H is for House Hunters: Realistic Edition

Whenever I visit my parents, I am enthralled by their satellite TV like a cave woman who has just been thawed out of a glacier.  One of the shows that invariably captivates me for hours is House Hunters.  Something about those upper-middle-class couples struggling to choose between a backyard pool or long-range views is almost hypnotic.

What I'd really love to see, though, is a realistic version of House Hunters, in which people on a shoestring budget grapple with harsh realities.

HOUSE HUNTERS:  REALISTIC EDITION

Today on House Hunters: Realistic Edition, we're following a young couple looking for a home in lovely Asheville, North Carolina.  They have not set a budget because "all the numbers are just so big."

House #1

House #1 is actually an apartment in a historic north Asheville neighborhood, just a quick 20-minute walk to downtown.  The building has no elevator, so the apartment is only accessible by three flights of weird old stairs.

This apartment features hardwood floors, washer/dryer hookups that occasionally make a mysterious gurgling sound, and all-new kitchen appliances as of 1992.

Haley and Ari are impressed by the convenient location and historic charm, but also concerned about the high price.  They decide to consider some properties a little further from Asheville.

HOUSE #2

Only a short 45-minute drive from Asheville, House #2 is an early 1980s mobile home that has been updated by a drunk, chain-smoking Greek man who enjoys carpentry and is also the landlord.  Located at an elevation of over 3,000 feet on a mountain that is called either Buck Cove or Buckeye Cove, no one seems to be quite sure, this quaint trailer-cabin is accessible via a dirt ravine that vaguely resembles a road.

The trailer-cabin is heated by a small "high-efficiency" wood stove and a propane tank that the landlord swears will last all winter.  When there are no leaves on the trees, you can almost barely see the very top of Cold Mountain from the deck.  Inside the house, however, Haley and Ari are not impressed with the floor coverings.

House #2 is also the cheapest option, which is good for Haley and Ari's nonexistent budget.

HOUSE #3

Slightly terrified by House #2, yet wanting to throw up a little bit when they consider the cost of House #1, Haley and Ari view one more property, this time in the neighboring (if by neighboring you mean "separated by a mountain range") town of Waynesville, North Carolina.

House #3 features an actual yard, a garage, a deck, a porch with weird outdoor carpet but we'll overlook that for now, a giant stone fireplace, and central heating and cooling.  It is slightly more expensive than House #2, but still far cheaper than House #1.

The cost still makes Haley and Ari want to throw up a little bit, and they're no longer in the same city they intended to live in, but after taking thirty seconds to consider their options, they decide to go with House #3.

Six months later…

Coming up next, you don't want to miss Renovations Gone Wrong.
~*~

For the record, those are all places we've actually lived.  We have been living in House #3 for almost two years now, and we like it very much now that we've sprayed the yard sale couches for fleas.

Tweet

G is for Getting Myself to Write

Getting myself to write is a complicated task, fraught with subtle psychological manipulation, and snacks.

First I need 9 or 10 hours of sleep because I have the metabolism of a sloth.  7 or 8 hours just do not cut it.

I don't drink coffee, so I'm not one of those writers who camps out in a cute coffee shop, downing cappuccinos and pecking feverishly at my laptop.  Caffeine gives me paralyzing ADD.  Not the hyper kind--the literally paralyzing kind where you're bombarded by so many random, bizarre thoughts that you barely even realize you've been staring at a wall for the past ten minutes without moving.

Once I've awoken without the aid of coffee, I plop down in front of my laptop with a bowl of cereal and good intentions, only to spend 45 minutes checking Facebook, reading other people's blogs, and answering e-mails.  Well, reading e-mails and deciding to answer them later.  With that out of the way, I decide I've been sitting at my desk too long and resolve to begin my day in earnest now.

Convinced I'll be able to concentrate more on writing if I burn off some pent-up energy, I take a walk.

 

 

After my walk, I need to rest for a while.

Then I need a snack, because I can't be expected to write while my blood sugar is low.  And while I'm eating, I might as well watch something entertaining on the Internet.

Then one of our cats curls up in my lap, and I watch another hour of Internet TV because he's napping and I don't want to disturb him.

Finally, I get burned out on whatever I'm watching and decide I actually do feel like writing now, so I reach over the cat and poke awkwardly at my keyboard*.

It's amazing I manage to accomplish anything at all.

*Actually, that's only true part of the time.  When I'm writing a long post, I write in a notebook first and then type it.  As a matter of fact, that's what I did with this post!

Tweet

F is for Functioning without a Smartphone

I am a rarity in the realm of first-world twentysomethings.  I do not have a smartphone.

I haven't abstained from owning a smartphone because I hate technology.  Like many of my peers, I have a crippling addiction to social media and would much rather e-mail someone than call them on the phone and speak with our voices. 

The thing is, I already have the technology I need in order to accomplish my day-to-day goals.  I can't justify spending my meager income on a smartphone that I really don't need.  It's not the actual smartphone I can't afford--refurbished ones are pretty reasonable--it's the monthly phone bill that comes with it.  I'm sort of poor right now while I try to convince the Internet to make me famous.  Not living-in-a-cardboard-box poor, but the kind of poor where having $20 left in my account at the end of the month is cause for celebration.  (Ironically, that celebration usually involves spending the last $20.)  I know some people who would rather eat dry spaghetti out of a garbage can every night than sacrifice the ability to update social media everywhere they go, and then they would Instagram their dry garbage-can spaghetti dinner.  I am not those people.

I'm sure I'll get a smartphone someday, when doing so won't involve giving up electricity or running water, or when smartphones become the only remaining phone option and I have no choice.  In the meantime, I am constantly amused by people's reactions to my lack of a smartphone.  You would think the world's technology level had gone straight from nomadic hunting and gathering to the iPhone 5, people are that baffled by my ability to survive without a smartphone.

Again, I really have nothing against smartphones.  Many of the apps are downright impressive, and some are even useful.  I just don't absolutely need that level of technology.  My job doesn't require that I check my e-mail 24/7.  If I want to photograph something, I have a digital camera that fits in my purse or backpack.  If I need directions, I have a pocket-sized GPS.  If I want to listen to music, my beleaguered iPod still works after six years of faithful service.  If I'm stranded on the side of the road and need to call a ride, I have my (apparently archaic) pre-paid cell phone that costs $12 a month.  If I need to know where to hide a dead body, I should probably be in jail.  Having all these technologies consolidated into one piece of equipment is convenient, yes, but people forget that it's a luxury, not an absolute necessity.

Until I accidentally drop my digital camera off the side of a mountain and my GPS gets smashed in the bottom of my backpack and my iPod finally dies.  Then maybe I'll get a smartphone.

Tweet

E is for Effort

Even though I'm married, I occasionally get hit on.  For the most part, these misguided pickup attempts serve as a nice self-esteem boost, but I feel kind of bad for the guy in question--unless he's creepy.  I've never been happier to be able to say, "Nope, married!" than when I'm approached by the likes of this:

But in the case of average guys who are neither inbred nor brewing meth in their toilet, I sometimes wish I could give constructive criticism, like, "No, but good effort, and I love how you worked it so seamlessly into the conversation," or "No, but outstanding use of humor, and extra points for using advanced vocabulary terms."

This is how I imagine it could work:

See how that really softened the blow of rejection?  This is the future of dating, right here.

Tweet

D is for Disgruntled Trash Collectors

Our trash collectors must have a lot of pent-up rage.

Every week, after they empty our trash can's contents into their truck, they launch the can and the lid, usually separately, on an impressive trajectory in what could be considered the general direction of our house.

I wonder if this is their subtle way of commenting on the putrid bags of cat litter we toss out on a regular basis.

Last summer, the can and lid flew a good twenty feet into the woods by our house, landing several feet from each other in a bed of poison ivy.

I dressed for the trash can retrieval like I was on a hazmat team.  My pants were tucked into my socks.  My sleeves were tucked into a pair of garden gloves.  My hair was stuffed underneath a hat.  All this in mid-July.  I wore only old clothes that I could theoretically bear to part with, just in case everything got contaminated and needed to be incinerated later.  I tiptoed over the poison ivy and handled the trash can as if it were a live bomb. 

As soon as I had dragged the trash can back to the driveway, I rushed inside and took a panicked shower.

Miraculously, I was spared and did not get a rash.

We've actually come to rely upon discovering our trash can in bizarre positions and locations, as an indicator that the trash was, indeed, collected as scheduled.  This has become such a regular thing that last week, when we found our trash can sitting perfectly upright, lid fastened, on the day after trash day, we were confused.

This week, I was actually a little bit comforted to see the trash can, once again, lying on its side near our mailbox, lid ajar.  Like a thoughtful, passive-aggressive message meant just for us.

Tweet

C is for Cannibalism

Have you ever noticed that when people say they want a certain kind of food, they often omit the word "food" altogether?  Instead they say "Let's eat some Italian,"  or "I could go for some Indian."

It sounds like they plan to go out and cannibalize someone of that particular nationality.

For instance, when someone says

I picture this:

What you mean is Mexican food.  You want to eat some Mexican food.  Not tear your teeth into the flesh of some unfortunate man who happens to be from Mexico.

So next time someone asks, "Do you want some Chinese?" your response should be, "Absolutely not!  That is disgusting and wrong!" and you should probably run away before you, too, are eaten.

Tweet

B is for Bad Employee

A few months ago, the toy store where I'd been working as a cashier went out of business.  Luckily, my boss there helped me get another cashier job in a pottery gallery where she happened to know the owners.  For the most part, the transition into my new job has been pretty smooth, except for the fact that I seem to be cursed.

On my very first day, I was supposed to be there at 10:00 AM.  To allow myself plenty of time to get ready, I set my alarm for 8:00 AM.  Hubs also gets up at 8:00 AM, so I figured if all else failed, he'd make sure I was awake.  We have both been known to set cell phone alarms as backup, but for some reason, neither of us did that on this occasion.

I was annoyed when our phone rang at what felt like the crack of dawn the next morning.  Hubs got out of bed and answered the phone while I rolled over and refused to open my eyes.

It was one of Hubs' co-workers calling to make sure he was alright, because it was 9:45 AM and he still hadn't come to work.

As Hubs scrambled toward the bathroom, leaving a trail of hastily discarded pajamas in his wake, he explained in a garbled panic that our power had gone out overnight, both our clocks had reset, and I should definitely consider getting out of bed very soon.  I raised my head from my pillow and blearily glanced at my clock, only to see that it was uselessly blinking random numbers.

I somehow managed to cram food in my face, stuff my body into clothes, rip a comb through my hair, send a text to one of my new bosses explaining what had happened, and still get to work at 10:20 AM.

When I arrived at the gallery/studio, the boss who was there was not the same one I had texted, so I apologized again.

"Wait, what time is it?" he asked.

"It's 10:20," I said.  "I'm really sorry--"

"Huh," he said, glancing at the clock on his iPad.  "Oh well, don't worry about it."

I was immensely relieved that no one was angry, and I swore to myself that I'd be nothing but an exemplary employee for the rest of my days.

A few weeks passed, and the awkward memory of being late on my first day began to fade.

Then one day, my phone died at work, and I didn't have the charger. 

I primarily use my phone as a clock, and after its sudden demise, I couldn't find anything else in the store with which to tell time--there was no computer (more on that later), and my boss had left for the day and taken his iPad with him.  Finally, I discovered a 24-hour clock on the credit card machine and used that for the rest of the day.  At 6:00 PM, I closed the store and came home.

Apparently, the clock on the credit card machine was 30 minutes fast.

I spent that whole night in agony over the fact that I had closed the store 30 minutes early.  The owners live near the store; what if they drove by at 5:40 and noticed I was gone?  When I got to work the next morning, I explained what had happened and was on the verge of apologizing when the owner stopped me.

"Oh, I've done that before!" he laughed.  "Don't worry about it."

Fortunately, I will probably never accidentally close the store early again, because a month ago we got a shiny new touch-screen point of sale system.  Up until then, we'd been handwriting all our receipts on carbon paper, so, yeah, I'm basically in love with this new computer. 

I've only ever had one issue with the new point of sale system.  As I was getting ready to make the cash deposit before closing one day, the cash drawer wouldn't open.  My first thought was that the coin tray had come ajar, and now it was jammed.  I really wanted to go home, but I needed to make the deposit, and to do that, I needed to open the cash drawer.  I rummaged around in the workroom and finally found what looked like a tiny metal crowbar.

After at least two solid minutes of straining, during which my desperate prying accomplished absolutely nothing, I noticed something.  There was a key in the lock on the front of the cash drawer. 

No, I thought.  I did not just spend the past two minutes trying to pry open this brand-new cash drawer only to discover it was locked the whole time.

It was.  It was locked the whole time.

I decided to just not mention to anyone that I attacked the probably-very-expensive piece of equipment with a tiny metal crowbar.  Except I'm mentioning it to you now, Internet.  But you won't tell anyone, right?

This is why you should really consider buying the book I illustrated--because I am clearly unfit for any other form of employment.  Or if you can't buy the book because you're broke like I am, just pick your favorite post on my blog and share it a bunch of times so I'll become a famous Internet person.

Tweet