Not even El Chapo could stop me

Finally.

My dream house is mine!

That’s it. That’s the post.

Okay, I have a bit more to say. And that is this: closing on a house was not the magical experience I imagined it would be.

I imagined tea and cookies and a posh, private room maybe with some lovely, calming art on the wall. A cushy place to house my bottom while I signed. Perhaps a masseuse on stand by to work out the tension in my neck and shoulders whilst I signed. He perhaps had an uncanny resemblance to circa 1988 MacGyver.

This is how it went in my mind, once the last page was signed:

Me: “That’s it?”

Them: “That’s it.

Me: “It’s mine?

Them: “It’s yours!”

Me: [can’t help but ugly cry]

More tea, more cookies. Maybe someone (likely me) broke out some whiskey they’d smuggled in and everyone enjoyed a celebratory drink amongst all the smiles and congratulatory back-patting and hand shakes.

In reality, I signed the next 30 years of my life away in the musky basement deed room at the Erie County Clerk’s Office. Standing. With a dusty file cabinet as my table.

There was no art on the walls, calming or otherwise. Not a cookie in sight.

There was some hand sanitizer and, considering it is flu season and the building was jammed packed with people, I suppose that was a good thing.

A man I’d never met or even spoken to showed up 30 minutes late and thrust a fistful of papers at me. He quickly explained what each paper was as he flipped to the page I was to sign but all my brain heard was “Lawyer speak, bank, sign, escrow, payment, sign, lawyer speak, sign.”

I can only imagine he’d snorted some cocaine off a can of Red Bull that he then immediately consumed on his way to the Clerk’s office. Kind of jealous, to be honest. I had skipped breakfast because I was so excited for my big day and had only managed to drink a tiny can of Dr. Pepper on the way in. Had I known there would be no cookies I might have had some oatmeal or something before I left.

It was all over in less than an hour. No tea. No cookies. No whiskey.

I signed the purchase agreement on October 2nd, and then headed off to play volleyball in the sand in a tank top. It was today’s high temp of 12 degrees (F) with sub-zero wind chills when I took this picture this morning, and it was windy. You can tell by my nose.

My fingers and face are still numb and this was over an hour ago.

However, I am now a homeowner and it is my dream house.

It was worth every bit of aggravation, in the end.

Good golly, Miss Molly

I did a thing.

I’ve reached that proverbial age. It’s time.

I’m 40. I’m single. In the olden days, I would’ve long ago been cast off as a spinster and sent away to the nunnery.

But it’s 2019, baby. Almost 2020.

So, I got (another) cat.

Meet Molly O’Hara Pixley Skeet. Tiny Magestic Puffball.

She joins big brother Maximus Decimus Meridius Skeet, Handsome Chonky Boi, as co-ruler of my abode.

Max is literally her big brother. He is 16+ pounds of pure chonk and Molly is maybe six pounds of mostly fur.

After an initial double take when I brought her into the house, Max immediately wanted to be her best friend. He ran right up to greet her and she responded with a hearty growl and hiss and retreated to the back of the love seat where she has stayed for much of this week as she adjusts to life in her new home.

Her beginnings in life are somewhat a mystery, but she spent an unknown amount of time living outside with a pack of feral cats after presumably being dumped there. One can only imagine how traumatized she was by that.

She was taken into a loving home and nursed back to health alongside two dog brothers. She adjusted well to the puppers, so I have no doubt she will eventually warm to Max.

Already, they’re co-habitating well. They’ve split my box-filled living room down the middle and often just stare at each other across the room, scoping each other out.

As of last night, she even allowed him to walk by her without her growling or hissing.

With me, she’s a super-lovey. I’m so in love with her already. This is how she greeted me on her third morning with us.

I would be a poor cat mom if I didn’t mention how proud I am of Max for how he’s welcomed Molly into the house. He’s been with me almost 12 years now and it’s always been just the two of us. I was a bit worried about what his reaction would be to her, but he’s giving her the space she needs to adjust.

Here is a shot of him gazing up lovingly at his new sister.

Just waiting for the time when she loves him back.

This is her looking down at him.

Furbaby steps…

But did these funds come from El Chapo?

A few words of advice to anyone looking to purchase a home:

1.       Don’t do it.

2.       Okay, do it but be prepared for a whole lot of aggravation.

So, full disclosure: my finances were a mess when I was (much) younger.

Open a credit card for a free crappy t-shirt I’ll never wear? Sure! I’m a college freshman who literally turned 18 just yesterday, but upon no consideration at all, I feel I’m fiscally and personally mature enough to handle this responsibility. I see no problem with you, credit card company, setting up shop in the cafeteria of my college campus. That’s shady, in no way. Sign me up!

This admitted lapse of judgement coincided with my newfound discovery of a little band called Fleetwood Mac. With my brand new credit card in hand, I drove my rusted out ‘86 Chevy Blazer directly to Media Play and purchased any and all items inside the building that had the words “Fleetwood” and “Mac” on them. I even asked an employee for help to make sure I got it all.

When the credit card bill arrived in the mail the next month, I opened up the envelope, flattened out the papers inside, and then just stared at the large number underneath “Current Balance” with more than a little befuddlement.

They don’t need me to pay this thing every month, right?

My financial irresponsibility continued through college and then on into grad school when I signed on the dotted line for hefty student loans for a Master’s degree I didn’t want in a major I didn’t like.

I was working as a full-time teacher while still living at home with my parents. There were times I forgot to pick up my paycheck on Friday afternoon because I was so flush with cash.

Still, when I found out how much money the “student loan people” were willing to “give” me per semester, thousands more than my tuition, I checked the box next to “gimme the maximum amount” and went on one hell of a shopping spree.

To this day, I have no idea what I bought. More CDs, I’m sure. Vinyl records, I’ll bet. I have boxes full of VHS tapes in my basement that were definitely a sound financial decision.

I have a very vivid memory of me buying the not-available-in-any-stores Buckingham Nicks album on CD from a stranger from a sketchy AOL chatroom. Today, we hit a few buttons in the Uber app and hop into a stranger’s car without a second thought, but you didn’t give your home address out to strangers on the internet back then. You definitely didn’t do that if you were my mom. She was not happy with me.

Fleetwood Mac: Steadily Testing My Common Sense Since 1997.

Fast-forwarding through a decade of sheer financial (and personal, but that’s a post for another time) irresponsibly here …………

By my late-20s, I finally caught on to the importance of paying your bills, and on time, and so by 30, my credit score was out of the poor range and floating comfortably in the middle of fair. By 35, my score was good. Last year, my credit rating soared on up into the excellent range.

I haven’t missed a bill or paid a bill late in over a decade. My credit score is phenomenal. I’m the picture of fiscal health and responsibility, and I’ve been steadily employed in a job that pays me well for going on 15 years.

So, when my dream house (literally, this is the only house I want) went up on the market in October, I thought it was time for me to give home ownership a try. After all, with my credit score, banks will be begging me to take their money.

And the bank was. I sailed through pre-qualification like a shot from Abby Wambach past the keeper.

The underwriter, however? The underwriter on my file seems to think that all of my money is ill-gotten from all that time I’ve spent in Vegas? and that I’m also hiding high-interest loans from El Chapo in possibly the Cayman Islands?

I’ve read the underwriting process can be grueling but I’ve never felt more like a criminal than I do right now. And I’ve felt like a criminal lots.

I’m waiting for a request for a sample of my blood next, then a lock of my hair, some skin cells, and also the rights to my first-born child, LOL JOKE’S ON YOU GUYS HA HA.

The good news: On Monday, after almost two months, I finally received verbal approval on a mortgage. Yay!

But Google tells me it’s not over yet... 

When you’re me and overthink everything, Google is not your friend during a time like this.

Google tells me nothing is set in stone until you’ve closed on the house and have the keys in hand and maybe not even then.

With every purchase I’ve made over these last two months, I’ve wondered if this is what will do it. Will this Claritin D and box of tampons be what ultimately tanks my mortgage?

Stay tuned…

Seriously? You couldn't have waited until you were out of there?

My yearly physical is this afternoon.

My doctor usually has a medical student working with her which doesn’t usually bother me. The intern takes my vitals and asks a few questions before my doctor swoops in. Cool.

All cool until last year, that is.

I don’t have an OBGYN. I get all my lady-doctor exams in as part of my yearly physical. This is always a nice treat for the poor medical student who thought she would just be typing a few answers into a computer and taking some vital signs.

Not today, kid. That’s right. Yank out those stirrups and fetch me the paper gown of shame.

While my doctor examines me, she’ll relay to the intern what she’s doing. Yes, even while she’s in there. Okay, yeah, awkward but not horrible. Frankly, those tables are kind of comfortable and I rarely sleep well at night so…whatever. Take your time. I’ll be up here possibly napping if you need me.

But, last year, one year and 19 days ago, I heard this, as my doc was rooting around inside whilst pressing on my belly: “It’s easy to feel even with obese patients…”

As soon as she said it, I saw every coach I’ve ever had shaking his head in shame. I heard phantom whistles beckoning me to the end line to run some sprints, fatty. I heard the ghost of every chicken that was ever slaughtered so that I could gluttoningly consume its body, breaded and fried with a side of blue cheese, laughing as their day of Karma finally arrived. I felt the insecurity of the girl I was at 19, hell even 29, who believed the size of her body was directly related to the amount of love she deserved.

I’ve made no secret out of the fact that I’ve struggled with my weight since turning 35. Before that, I could just not eat carbs for a few weeks and everything went back to where it was supposed to be. Not so anymore. Everything went to shit seemingly overnight at 35. (This year, the transition from 39 to 40 has seemed to involve a lot of new joint pain. Yay!)

But in the year leading up to last year’s exam, I worked hard to lose the extra weight. And I did! I was almost 20 pounds lighter last year than I was the year before. I thought this was cause for celebration.

My doctor thought it was cause for letting me know, via verbal notes to her med student as though I wasn’t even in the room, that I am actually obese. While she was still palm-deep inside me.

Jesus Christ, lady. You couldn’t have waited until you were out of there before giving me the good news? Or maybe started with “overweight” to see how I took that and went from there? It was a pretty good date right up to that point. Yeah, I have some extra weight I could stand lose but I had no idea I was considered obese. I still don’t think I’m obese. I mean, I’m not running up and down a soccer fields anymore but I walk and hike quite a bit still. What an awful word: obese. Obese. Obese obese obese. Obeeeese.

It doesn’t help that my doctor is one of those people who [mocking tone] eats right and exercises regularly [eye roll] and is maybe five feet tall with shoes on. A bad day for her would be topping the scales at 100 pounds. My five foot nine, obese ass looks like the Stay Puft Man beside her and will still even if I somehow reach the target weight her hilarious charts suggest for me which, frankly, would involve a whole lot of me starving myself. (19-year-old me approves of this strategy.)

By the time most of you read this, my exam will be complete. Keep your fingers crossed for me that this year’s exam goes a bit smoother. At a minimum, that there is much less commentary while she’s up in there.

May the odds (and the potato skins) be ever in my favor.

40 Thoughts for 40

Yep, that’s me at 40.

Standing in sub-zero temperatures. With a giant snowbank behind me.

On November 13.

Here are some thoughts I’ve been gathering as I thought about turning 40. In no particular order…

I’m fine about turning 40.
I was an absolute mess in my 20s and managed to pull it together this decade and have been doing well. I’ve accomplished a lot of stuff. There’s a lot more I want to do but progress is steady. Still waiting to cash that first Rowling-esque paycheck but…

I have gray hairs and it’s okay.

Okay, no, I’m not 100% on board with the gray hair..
The first few were cute. “Aww, look at my little gray hairs…” But they can stop now.

The lines on my face are pretty cool though.
They mean I’ve laughed a lot, which means I had a lot of reasons to laugh, and that’s pretty cool.

Sort of.
See #3. The little ones around my eyes are charming enough but the angry line between my eyes could settle down a bit.

I’m stopping at Instagram.
That’s it. I’m done. I’ve tried Snapchat and I don’t like it. As someone who obsessively re-checks everything she posts, Snapchat gives me anxiety. Everything just disappears? No, thanks.

No way that kid is 21.
This comes out of my mouth whenever I see a child at the bar throwing beers back.

My back hurts.
I’m not sure why.

My shoulder is crunchy.
I know why.

My knee is clicking.
That’s new.

I’ve gotten really good at being alone.
It’s a good feeling to know you’re okay with being alone. Not just okay but thriving. Content.

 …Probably too good.
Good luck even getting to these walls, let alone over them. There’s a moat and no drawbridge and tiny medieval men will be heaving swords and flaming arrows at you.

I’m buying a house.
YEAH.

I’M BUYING A HOUSE
RIGHT?

40 is the new 20!
(Spoilers: No, it’s not)

I was really dumb in my 20s.
I don’t want 40 to be the new 20 because I was really dumb in my 20s.

I’m slightly less dumb now.

Like, I’m seriously considering flying to Vegas this weekend for one night.

I’m tired.
All the time.

Holy crap. I’m 40.

Doing things is way better than having stuff.

MAMMOGRAMS.

A decade goes really fast.
Ferris Bueller was right.

But also kind of slow.
When I think about the person I was ten years ago, the priorities I had, the dumb shit I was doing…that seems like forever ago.

I don’t feel like a grown up.

I should really start eating better.

Go out AFTER the concert? LOLLLLLLL.

Christmas music on November 1st should be banned.
I’m going to run for office on this platform and this platform alone and I’ll win.

Jurassic Park is 26 years old.
And a big part of me is still the 12-year-old girl in the film who has a massive crush on Sam Neill.

I’m really glad social media didn’t exist in my 20s.
See #16.

It’s going to be really weird to say “forty”-something when someone asks my age.

I have to get my teeth cleaned.
Seriously, it’s been at least a year and that’s not like me.

I still can’t look at Tequila Rose.
I was 19 the first and last time I drank (a lot of) it and just the sight of it still makes me gag.

I wear coats now.
Is this what being an adult it?

And socks.
I loathe socks. All I want to do is be a barefoot hippie, carefree and at one with the earth, but I choose to live in Western New York and that just isn’t practical year round. Not if I want to keep my toes. So now I wear socks when it’s cold. My feet are very happy with me now.

I have peers with kids in college.
I have a cat who shares my pillow with me.

My mailman hates me.
I’m SO bad at checking my mailbox and I don’t feel like this is going to change as I limp on into my 40s. It’s 99% junk mail and I just…forget sometimes.

I still don’t know if I’m a Millennial or Gen X.
I’m either a geriatric Millennial or an infant Gen-Xer. Nobody seems to be able to settle this debate for me.

Nothing makes me feel older than reading a list of current Top 40 songs.
What is a Post Malone?

Wow, I made it through a whole post without mentioning Fleetwood Mac!
Whoops. OH WELL.