Belly Up

Last night, hubby had a networking function to attend, so it was me and baby girl all day and evening. Knowing that I was dangerously low on vodka (perhaps enough for one measly 16 oz. drink), I decided to expose our 1-year-old to her first liquor store.

Thus far, my only beef with the state of TN is that to buy liquor, you have to go to a state-run liquor store. No big deal, right? Wrong wrong wrong. They are few and far between, so every time I see one, I excitedly exclaim, “THERE’S A LIQUOR STORE, NOTE TO SELF!!!” I am mortified it’s come to this, but whatever. Beer can be procured at any grocery store, and there are a host of supposed discount beer and cigarette stores all over.

So, baby girl and I drive the 20 mile roundtrip so mommy can procure a gallon of raspberry vodka (I never claimed to have discerning tastes). As we walk in the door, I ask the cashier if I can bring the baby in since there’s a sign on the door that states no one under 21 can enter. Indeed, the baby can accompany me. She’s in her stroller, fascinated by the ceiling lights, while mommy proceeds to select not one gallon of vodka, but two. I hate running out and knowing I have to make such a long trip, alright? In addition to my favored raspberry (delicious when mixed with Diet Coke, I might add), I picked up some orange vodka. It’s practically health food.

We cruise up to the register, and the cashier asks if I need any help out with my purchase. I respond, “No, I’ll just put it in the stroller next to my Mother of the Year award.” She laughed, I laughed, the baby has more therapy fodder.

By the way, the orange vodka mixes nicely with the aforementioned Diet Coke.

This morning, I subjected the baby to yet another morning of obsessive house hunting. She and I were delighted to discover that every area we checked out today was totally fine. The only reason any houses crossed over to the circular file was location; by that, I mean those bitches were on some steep-ass hills.

When we return home, I excitedly call the hubby to tell him that two places are looking especially good. They look so good that I decide to embark on the most unpleasant phase of the house hunt: checking each address against the TN sex offender registry. And that’s when the day takes a depressing and enraging turn.

One of the top house candidates has a registered sex offender around the corner AND .3 miles away in the same neighborhood. I should note said neighborhood is about .5 miles from our current dwelling. Another top contender has 2 sex offenders within .5 miles. My husband asked, how can these people afford to live where we’re looking?! He’s not being arrogant or exclusionary with that statement, but honestly, how the fuck do these freaks ever get a job? Don’t employers perform background checks? I’m pretty sure rape or child molestation would come up on your record.

Bottom line is this: it makes me sick to think that not only do we have to worry about the financial constraints when selecting a home to buy, we have to worry about schools, the commute, the taxes, the proximity to conveniences, and the fact we could miss out on a great house because some fucking pervert who should have been hanged in the town square upon conviction is taking a breath around the corner from our young daughter.

The rampant sex crime problem could be greatly curbed if our society would wake up and execute these people instead of sending them back out into the world to ruin countless other lives. They cannot be rehabilitated. That is a fact. Take a shotgun and shovel to each and every one of these motherfuckers so the rest of us can sleep at night.

Why is it that I live in fear for myself and my daughter, and a convicted rapist lives down the road? Because I haven’t gotten a gun. Yet.

There is an indisputable truth in real estate: unlike people, ALL houses photograph well. Wish I’d known this last year; we would have hired a real estate agent to take pictures at our wedding.

Over the weekend, we drove 300 miles checking out different areas and homes around Nashvegas. Every single house was a disappointment…and that was just from the outside. We eliminated them one by one without stepping through the door. It’s amazing how many homes look good, only to be surrounded by craptacular neighbors who don’t take care of their homes or yards. The hubby and I were beginning to wonder if a single neighborhood existed in this area that we liked AND could afford.

I might have found it. Across the road from the subdivision where we currently rent. The catch? Not a single home in that neighborhood is for sale. Like the hubby said, the house we end up buying may not even be on the market yet. God, this is as bad as dating.

Have you ever heard parents say that it doesn’t bother them when their baby pukes, pees, or poops on them? “It’s my child’s, so it’s different than if it were anyone else.”

Let me disavow you of that disgusting notion right now. Last night, I was holding the baby while my husband was preparing her bath. She’s naked, naturally, and I’m just standing there, making faces at her in the mirror, when I suddenly feel something splatter all over my feet and the hem of my jeans. She peed. All over the floor. And it was gross. Earlier in the day, she picked her first booger (I know, AW!). I managed to get it away from her before she put it in her mouth (she’s still in the “everything in the mouth” phase.), and then I dropped it. We were in the car. So now there’s a loose baby booger on the back floorboard or seat.

Bottom line, I don’t care if I gave birth to this person. I don’t want her puking, peeing, or pooping on me. Or wiping her boogers on my clothes. It’s gross, no matter who does it.

For the first time in many, many years, I had a positive experience at the local post office. We’ve only been in TN for about 6 weeks, and this was the maiden voyage (had to get more Star Wars stamps). I packed the baby up this morning so we could return before the goddamned temperature reached 95 degrees at 10 a.m. We walk in, and I am stunned to see that every single postal worker is white, speaks English as their native language, and is seemingly interested in helping customers in a timely manner. All three employees were also men who in turn made duck noises to amuse the baby, chatted with me about real estate, and asked if I was a Bears fan since I shared that we’d just moved here from Chicago.

It’s so nice to be back amongst my people: chatty white folks with a work ethic. Hallelujah!

And this is what you get for posting a bulletin on your MySpace page about your new blog and telling people that “most comments are welcome, especially those without spelling, grammatical, or punctuation errors.” When you’re being a snarky, self-important beyotch, it bites you in the proverbial ass. How, you ask? I just realized that I’ve been misspelling my new real estate agent’s first name in all of our correspondence thus far. For the record, I did send her an apology, and as an addendum to that record, her first name is an unusual spelling of a fairly common moniker.

Still, that does not absolve me, so I’ll take the heat.

Yesterday, I contacted a real estate agent in our new state of TN. This is the knee-jerk reaction of someone who has lived here for not quite 6 weeks and found a house online that she thought was just DREAMY! Well, the house is already under contract, but it can’t hurt to start looking at dozens of houses with piss-poor decorating and indignant sellers who wish they’d flipped their property two years ago for double the money, right?

My husband and I looked at houses and condos a year and half ago in the outskirts of Chicago. By outskirts, I mean 30-60 miles away from downtown because the goddamn prices are so inflated you can’t find anything decent for under $200k unless you are out in BFE. That being said, we are so so so glad we didn’t buy up there, then have to sell before moving to the Nashvegas area. We have a definite idea of what we want, but it remains to be seen if the market can bear us.

Ah, to write again! After approximately 30 seconds of convincing via IM, a friend got me to start blogging again. It’s been awhile and my life is vastly different now (husband, baby, new city and state), but the urge to write hasn’t abated. Allow me to warm up a bit, and I’ll post a real tirade shortly.