Idle Chatter

I have exactly 15 eatable cookies out of the batch I made this morning.
What with the first batch being undercooked (there is a difference between "chewy" and "intestinally inadvisable") the third batch having the oven turned off accidentally (wtf?) and then the makeup baking having been forgotten completely until they were brown as the bottom of my shoes, we didn't come out with many. Which is okay, because I ate the weight of my left boob in batter as I was making them. Why is it that baking cookies sounds like so much fun when you first think about it, and then by the third batch you can't imagine what sounded fun about this, and how big do I have to make them until this $@%$%#! dough runs out, and then, NO I'm not going to scrape the bowl, fuck it, I've been standing here for hours and I just remembered I don't actually LIKE cookies.

What a difference a neighborhood makes! We have a new visitor to the house, a young girl kitten named Thunder, who is enamored with the admittedly handsome Leo and who comes by to hang out, sleep on the patio and make moon faces at him. Leo is alternately irritated, scared or preening. Lucy hated her on sight and spends her time crouched in the house, ready to bitch out should the occasion warrant itself. In our old house we had nothing but butchy feral strays who came by to terrorize, intimidate and pee over everything.

I am currently enthralled (and occasionally, rarely, every once in a while disgusted) with my pregnant body.

Discovering new symptoms and then Googling them is very entertaining and is keeping my mind away from the apocalyptic future that awaits us because we haven't sold the house and tallying up what we've lost makes my heart rip itself to shreds and pound on my ribcage in terror.

Why We Moved Here

Taken today at a family combo visit to a nearby pumpkin patch.

I've been waiting 6 years to share these moments with my beloved nieces.  6 years ago I would have had absolutely no idea that in 2 years I would meet a man who would introduce me to two new little girls to lose my heart to.  Now there are four reasons why, even while almost everything else in our lives has us rending our garments in distress, moving to Northern California was the best thing we've ever done:

Overheard at the Airport Today

A woman in the check-in line, visibly aggrieved, complaining to her husband about missing the flight in Kansas because they hadn't reset their watches to the local time zone.

The man, obviously long-suffering, saying, "Jesus Christ, that was FIFTEEN years ago!"

"Nasal Snow-belt Honk"

Title of today's post taken from this great article at Salon.com.  

We watched the debates last night and while I was surprised (and a little dismayed) at how well Sarah Palin acquitted herself, I do think the clear winner of the debate was Joe Biden.  Now, I'm a Biden supporter, so you can take what I say with a grain of salt, but there isn't much substance in Mrs. Palin, and it was all too clear that when in doubt, she spewed her talking points, and not much else.  

I still find her tendency to be sarcastic and snippy alarming.  Out of all of the people in this presidential race, she has the biggest glass house.  I would really be careful slamming people who can think you into a corner, Palin.

I would also like to comment on this notion that she speaks for Joe-Six Pack and the "average American."  I like Joe six-pack, usually, unless he's a bigoted redneck, and I would count myself near the Average American, if not solidly in their midst.  But here's my biggest problem.  While I like and am a part of Average Americans, I do not want them speaking for me on a global platform.  I would rather seasoned, intelligent Harvard grads do that for me.  I would rather someone with extensive foreign policy experience meet with the leaders of these hostile countries.  Someone who understands the nuances a bit better than me or my friends do.

So Sarah, while you may think you speak for me, the truth is I want you nowhere in a position to voice my concerns, because frankly, I don't think you or John McCain share them.  I think you and your ticket is slapping a fresh coat of paint on a dead horse, and you'll see yourselves and your cronies get rich while you continue to make a deadly play for a military stronghold in an oil-rich region.  I think you'll destroy the coastlines of your beloved states and you'll be feted on the yachts of big oil and you won't actually do anything you're promising.  And I think it is absolutely absurd that you expect middle America to vote for your "everyday Amercian" schtick, when the leader of your ticket is married to an heiress and hasn't had a job outside of the government, EVER.

And I hope the rest of the world was as unimpressed as I was, with your singular shallowness and your inability to extemporize when the opportunity arose.  Whether that is your shortfall or the tight reins you're under, either way, you're not fit for the position and you're not to fit to represent the people you're aiming to.

It Keeps Killing Us

Yesterday we were told that our house had closed, sold, done finito.

They had missed the court's hours in order to record, so that was the final step to happen this morning.  We were advised there was a "one in a million" chance of anything happening to stop it at this point, and in a combined 30 years of real estate experience, our agents and his officemates had never seen anything happen.

Well, we should have bought a lottery ticket, so says my wise husband the Pope.

The buyer is apparently estranged from his wife, who was asked to sign a quitclaim deed releasing her from any claims on the property and an acknowledgment that she is not obligated with regards to the loan, and she signed and notarized both documents.  

For whatever reason, she had second thoughts last night and called escrow this morning to recant her signing of these documents, which she apparently has the right to do.  For whatever fucking reason.

We don't know what she is thinking, or what her problem is, but she is apparently "busy."  And no one can get a hold of her to explain that she is not responsible.

I'm having a nervous breakdown.