of sounded") the entire night.

By the time I got home on Day Three, she had made herself at home. Food, eaten. Water, drunken. Litter box, pooped in. We were in kitty business!

That's not to say it's a perfect arrangement. We've had alot of "Seriously?!", "What?" conversations.

Like when she...

Climbs things:

Hogs the couch:

Climbs more things:

Impedes with my morning process:

I cannot go to work looking like that!

Etc.:

Last minute addition, from ten minutes ago.

I've been reintroduced to cat allergies that have laid dormant for the past five petless years. I've added extra chores to the daily list. She's decided it's fun to refrain from retracting her claws when she walks, so she goes around the house sounding like steel velcro as she crosses the carpet... the bed... my brand new couch!!!

She kicks her litter all over the bathroom. Sticks her bumhole in my face as a sign of supposed affection. She gives looks of teenage indifference when I scold her. But, I've found my owns ways to even the scorecard:

I've had passing thoughts of, "What have I gotten myself into?", "Do I want to spend the next twelve years of my life itchy-eyed, snotty-nosed and incapable of breathing?", "Is she too old to be declawed? If so, can I have her feet amputated?", "Do I really want to be a mom?", "Would they take her back if I ask?"

But, as I was laying in bed this morning, in comes Cat. Steel velcro prancing across my new bedding. She mewed for breakfast and I tried to forcefully hug her to buy a few minutes. She pulled away, stuck that bumhole in my face, then proceeded to purr and rub her head all over me as I pretended to be sleeping. 

She climbed across my legs. Hugged her side against mine. Purred to almost pornographic degrees. Then took a lap across my nightstand and quietly lied down. She'd decided I could sleep. She would allow it.

She reminded me exactly of myself when I'm not the hugger, but the huggee.

And, I too, like to keep my own schedule. I too, would rather hide under the bed some days. I like to go where I want, when I want. I like to act like I own the joint wherever I go, 'cause it makes me feel comfortable. I too, invoke "Seriously?!" in others, and reply with my own "What"s.

She's independent. Sassy. Loves fiercely once she decides your worthy of her love. Is affectionate on her own terms. Loves to sleep. Is thoughtful when it counts. And, is silly as can be. Wait a second... this cat is ME. I can't get rid of me!

In other words, she's a keeper. Seriously.

House Hunting: Part II

My house-hunting adventure continued today with the first slew of showings with my new realtor. (New realtor = the one who actually called me back and whom has this whole fancy email thing figured out.)

House 1: This house is very near to the home we had lived in for the last 13 years and on a street that is a part of our regular evening walking route. It had a nice front porch, a quaint and easily maintainable backyard, and a friendly black kitty next door that I would be likely to catnap and call as my own (only until the neighbor woke up and realized it was missing, of course.) 

The inside of the house wasn't so much of a treat. Musty smelling, wallpaper in every bedroom (even in places where wallpaper doesn't belong. Hint: Wallpaper was designed for walls, yo) absolutely no appliances, makeshift closet rods made of leftover plumbing, and the piece de resistance... wood paneling in all of the common spaces. 

Now I realize that real wood paneling can be easily painted to look like beadboard or wainscoting. But, this home had this this flimsy thin faux wood walling that someone had, not so cleverly, cut out little hidden "doors" in. What? I know this makes no sense. But, imagine following along the wall to discover a piece of packaging tape, masking or duct tape (Believe me, the tape came in an abundance of variety.) You notice a rectangular cut-out along the wall and give the tape a tug. Like a little trap door, the thin paneling would give way to reveal either a surprise "Oh. A fuse box!" or the deception of one, "Oh, a bed of splinters!"

I think I jumped the gun, though, on the piece de resistance. This was actually the fact that we never did find the furnace. We found the water heater, the hookups for where a washer and dryer should be, the air conditioning unit outside, but never a furnace. My realtor was still looking for it along the home's perimeter when we tried to let him off the hook, "It's a 'no' to this property, so there's no need to find it." He couldn't give up the game though, "Okay. But, I still want to find it. It's got to be here somewhere!"

Condo 1: The only condo we toured today was located in a dream location. Right in the downtown area of my own hometown, but in a complex I'd hadn't considered due to its extremely cramped parking situation. 

There was a subletter who hadn't vacated the premises prior to our arrival, but who was kind enough to shirtlessly take to the bedroom to iron his laundry while we had a look around. (He wasn't so kind, however, as to turn off the internet porn he'd left up on the screen of his laptop on the dining room table. But, if you ask my mom, "I thought he was just studying to be a doctor." I'll let you folks decide for yourselves.)

It was a one bedroom unit (I had been looking for two) but the one room was ample enough in size and closet space to make up for it. The layout was well appointed and the picture window in the living room had a lovely view of the courtyard space below.

The downside? The parking, as mentioned before. At least one nosy elderly neighbor who was not at all shy about hanging out in the hallway and gawking at us a we toured the rest of the building. And, worst of all, horror upon horror, NO CATS ALLOWED! Come on, people! I'm turning 40. I'm unmarried. I've earned at least one cat in life!

It remains on the maybe list.

House 2: We actually started out this afternoon in the property that I'd referred to in my last post as the home in the meth-y neighborhood. But, for the purpose of good writing and suspense, I decided to save the "best" for last.

I'd recently re-nicknamed this one the "rapey woods" home because there's a wooded ravine behind the property. This intrigued me with the thought of wildlife but, instead, alarmed some in the family with its imminent threat of rapey danger. (Upon further research, I also learned that there is a registered sex offender living, ummmmmm, as the closest neighbor to the right!) But, it's newly renovated and miraculously in my price range. Let's take a look!

The yard was beautiful, fenced in, and the woods dropped off almost immediately into the Rouge River; giving any rapist worth his salt a great challenge to attack me from the property's rear. But, that's where the fun ended. 

Upon opening the front door we were immediately hit with the strong scent of mold. Then, when taking a first glance around, I realized that "newly renovated" was really the listing agent's code that they had newly acquired skills in the the art of Photoshop.

The gorgeous original hardwood floors pictured online, in reality, had the smoothness and consistency of a highway rumble strip. Their appearance, in person, gave the impression that a former owner at one time had strapped two pairs of ice skates on the family dog, let go, and said, "Let's just see what happens."

Now, I am not a flooring snob! I am fine with carpet. I am fine with tile. I am fine with laminate "hardwood". It's just that when sinking my savings into a home, it would simply be nice to walk across my own living room without the fear of splinters and sea-sickness.

I am also not an appliance snob. But, let's just say that the stainless steel refrigerator's freezer had a stain in it which could have possibly been left behind from a severed head. Moving out of the kitchen...

The bedrooms were okay, but with the really weird closets of a house built in the 1920's. (By the way, this house was built in the 1920's.)  The bathroom was standard. The smell of mold was STRONG throughout the entire upstairs and had already cemented a "no" vote in my mind. But, since we're here, why not check out the basement?  What harm could come from checking out the basement?

Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp... down the stairs we go. Looking up, yes, there is obvious water damage to this home. And, the copper plumbing did not have one inch that wasn't covered in rust.

It's still a "no" vote, but I possess a curious mind. Let's open the washer and dryer. Well, I think that severed head may have also taken a run through these.

Turn around. Ooh, a pet spider.

Turn around again. Ooh, a mysterious room that was probably used for storing beets and raw potatoes back in the day.

What's behind this door? 

The best I can describe what was behind this door is, if you've ever watched season one of Bate's Motel, it's the room where the kidnapped Asian sex slave was being held in Officer Shelby's basement. 

There could be no other explanation for this room other than to hold a kidnap victim hostage. 

Then when you walk into the room, there's another door that leads to another hostage room. The first room even had a wire for cable TV hanging down from the ceiling. Presumably, this was the "good hostage" room that you're allowed to watch TV in. When you're a "bad hostage" you get led through the labyrinth to the bad hostage room.

What house needs TWO hostage rooms in the basement?! (Maybe even three, if the room by the basement steps isn't really for storing beets!) These rooms also had excessive water damage to the point where the floor was coming apart. Presumably due to water torture or the rinsing of the severed head. 

I had squealed in horror when I opened the second hidden room's door. My realtor scurried over to ask me what I think. I said, "Well, if I ever decide to take up serial killing, I've found a place to stow the bodies." He laughed and actually agreed. Therefore, he is still my realtor.

There's a sex offender next door, two to three torture rooms in the basement and the likelihood that a severed head has frequented every appliance in the joint. This home is also not for me. NO LIST!

I realize that living by myself might eventually become lonely, but I'll take loneliness over being visited by the souls of those who passed here any day!

We're going back to the drawing board and praying for new listings this week. Home shopping on a tight budget may not be easy, but it is certainly entertaining!

Now if you'll excuse me, I had to go wash the mold spores out of my sinuses. They're giving me a headache.

House Hunting is a Load of Crap

Let me start off by saying this: HGTV is a network of liars.

House hunting is not as fun as reality TV would have you think. There's no half-million dollar budget, dry-witted realtor, miles of granite countertop, hickory flooring, river rock showers, nor a film crew to capture all the amusing hijinks. (And, those Property Brothers won't even give me the time of day!)

No. In reality, hickory floors are not in your price-point, your realtor never bothered calling back (probably after scoffing at the tiny commission your purchase would generate), and all highjinks so far involved are sad and not anywhere near worth documenting for posterity.

House hunting it stressful.  House hunting is bad for your self-esteem. And, it basically just makes you have to go to the bathroom in more repetition than you are normally used to.

As my regular readers and friends all know; YES! I currently live with my parents. 

Roomies since day one. Now, with bigger jammies and a newer paci.

But, what you may not know is that home ownership was the last remaining unticked bulletpoint on my "Before I Turn 40" bucket list. (Last bulletpoint! I am SO dang close!)

What you also may not know is that this year-of-the-big-4-0 happens to coincide with my parents sudden urge to downsize, once again, and become snowbirds. 

What you really don't know (unless you see me everyday, then you already know too much and will probably want to toggle back to Facebook at this point...) is that our current home sold in under four days and we all need to vacate the premises in less than five weeks having absolutely no place to go.

House hunting has moved into super-stress mode! 

[Pause writing for additional bathroom break]

I'd considered breaking a promise on the lease agreement for my storage unit, by sleeping there for a few nights/weeks/months, if need be. (I've kept enough promises in 39 years, I should be allowed a freebie at this point, right?)

But, the mad packing dash has changed the comfort level of my storage unit from this (above) to that (below).

(Although, I'm training myself to fall asleep in this posture as a backup plan.)

One of my other pre-40 bulletpoints that I did manage to pull off thus far was to "not get married".  No shit. That was an actual goal of my thirties. (As if I were having diamond rings thrown at me from every direction. "Stop trying to marry me handsome, intelligent, hilarious men! I'm not that kind of girl!")

The real reason for that "goal" was that I actually wanted to take that decade to explore my independence and straighten out some heavy financial, spiritual and familial stuff.  Made sense at the time, but was not at all considering the fact that had I only left that one goal off the list, I could now have a housing budget that was double in size (making that river rock shower a total possibility.)*

I can't blame God. We all know that He carves a much wiser path for our lives than we ever could. But, I will blame Destiny's Child in small part. "♫ The car I'm driving, I bought it! The house I live in, where is it?! ♫" Why'd you get us all worked up, ladies? This crap is hard!

Here's the state of my housing options as of this week's realty listings:

• The pre-forclosed condo that's in my dream neighborhood, but has been bank-owned for over nine months and is not yet listed for sale. (I'm waiting on the aforementioned realtor to look into the bidding possibilities and get back with me.) The comps for the neighborhood were raised with a recent sale this past week, which has caused the prices in the neighborhood to be suddenly driven up, which has only aggravated my stress-belly further. [Insert additional bathroom trip.]
• The okay-priced home that is, not only two lots down from the local sex shop, but also about 100 yards from where I saw a wino passed out in the grass with his paper bag last summer. (I wish I were exaggerating!)
• The newly refinished home that lies just across the city border. Priced a bit higher than what I have to put down and in a neighborhood where I've spotted at least three places where I could likely procure crystal meth. (If you are confused, that last point is a negative. I do not have any need for meth and am not likely to in the coming years.)

Sigh.

Well, if we can't classify it as being fun, what is a successful house-hunting experience? 

I guess it's just one where you eventually end up with a place to live in. After you've pooped. A whole lot.