Buyer's anxiety

I’m on the verge of an anxiety attack over the closing of my house on Thursday so hopefully writing this blog will be cathartic. Please, bear with me.

My advice for anybody who’s interested in purchasing a home is make sure you are absolutely, positively 1,000,034,348 percent ready for it. Because it has been unexpectedly one of the most stressful things I’ve ever done.

I started looking in January and, of course, had all my ducks in a row: I was pre-approved for a loan, knew how much I wanted to spend, knew somewhat the areas where I wanted to live, etc.

I found a place pretty quick, a duplex in Roselle. So cute, so charming, so much character. Until we did the home inspection.

There were at least 25 items that needed to be addressed. The larger issues included a gas leak from the basement furnace; an assessment of the 20+-year-old cedar shake roof, which was nearing the end of its life and likely $10K+ to replace; the upstairs balcony off the master bedroom was pulling away from the house and nearing unsafe territory; rotted boards on the deck and deteriorated posts supporting the deck; evidence of mice in the basement; a basketball-size wasp’s nest in the attic in addition to a slew of smaller ones; and a large critter nest in the attic (think raccoon, not bird).

I asked the seller to have the roof appraised by a third-party roofing company to determine when it would need to be replaced. She refused. I asked her to have an exterminator come in to rid the place of mice, remove the wasp’s nest and the large nest in the attic (and fix the broken screen where the critters were entering). She disgustingly refused. I asked her to replace the boards on the deck and the support posts. She agreed to replace the boards but not stain them the same color of the deck and refused to replace the support posts. I asked her to have a third-party company fix the upstairs balcony. No go.

She only agreed to fix the gas leak and some of the smaller items on the list.

In good conscience, fiscal sense, safety and cleanliness, I couldn’t move forward. I told her I couldn’t move into a home with roommates (raccoons, wasps and mice) and that I couldn’t be on the hook for a $10K roof replacement in the next year or two.

So off I went, in search of another palace. Two weeks later I found it, in Bartlett. I was at first averse to Bartlett, mostly because it was a little too far west for my taste. But I fell in love with this place so much that I was willing to tough out the extra two train stops. Plus, it’s so close to the train station that I only gain about five minutes of commuting time and I can ride my bike if I want. 

And as you can see below, it's fantastic. Two bedrooms, two and a half baths, three floors, nice and open kitchen, two-sided fireplace, an extra room on the ground floor to be used as an office or TV room. I love it. 

There have been some very stressful moments in this negotiation, but I’m going to spare the details on this blog. It’s not a done deal yet, and I don’t want any of the parties I’m annoyed at to stumble on this blog. 

So now, I wait for final numbers so I know how much I’m depleting my savings. It’s going to be an interesting two days, that’s for sure. If you see the headline: “Woman pukes at real estate closing; deal moves forward,” you’ll know some of the background.

Blogs I like (am jealous of)

I've stumbled upon two clever blogs lately and, like Oprah, I like to tell the world about my favorite things.

The first is called Suri's Burn Book, surisburnbook.tumblr.com. It's written in the voice of Suri Cruise, and she mocks other celebrity kids. It's downright hilar. She consistently rags on her parents, Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes, posts jealous rants on Harper Beckham (David and Victoria Beckham's daughter), lampoons Shiloh Pitt (Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt's daughter) for being such a goofball, and becomes paranoid over the thought of Kate Middleton being pregnant, thus producing a princess that would usurp Suri's popularity.

As if there could possibly be any other outcome.


The second I discovered only yesterday and it's called Texts from Hillary, textsfromhillaryclinton.tumblr.com. In each post, the bloggers use a picture of Hillary Clinton looking at her cell phone sternly with sunglasses on and pair it with a picture of another celebrity looking at their cell phone and write a clever imagined exchange between the two. I was on the train yesterday stifling my laughs (No, I wasn't on the quiet car, but I am a respectful commuter lady). Hillary Clinton found out about the blog and said she loved it, and supposedly even submitted her own entry. Unfortunately, the bloggers pulled a Seinfeld move and said they were going to stop blogging while they were still big.

One of my favorites. This is for all of my "Real Housewives of D.C." fans or the random Tareq and Michaele Salahi fans.

I heart these blogs but am also envious I didn't think of something so clever. I only have this stupid blog.

Breakfast dilemna

I’ve never been a breakfast eater.

Sure, when I was little, I had the obligatory Cocoa Puffs or Frosted Flakes or Raisin Bran. On the rare occasion I could eat Toaster Strudel, but I would ultimately ruin that privilege by consuming several strudels in one sitting, thus solidifying my gluttony. And on one or two occasions my mom would allow Danny and I to eat Cookie Crisp, a cereal she deemed way to sugary for regular consumption (a theory I’m guessing was solely based on the name since I doubt Cookie Crisp had any more sugar than Cocoa Puffs). 

But as a teenager, I never ate breakfast. In college, I very rarely swiped the breakfast meal on my plan (smartly leaving me open for a CHOMP run at night or collecting a case of orange juice at the end of the month). Once I started working at a newspaper, where I typically started at 9 a.m., a breakfast bar sufficed.

But now that I wake up at 5:10 a.m. and am awake more than two hours by the time I get to work, I am a hungry hippo by 7:30 a.m. There lies my dilemma every day.

There is no way I can exist on coffee and a breakfast bar between 5 a.m. and noon. So I try to find a balance between eating something that’s filling enough to last me until noon and healthy enough that I haven’t ruined my calories two hours into the day.

I seem to go through phases. One week I was really into Greek yogurt, leading me to determine that if I were a gazillionaire, I would hire someone just to stir my yogurt. I find it detestable pre-stir.

Sometimes I get into an English muffin kick, with either peanut butter or regular guy butter. I was on an omelet run for about a year, thanks to the culinary skills of Alberto, the grill cook in the ADA Café. It got to the point where I would walk in, say “Two whites, one yolk,” and Alberto would get scrambling my spinach, tomato, mushrooms and, sigh, cheese omelet.

Sometimes I’ll treat myself and get off my bus early to stop at Corner Bakery for their Anaheim Panini breakfast sandwich, which has eggs, bacon, avocadoes and green onions all scrambled together on a sandwich. Or I’ll stay on the bus for another stop and go to Jamba Juice and have a smoothie for breakfast. I’d love to have the ability to make my own smoothie at work but I don’t know that keeping a blender at my desk is an option.

My other problem is I get very specific cravings for food. Yesterday, I wanted a cranberry orange muffin. I went to the coffee place at Water Tower Mall in search of one and lovingly discovered a raspberry scone instead. Then I was obsessed with having yogurt raisins.

So the cycle continues. I had said yogurt raisins and a granola bar for breakfast today. What’ll be my kick next week? Who knows!

Unpredictability

I’m baaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaack …

Back from a lot, it seems. Back from not blogging. Almost back from two stressful home negotiations (more on that later). And not quite back from Anklegate 2011. Here I am smiling a few days after the "accident," with no idea the frustration to come. 

As everyone knows, I broke my ankle on my 30^th birthday thanks to a Sir Chachi Soderlund (Yes, he’s been knighted). I had surgery a week later and am now the proud owner of a bum ankle with a metal plate, five screws and imperfect reattached ligaments. Here's how it looked a week after surgery-fatty alert! (but cute toes-like I've said time and time again, never trust a girl who doesn't paint her toes). 

Having a Terminator ankle and not having used said body part for seven weeks has presented some problems getting back into the walking and exercising scene. I have more good days than bad, but I never know when a bad day will occur. And we all know what happens when something happens that I haven’t anticipated: TYPE A FACE EXPLOSION!!!

When I do work out, my ankle feels fine. I started out just doing the exercise bike and elliptical because those were less stressful on it, but I’ve moved on to running and taking weights classes. The only exercises I have a hard time with right now are walking lunges (can’t even do them on one side), lunges in general (I can do them but I definitely can’t do them with weights on my shoulders or in my hands) and anything involving balance.

The problem lies afterward. I never ever know how a workout is going to affect my ankle. Sometimes, it’s perfectly fine and I’m walking normal. Other times, it’s a little tight and I’m rocking a bit of a pimp limp. And there are times (like after I ran four miles outside) where I look like FDR, the polio days. A few times lately, I’ve had to hit up my babies (i.e. Vicodin-killer buzz) because I’m in quite a bit of pain. 

I’ve found the shoes I wear also have a lot to do with how the Terminator feels. Gym shoes and flat boots seem to serve it well. Sparkle flats or sandals-not so much.  I’ve tried on high heels a few times, and it’s gone from “Omg omg omg stabbing” to “Not so bad, not so bad, OK enough.”  So hopefully I’m getting there, but I think I’m a ways away from rockin’ a 5’8” stature thanks to some stilettos. It’s gotten so bad that I actually saw a pair of Naturalizer flats and said “Oh those are cute!” FML.

I’ve done some research online, and I’ve read it can take anywhere from a year to never for your ankle to feel back to normal. I ran into a woman in the elevator who had surgery on both her ankles 25 years ago and she said she still has issues. Le sigh.

It’s frustrating because I want to be back to working out four to five times a week, but it seems the ankle can only handle three, maaaaaybe four on a good week. A lot of days, after a long day of commuting downtown and walking a lot, it’s just not up for a workout. Oh yeah, it also depends on the weather. I've become a human barometer. 

My short-term goals are to be able to run a 5K by the end of the summer and take a kickboxing class. It's not that I can't do the run, it's more that I won't know how my ankle will feel on race day. Long-term goal is to run another 10K.

Chach’s short- and long-term goals for me is to break another bone so  I can stay home all day with him. Here he is performing his new trick of sitting on the top stair in hopes of tripping me on the way down.