What fucking day is it?

I think there is light at the end of the tunnel. At least it looks like a light. Could be a vision problem. Or a stroke. God, I hope it's not a stroke. Does anyone else taste burning?

Mama-san's visit hung around me like stink on a wet dog. And subsequent conversations have been almost as stupid. "Yea, I want to drive around the whole city, all of my special places and take lots of pictures before we move so I can remember everything. Make a big San Diego scrapbook you know?" "That is so silly." ~head explodes~ But I'm shaking it off now and I've been so busy I haven't had time to think about it all that much.

Thanks for the encouraging words and blogging advice. I was told this entry was the last time I can log into old blogger so a switch is inevitable. I no likey change as it is and forcing me to do something I don't want to do makes me very cranky. I'm going to check out Lynn's advice (hi, Lynn!!) and see if I can figure it out without smashing something with a hammer.

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Time has turned into a ravaging monster eating itself to death on my flesh. Still. I think we're going on week number four million and thirty of working on the house and me running around throwing cash at surly Target clerks and lecherous orange-vested weirdos at Home Depot. No, Mr. Grout man, trowels are not sexy and stop picturing me rubbing caulk all over my body. Sicko.

Talk about over-budget. EESH. And now I'm really pissed at my favorite home improvement shows Sell This House and Designed to Sell because fuck you two times for your reasonable budgets and super transformations. YOU. ARE. LYING. There's no way in effing hell you can re-do a bathroom, buy furniture, paint 900 square feet of walls, and get a crapload of accessories for what you spend. IT CAN'T BE DONE. And I know - my bank account or lack thereof is proof! And I'll see you tonight at 8:00! Assholes.

The tile guy arrived on Saturday morning at 7:00. And again at that same time on Sunday. Somehow waking up around the asscrack of dawn on your own isn't half as painful as having to wake up to let a total stranger into your house who's going to rip up your carpet and put your toilet on the patio. And my boobs weren't ready for a bra yet! The girls were not happy at all.

I went riding both Sat and Sun which is not the norm for me but since I've paid for my training and missed 3 weekends in a row due to illness, death, and mother, I had make-ups. This was perhaps a stupid choice on my part. In addition to riding and using up almost all of my energy reserves for the day I decided to shop for more crap then PAINT EACH BATHROOM. TWO COATS.

I, of course, did not do the painting by myself. Whitey and I tackled the guest bath on Saturday and the master on Sunday like the awesome team of champs we are. But hell, that is tiring work. I got the vapors by the end of the day on Sunday and barely finished my portion. And the tile boy ran out of tile. ARGH.

The house is still a mess and the cat is unhappy. Very unhappy. She's making her distaste for the interlopers and disruption in her Queendom known by getting into precarious things she's not allowed near and puking every god damn day. OK, kitty, we're taught. We get it. This sucks, in that we agree. Please stop horking all of your expensive food on my floor. Mama will stop locking you up in the guest room soon. Promise. (Well, until people start looking at the house.) Are plastic runners still tacky? Oi.

There's a sob-inducing long list of things to take care of but my goal is to be ready by the end of the weekend to get this bitch on the market. My real estate agent is coming over Monday morning , of which I've taken the day off, to see our progress and I'm going to beg, plead and probably sleep with her to make sure she gets me top dollar. (Hope you don't mind, baby.) Oi. Can't wait until our lives are our own again. Oi. Oi.

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Did anyone catch The Police on the Grammy's? I love Sting and I love the band and I will never forgive myself for not seeing them back in 1984 or whatever year it was in high school when I was wearing bandana's tied around my thighs and 14 Swatches up my left arm (which I still love, btw, my birthday is in September.) But Roxanne? And a lackluster version at that? Come on, guys. I know it's been awhile but that was a bummer. And Sting? Keep your solo singy Fields of Gold stuff far away from Police songs and you won't get hurt.

Despite that I still want to see them and I will dress in neon orange and spray a pink stripe in my hair and dance on my chair singing every word to every song with the other 40 thousand middle-agers wearing comfortable shoes sipping on plastic cups full of cheap chardonnay then standing in line at the souvenir table while Amex gold cards are passed back and forth, one of which will be mine because, yes, I will take one of everything, please.

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Whitey and I started a tradition last year that we would only get each other a small gift for Valentines day, something between $5 and $10 and it had to be the most botarded, ugly, horrendously awesome thing we could find. I highly recommend this. It takes the hype and pressure out of the holiday and it's fucking fun as hell. Go ahead. Copy us. We'll be flattered.