Currently Reading The Life and Death of Anne Boleyn By Eric Ives see related

Today, I'm buying a house.

I like how that sounds so casual, and yet is utterly true. Today, I'm buying a house. Well, we're buying a house. Either way, by this time tomorrow, we'll be about $170,000 deeper in debt than we are now. Super!

The first half of this week has been pretty stressful for me. I've been unpleasantly surprised by the sheer quantity of "last-minute items" that we'd purposefully left unpacked and that now need to find a temporary cardboard home. Alarm clocks, some dishes, jewelry box, bathroom supplies ... hustle as I might, I have a feeling there will still be several things that just get tossed into bags on the way out the door tomorrow morning. And I'm trying not to let that reality make me feel like a failure as a planner. Because honestly, I've been busting ass the past few weeks to get things packed and organized, and I'm trying not to mentally sabotage myself if it just so happens that there are a few things unboxed come 9 a.m. Thursday. It's not the end of the world ... right?

I won't let myself work past 10 p.m. these last few nights -- I force myself to stop and get into bed mode. Otherwise I'm liable to topple over that line that demarcates stress-motivating and stress-paralyzing. I confronted the emotional equivalent of a nuclear meltdown Monday night, looked it in its formless face, and decided to turn the other way. I can't let myself get fried. There's still too much to do, and plus, I'd really like to remember our first house-buying and major-move experience as having some nugget of sentimental positivity to it instead of the memory becoming unredeemably scarred by stress, tears, and marital fighting.

Also, if I'm looking at this experience with an unfamiliar upswing, I have to note that my anxiety progress in the last year's time is pretty considerable. I had a meltdown just trying to pack for a weeklong beach "vacation" last summer, so the fact that I've withstood the stress of packing our entire lives as well as a major life change is worth a few shoulder-pats, I suppose. That and a hearty grazie to psychopharmacology and the benefits of Effexor.

Currently Listening Little Light By Allison Crowe Disease see related

What's that smell? Oh, it's that rank commercial

"The combination of hot temperatures and high dewpoints will lead to heat index temperatures in the upper 90s for the next couple of days."

*sigh*

Eff me.

While I'm on the topic of excessive sweating, has anyone seen that asinine TV commercial for women's Secret Flawless deodorant that has this empty-handed tart flitting about the streets of Generic U.S. City flashin' her pits every damn chance she gets? It's the corniest, stupidest commercial I've seen in a long time.

She's basically prancing around in a tank top and is so enamored with her "flawless" pits that she feels compelled to come up with any moronic excuse to lift up her arms and show off her sweat-free, deodorant-buildup-free underarms. And she's so bubbly and blissful while she's at it, thinking she's being especially cute and charming.

I want to bash random objects every time it comes on. It's just the dumbest thing I've ever seen, and not at all amusing, the way it's clearly trying to hard to be. It bothers me when commercials try so frigging hard to be witty and clever, and then miss the mark by a mile.

Even my husband finds it annoying, and he's generally not annoyed by stuff that isn't largely inconsequential in the grand scheme of things. Me? Being ass-chapped over the largely inconsequential is my raison d'etre.

These may be out of order, but this is how she manages to expose her armpits five times in 30 seconds:

First (I think), the bubble-headed dope tosses a piece of trash into a trash can on the street with one arm, and while it's still raised she caresses her exposed pit (Pit Flash #1) and coos, "Flawless!"

Then the pit-flashing bimbo says, "Hey, how's it going?" or something to some random guy she passes by on the street so that she can high-five him -- thereby yielding senseless Pit Flash #2. Then she looks at the camera and chortles, "I don't even know that guy!" Oh, the tee-hee-hee-ness of it all, you cheeky dame!

Then she achieves Pit Flash #3 by saluting some poor old dude sitting outside on a bench or something, dressed in some kind of uniform, by exclaiming, "At ease, captain!" and commences with her requisite camera-ready giggling. Poor old dude just kind of stares blankly at her, probably have an unfortunate WWII flashback.

Then -- and this is the scene that really gets me -- she hails a frigging taxi (Pit Flash #4), and when the clueless sap pulls up to the curb, she says flippantly, "No thanks; I'd rather walk!" See, this one is actually rude, not just harmlessly retarded like the first two. She best not try that crap in NYC or someplace. She'll get her ass run down by a jilted cabbie.

I think the last thing she does is parade farther down the street, and she passes a couple of policemen doing their policeman thing, she she literally stops and shrieks: "Aah! I'm innocent!" while thrusting her arms up in the air (Pit Flash #5). The cops look at her like she's a lunatic (which isn't far off base). While her arms are raised -- see, this is a double-pit exposure, sort of her piece de resistance -- she takes a big whiff of her pits while adding, "And fresh!"

Next time I'm out of deodorant, I will seriously not purchase a Secret product as I often do, sheerly due to my revulsion at this ridiculous piece of advertising. In my own small, vindictive way, I refuse to let Secret's half-wit marketing knobs think they've cornered the young-female market with this dopey pit-fetish ad.

Currently Reading Greek Myths (Legendary Past Series) By Lucilla Burn see related

I'm bowled over by your sticker of pith

I saw a bumper sticker very similar to this one during my grocery run last night. The design was a bit different, but its dazzlingly innovative content was identical.

I'd like to thank Captain Obvious, who obviously (har har) was the creator of this adhesive gem.

Bumper stickers are usually pretty corny, and always inspire one of my trademark heated eye-rolls -- the kind where my eyeballs jet upward so furiously and with such intensely annoyed vigor that you can scarcely detect the last remaining sliver of brown iris. My personal least-favorite bumper stickers are the ones that are supposed to incite the wrath of other drivers, or serve to demonstrate the car owner's snazzy disregard for "the man" or the "status quo."

You know, the ones that are all "I don't care about your opinion! I'm an individual! Watch as my deftly placed profanity and jeering language show just how much I don't care about what you think! Take that! Pah!" etc. These are most often sported on the beat-up 1992 grandpa sedans that those terribly rebellious 16-year-olds like to drive. They are easily purchased at your local dimly lit Hot Topic or Spencer's Gifts, right next to the goth apparel or the alarm clock shaped like buttcheeks. Because sticking it to the man is easily accomplished en route to another day of 11th grade.

But I digress. My internal response, after my eyes inadvertantly glazed over this particular oh-so-pithy message, was immediately: "Duh."

I just thought that bumper stickers, no matter how cheesy or inane, generally tried to say something original or stupidly sassy, at least. But this one? There's no originality there. No lame creative spark. Yes, now we can all commiserate over how much gas prices do indeed "suck." Thanks for sharing. I tried to envision some driver riding along behind this be-stickered car, nodding his head with an appreciative smile, thinking, "You're right. Gas prices do suck. Thanks for putting that out there, man. Good one."

I don't know; it just bugged me. It stinks a little of bandwagon, the way those "Support the Troops" car magnets reeked of bandwagon a couple of years ago.

Although I suppose the ingenius "Gas Prices Suck" sticker could be partially redeemed when appreciating the inherent yet unintentional irony of its location: on the bumper ... of a car ... which is busy consuming ... that's right, kids, you've got it ... gas.

There's a nice cyclical philosophical loop-de-loop in there somewhere, but I'm not willing to invest the time to explore it. I'll leave that to the 11th-graders.

Currently Listening Lisa's Song + 6 Songs By Allison Crowe see related

A mortgage with a side of maternity

Yeah, like makin' babies. That one looks like it's about to projectile puke onto its father's effeminate turtleneck sweater. And is it just me, or do I spy a rather Euro-looking mullet?

Currently Reading The Winthrop Woman: A Novel By Anya Seton see related

We're movin' on up, just like the Jeffersons

I feel like I must've used that subject line before, as it seems recently pulled from my mental Rolodex of witty subject headers, but I can't place it. So, it stands. Besides, how many times in life is a Jeffersons reference so incredibly apropos? You can't pass that up.

Our moving day is three weeks from tomorrow, and I am blowing through boxes like nobody's bizniss. That and bubble wrap, which I keep accidentally stepping on while it's waiting to be used, and I always overreact like I just set off a shotgun. *PopPopPop!* "Aw, damn it!" There is much swearing and flailing about. Not because it startles me, but because I know I just wasted some primo bubbles.

I have the living room and dining room all packed, as well as most of our wall art. I'm going to tackle the bedroom next, but I likely won't get to it until the weekend. I realized I actually don't mind packing--I sort of like it because it's busywork, task work, which I've always found kind of appealing. Like when I had a mass of shirts to fold back in the old retail days. Something to pass the time. I like having a task to do and then doing it. I even look forward to it, unless it's something grueling and nasty like cleaning the bathroom. I'm sure it's the unpacking end that I'll find much less pleasant.

In the meantime, I can't walk through my cardboard-packed living space without thinking, "My life: in boxes," which sounds like the beginning to a really mediocre poem, but it's so blindingly literal. I am currently obsessed with bubble wrap and boxes--the acquisition of both, the different sizes and qualities of both, the rapidity with which I go through them both. The haunting smell of musty cardboard lingers in both my apartment and my car (from transporting them). I'm scrounging around at work for could-be-emptied paper cartons like the little box whore I am. I have my co-workers, my devoted box-hunting minions, on the lookout for and bringing me any boxes or bubble wrap they have at home or find in their travels.

I can't believe how much crap we own. And truly, most of it is crap. VHS tapes that we're never going to watch again, but can't bear to part with due to some sense of technological posterity. Books that I'm never going to read again, but I've read them, and I keep them on my bookshelf like the paperback trophies of accomplishment that they are. And I haven't even gotten to the closets yet. Oy.

Out of the two of us, though, Kirk is the packrat, so it'll be more of a challenge to get him to part with some un-necessities than me. He has already relinquished one solitary, empty glass bottle that formerly held POM Wonderful pomegranate juice, and which has been oddly adorning his dresser for about the last year. You should have seen the interestingly mixed look of triumph/ruefulness/so THERE!ness that he had as he caught my eye while placing it in our recycling bin. But I give him credit where credit is due. Baby steps. A man and his useless, trashbound juice bottles are not easily parted.

And he just now called me at work in a fury, telling me Sears left a message saying they won't be able to have any of our five recently purchased, direly needed appliances shipped from their warehouse until August 1. I'll let him handle this angry phone call and I'll just go back to the sanctity of my quiet, Zen-like bubble-wrapping.