Only Nola

The Lowering of Standards

As we all know, I've been house hunting. Sounds easy, doesn't it? Look up what's available in a suitable price range, throw self in car, drive to said properties, pick one, pay for it, move in, breathe. Right? Yeah, not hardly. Apparently, lucky me, Phoenix is in the middle of a record breaking real estate boom. Anyone who says the economy is shit right now can kiss my ass. If the economy was in such misery, I wouldn't have any problems finding a goddamned house. Instead, every property I find is a) in the middle of a blood soaked bidding war between upwards of a dozen home buyers who are all dedicated to getting their hands on that particular house even if it requires human sacrifice, and b) priced roughly 30% higher than it deserves BECAUSE of the aforementioned bidding wars. When that many people are that hot to buy any and every property on the market, the price goes up exponentially, much to the dismay of my bank account. I've found, and lost out on, at least a dozen properties so far, and this is in a VERY short period of time. I've had some bought right out from under me, and one, which I'm not doing well at blocking from my mind, that I lost due to my own brain fart. God, that place was fabulous. Shit.

So the hunt continues. And here's the thing. With prices through the roof, and competition fierce, one finds that one must lower the expectations one had for the home one would, preferably, buy. I've learned the hard way that ammenities quickly get whittled away. When I started all this there was a list of things the house I would buy just HAD to have. This list is now effectively being used to wipe my ass. Before long I'll be willing to consider a refrigerator box in back of Sears if the price is right. This doesn't appear to be getting any better, either. Just the opposite. So none of that 'well, I'll wait it out a few months and things will slow down' crap for me. Heavens, no. By all accounts they're not projecting this little wave of real estate barbarism to ebb for about five YEARS. Yes, I said YEARS. I might very well be picking people off from the nearest clock tower LONG before then.

I'm supposed to go out again tomorrow with my poor realtor, Saint Joan. I bet she's choking down Valium as we speak at the mere thought of another day out with me in the near hopeless search of a home under $150,000 that isn't in a neighborhood where the entertainment each evening is seeing who can most quickly duck the drive by shootings. As festive as that sounds, there are certain standards that I absolutely draw the line at lowering. One is that I won't live in a trailer, and the other is that I won't live in a home where someone could get the addresses mixed up and shoot the windows out of my home because they mistook it for the crack house next door. Call me inflexible.

Why does anyone choose to live in a city where the average RAT probably has an easier time finding a permanent residence? Little fucker probably gets a better interest rate, too.

Color Me…

So I woke up this morning... just like any other morning, right? Smacking the goddamned snooze button, shoving a cat off the top of my head *don't ask*, trying to pry my eyes open with a jack. Sounds typical. There was one minor difference, though. This morning, coming from what subliminal HELL I can't even imagine, the thought hit me that I should be a BLONDE. I shit you not, this was out of nowhere. I'm sitting there, no caffeine in my system, not even legally defined as sane at that hour in the morning, and yet some part of my id decided that blonde was the order for the day. Now, being a sane, rational woman, did I ignore this odd train of thought that had fought it's way to the front of the part of my brain that makes my plans for the day? Why NO, I did NOT!

I get to work and tell Evan, one of my beleaguered bosses, that he had a challenge for the day. While he's still stuck in that look that most closely resembles a deer in the headlights, I pop out with 'MAKE ME BLONDE!'. He's taken aback... hell, he's probably in fear for his life since he KNOWS I've been pmsing for the last week straight... but he's game. A plan is formed.

First off, you know that old expression that blondes have more fun? I'll tell you what blondes really have... HEAD TRAUMA! By the time we got done basting me in bleach and letting me simmer for a day or two (oh, wait, that was an HOUR or two... sorry, it FELT like days) I felt like the slowest runner in the wagon train. You know, the one most likely to be caught and ... well, you get the picture. It BURNS, I tell you! Evan says 'this is where we separate the women from the girls'. Color me the world's biggest pussy, then, 'cause that shit HURTS. I felt sure that my skull had to be showing through the giant crack I felt opening in the back of my head, but Evan assured me there was nary a bone to be seen. Like I'd believe the man with the bleach bowl in one hand and the keys to his Pathfinder in the other. He had 'bolt' written all over him.

Alright, so it turns out there was no bleeding and no peek a boo with the gray matter going on under that bleach. Looks like he's safe for the minute. I can always change my mind later. Tie him down and bleach his... um... EYEBROWS. Yeah, that's it, eyebrows.

Now, a smart person here would realize that Evan's not to blame since I ASKED him to do this. Let me just tell you that when your scalp is on low broil you don't give a flying fuck WHO asked for what. The first order of business is to put out the fire on top of your head, followed immediately by crippling the first person you can get your hands on to share the joy. Hopefully it's someone who's actually in the wrong, but if not, well, that's what FTD is for. Nothing says 'sorry I broke both your legs' like carnations and a coffee mug.

So, I'm blonde now. It only took a)decolorizer, b)bleach, c)toner, and d) a second toner. Four, count 'em, FOUR chemical processes so that I can now say my hair doesn't look like it did this morning. My head feels roughly like I let Italy play soccer with it, but hey...

Went from work to pick up my son from day care. He noticed right off the bat and gave his approval. I'd say this mattered but this is the same kid who likes to watch Ed, Edd, and Eddie. Not the arbiter of good taste. Then I get home and there's my husband napping on the couch. He wakes up long enough to look at me and say 'that's different....' and go back to sleep. He's lucky I didn't skewer him through the ear with my meat thermometer.

Maybe I'm too cranky to be blonde...