I lied to you guys. I’m sorry.
Remember the other day, when I was having that massive drama attack about not being able to buy a house, and I said I was renting a house, instead? Well, luckily my realtor/finance guy had the sense to keep working through the night on my credit/mortgage issues, and now, once again, I am buying a house.
In fact, I signed the contract yesterday. Not on the same house we were wishing for before, but on an even better house, for even cheaper.
The devil likes people who brag, as we all know. He rewards their bragging by giving them termites and jacked-up foundations to discover upon inspection. So, in the interest of keeping the devil’s interest away from my new house, I’m going to refrain from talking about it anymore, at least until closing (July 14). Or, at least, until after the house is inspected and comes out okay. (God willing.) I will, however, thank you guys for all the vibes you’ve sent. Thank you!
Sensitive vegans and country music fans, do not read the following.
Are you lonesome tonight? I’m alone but I feel okay. I’ve been working my fingers off on final revisions of my upcoming novel, Houston, We Have a Problema, which will be available at a bookstore near you very soon. And I’m not just saying that because my editor reads this blog, either.
If you called me this evening and I said I would call you back and then I didn’t, I’m sorry. I have to get these revisions done by July 14 (which is also closing day), and I have to intersperse the revisions with Hotmail breaks and Snood breaks, and, also, I have to eat.
Sometimes I feel like I should drink or smoke while I work on my novels so it can make me more literary, but cigarettes and wine are expensive, so I usually just eat sugar-free candy, instead. But not tonight. Tonight, instead, I had steak.
The other night, we went to our fave Inner Loop Houston Randall’s grocery store, and they shocked and dismayed us by playing country music the whole time we were there. Normally they play awesomely bad-ass melow music from the ’80s and ’70s, such as Earth, Wind and Fire. So you can imagine that the sudden change freaked us out. I asked one of the Randall’s employees what was up, and she said the country music would only play for a month or so, while Randall’s Corporate promoted their new Rancho Relaxo steaks. (They’re not called Rancho Relaxo, but they’re something like that, so, you know, whatever.)
So, apparently, in exchange for torturing us with crappy music, Randall’s put a whole bunch of steaks on radical sale. I bought a big old slab of London broil for four dollars (regularly priced at $14.72).
I haven’t wanted to cook in my apartment’s kitchen at all since The Mouse Incident and The Rat Incident mentioned earlier in this blog. Even though shining traps now guard every corner of our kitchen, I can’t help but imagine that everything in our dishwasher, clean or dirty, has been marinated in rat juices, since that was one of their entrance points.
But the London broil was calling my name, so I sterilized all my equipment and cooked that steak in the way my boyfriend taught me. And then I ate half of it, with my very last bit of A-1. And that stuff was good. Damned good, y’all. Totally worth the trouble.
The rest I’ll save for lunch or dinner tomorrow. I don’t know if it’ll be as good after microwaving, but that’s the risk you run, I guess.
So that’s what I did this evening. Revised my novel, and ate steak, and locked in my mortgage rate with my realtor over the phone. Fun, fun, fun. Please don’t be jealous.
Please, magazine people, please…
Stop saying bump. Stop saying “baby bump.” Please stop saying, “So-and-so’s revealing bump,” and “So-and-so shows off her bump.” Jesus Christ. Say anything but that. Say hump, or lump. Say “grossly swollen womb.” Please, people. Do it for my sanity.
Marigoldie fills my head with thoughts I don’t completely understand.
The other day, Marigoldie was talking about baseball people and their intro music. Meaning the music that gets played when they enter the batter’s box, and the supposition that these guys get to pick their own song.
I don’t know much about baseball – I don’t even know what a batter’s box is – but I couldn’t help but think that, if I were a baseball person, I’d like my song to be “Crosstown Traffic” by Mr. Jimi Hendrix.
Okay. That’s it. I’m tired to the point of imagining rats out of the corners of my eyes, so I’m gonna go to bed now. I hope y’all have a good night.
