Flashback Friday: Cup O’ Crack¬†

For this week’s #fbf, I decided to re-post my Cup O’ Crack craziness. Currently, I’m on spring break and steadily eating my way to This-Isn’t-Even-Funny-Anymore-Get-a-Grip town. On my way home from brunch yesterday, I almost stopped at the store to get the ingredients for Cup O’ Crack. Thinking it wasn’t wise to have more than one serving of Cup O’ Crack in the house, I got a king-sized Reese’s and a bag of BBQ sunflower seeds. When I got home, I ate my loot, fell asleep on the couch, and woke up an hour later to sunflower seed shells everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I can’t even right now. So, how about I just wrap this up and get on with it…

When I’m stressed, worried, tired, happy, celebrating, mourning, or basically, whenever I’m breathing, I eat. I eat in a big way. I’m not proud of this, but it is what it is. Until I figure out how to separate my emotions from food, I’ll continue digging into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Buttah Core after a shitty day.

Sidebar: If you like peanut butter, you must go, right now, and buy this. I’m not shitting you. Slap on your wrinkly jeans, get your coat, car keys, and get your ass to 7-11. It’s that good.

So, I’ve recently taken to enjoying nightly, almost-instant microwaved marshmallow heaven, and its mind blowing. 

Let me tell you just how fucking fat I am. 

Are you ready?

OK, I pour enough mini marshmallows to fill a large mug about halfway. Then, I get my Chex Mix ready (I’ve thought about using something far tastier, like Fruity Pebbles, but those would most assuredly send me into a diabetic coma. So, I go with the healthier, smarter, er…least ridiculous option of plain corn cereal).

Pro tip: Only microwave the marshmallows for about 30 seconds. Any more than that and you will have a sticky, gooey explosion of epic proportions. Then, your boyfriend will attempt to microwave his leftovers and there will be an altercation. Apparently, marshmallow and spaghetti don’t pair well.

Once the sweet, sugary, pillowy clouds of fluff are nicely melted, I pour in about a 1/2 cup of Chex Mix and mix carefully. Gotta get those little tasteless shits covered in goodness.

Then, I eat that shit.

It’s sticky, sweet, crunchy, warm, satisfying. It satiates Martha*.

Oh, didn’t I tell you I’ve named my stomach fat? Her name is Martha. The fucking bitch.

When I’m eating this Cup O’ Crack, I’m in another world. I’m riding technicolor stripper boot-wearing unicorns. The sky is dotted with cupcake clouds and cotton candy snow floats down around me.

No, that’s crazy.

I’m actually sitting on the couch in my stretched out skull-print pajama pants, watching Drop Dead Diva, with marshmallow strings hanging from my chin.

Such a glamorous life I lead.

Jealous?

 

I wasn’t even playing. THIS is Cup O’ Crack!

*Apparently, my fat used to be called Martha. I must have forgotten I’d already named her. Eh. Martha…Bertha…pretty much the same name.

WTF Wednesdays #6

I’m going to start out this WTFW with a haiku:

House hunting sucks balls

All I can afford are dumps 

Ghetto life, here I come 

I have never in my life written a haiku. Even when we had to write them in high school, I somehow got out of doing it. I really don’t enjoy poetry, nor am I good at it. However, this was quite therapeutic. I rather enjoyed it. Thank you, Traci York and your Coffee Haikus. You inspired me to get creative and write my own haiku based on the fabulous house hunting experience I’ve had thus far. 

Don’t get me wrong. I love, like, LURVE looking at homes. In fact, I’ve spent more weekends driving around looking for open house signs in my favorite part of town than I’d care to admit. I’ve whiled away hours looking at homes online, hoping, dreaming. 

My absolute favorite part of this whole process of looking for a house to buy was getting to look at potential homes, Starbucks in hand, paint color ideas swirling in my brain. It’s legit one of my favorite ways to spend a Saturday. 

However, I’ve grown to not like the part where most of the nice homes I’ve looked at are, in fact, over budget (I don’t even want to get into how that happened). So, now, my potential homes are really quite stressful and disappointing to view. 

Some I haven’t even stepped foot in, because the overwhelming scent of cat urine almost knocked me out. Some I was afraid of contracting some disease from, because they were nasty enough for an episode of Hoarders. Some had boarded up doors, falling down kitchen cabinets, and enough dirt on the baseboards to build a baseball diamond. It blows my mind how people don’t feel the need to, at the very least, vacuum up the stale chip crumbs and nail clippings when they know their home will be viewed by potential buyers. It’s just disgusting and shockingly eye-opening to see how some people live. 

It’s almost comical. I mean, I would laugh if I wasn’t racing the clock, trying to find an affordable home, where I might not get shot in a drive by in, before a very generous teacher grant of $10,000 runs out. Yes, right now, in the state of Nevada, teachers can take advantage of a $10,000 grant to use on a new home and a lower interest rate.

So, here I am, looking to buy when the time is right to sell, so I can take advantage of the only way I’ll have a sizable down payment. 

When this whole process began, I knew I’d have to leave my beloved neighborhood, as the home prices have been off the charts expensive for a long time, because it’s a very hip area that’s being revitalized. 

So, I knew that. 

In the beginning, I refused to look anywhere outside of a very select “second best” group of neighborhoods. Once I realized that homes that used to be exactly in my price range, were now out of reach, I begrudgingly allowed my search criteria to be wider spread. 

That was just the beginning of the madness that is now my reality. 

At this point in the game, the only place that’s off limits is our pride and joy, the world renowned “Largest Trailer Park in America”. It may or may not be factual, but there is a community just north of Reno that has been called this for years by locals. 

No offense to anyone living there, as I’m sure it’s lovely, but I don’t wanna live there.

I’ve succumbed, in utter loss of any other options, to areas that I used to be dead set on never considering, due to commute, safety, and pride. 

This tiny home is only $80k, but it’s a no-go, because it doesn’t qualify for an FHA loan. This is likely due to it not passing some inspection. My guess is that it was used for a meth lab and there’s massive damage due to an explosion not showing in the image. Or, maybe, the floor is dug up, because some serial killer buried bodies there. Despite it being in a very undesirable location, and Google street view tells me the neighbors like to collect old appliances, I keep going to back to the listing. It has a certain charm.  

When I first saw this listing, I legit thought that what was on the roof was a stroller. Upon further inspection, it is actually, in fact, Santa and Mrs. Claus riding a lawnmower. The listing says that the junk around the home may or not be leaving with the current tenants. I really hope they decide to leave the rolling food cart. I have a cute crafting idea for it. 


This next one is a foreclosure, selling for $85k. It’s a whopping 336 square feet. What a steal. And, since it’s a foreclosure, the previous residents have probably started the remodeling process for me, with holes in the walls and bashed in appliances. This one is a forerunner.  

You’re gonna poop your pants on this next one. I even looked at a condo, with wall-to-wall neighbors *shudders*, in my least favorite location in town. That’s not even the kicker. You ready for this? One of the pictures has an orb in it. 

I looked at a property, knowing that it is most certainly haunted. 

Someone call a head doctor. Stat. 


This condo was actually really well taken care of, had a high-end, front-loading washer and dryer, and more than one bathroom, but it also comes with the spirit of a previous tenant. 

Nope. 

I’ve even looked at homes just down the street from my school. 

I love my students and all, but I see them all day, five days a week. I don’t need them knowing where I live, or to risk seeing them at a grocery store, while I’m buying a box of wine in my weekend apparel that usually consists of no bra, hole-y sweats, and my Zero ūü¶ä Given shirt. 

Just no.

So, as it stands, The Haunting is the property with the most potential, but I’m not convinced it’s a smart investment to purchase a condo in a less than ideal location. And, despite loving the show Paranormal Witness, I really don’t want to be a sad tale that people watch, thinking, “Thank God that’s not me!” 

The search continues. 

I’m really not that big of a snob. A true snob wouldn’t have thought twice about some of the properties I’ve added to my “favorites” folder on MLS before deleting them, and calling their realtor for a reminder on what’s acceptable and what’s not. So there. 

Heart Palpitations

All I want to do is eat. Eat.all.the.things. I want cake, cookies, salty chips, whole avocados. This is how I get when I am stressed, excited, nervous, feeling in limbo, feeling settled… Basically, all the time. However, the need to eat my feelings is therapy-edition-bad ¬†when I have big decisions to make.

I am a horrible decision maker.

In that, I will avoid making major life decisions at all costs. Most days, I hope life will just happen and I won’t have to make any rash/huge/scary decisions myself.

The most inane,¬†ridiculous aspect of this is that currently I am stressing about making a decision I don’t even have to make right now.¬†I am stressing about stressing about a scenario that has¬†not even happened.

What the?

As most of you know, I am attempting to make the big move to England (just writing that makes my eye twitch and heart palpitate). I had an interview last Wednesday with a school in Oxford.¬†It was so cool.¬†I would say it went well, and I learned a lot about the school, the school system in England, and that “fab” is my new favorite expression.

They expressed their disappointment that they wouldn’t be able to see me teach. I offered to send a video ASAP. They were thrilled. Then, I was down for the count with bronchitis for 4 days. This is how my life usually responds to time-sensitive things.

The woman I have been communicating with has been super nice and understanding, and insisted it was not a rush. So, after a depressing three days of missed work and a weekend, I came back to work, found a video on my school iPad I had already done, and sent it off.

I look hideous in this video, and it could be debated that I am about 6 months along due to the wonderful angle it was taken in. I mean, I am not even lying. The still of the beginning of the video makes me look like Sloth after a stroke. I am not kidding. So, I sincerely hope they disregard my RCF (resting crazy face) and just concentrate on the excellent teaching (if I do say so myself).

So, the point of my post is that I am stressing about a job I have yet to attain.

I was actually stressing about whether or not I should sell my Keurig, or not. I actually looked up shipping costs to ship a Keurig.

What the actual hell?

I don’t even have a job offer, but I am already homesick and sweating over the cost of public transportation.

What the fuck?

For real though, if this happens, it will be huge. Scary, exciting, expensive, and life-altering. Despite the exciting aspect of this, anything that is this huge of a change is terrifying.

I am also quite surprised by how expensive it is over there. I read somewhere that the cost of living is something like 33% higher in the U.K. than in the U.S. Yikes. There is a very real¬†possibility I won’t even be able to afford this.

So, nothing other than stress to report.

 

 

 

 

5 Ways I’m Killin’ It As A Grad Student Teacher

I’m losing it, dudes. I don’t know if “doing it all” is quite my speed. I’m usually more sloth-like motivated when it comes to being busy. The idea of being highly occupied with more than one really important thing sounds like something that might come with rewards, but I usually regard those kinds of notions with a wary-eye-sneaking-around-my-bag-of-Cheetos-caution/disdain. What was I thinking believing I could do this. I¬†don’t know if I can teacher AND student.

Following is how awesome I’m playing the part of Grad Student Teacher.

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Piece of Sh*t Car a la Adam Sandler 

Friends, my car is dying an ugly, ugly death. We had been given a year, but the diagnosis is now, much worse. The sickness running through the fluids and electrical system has recently sped up, and I am now making funeral arrangements. I’m devastated, but not surprised. When you have no emergency break,  and chunks of seat break off, daily, you know your car’s days are numbered.

Everyday, driving to and from work is pushing it. I also have to drive sans air conditioning, and like an 80-year-old with nowhere to go. It’s awful.

It’s not even like I’m that close to my car. It has no quirky name, and no emotional connection to me, whatsoever. I mean, when your car needs major repairs just to pass smog each year, it isn’t exactly considered a prized possession.

No, I’m dreading making car payments. At the ripe-old-age of 32, I’ve never been tied down by car payments. My piece of poo on wheels only cost me $5,000 and it’s been paid off since 2006. I am dreading having to make a substantial payment on a car every month. I’m a teacher, not a billionaire.

With that, because I’ll be a slave to the bank or car dealership for 48 months or longer, I want to be able to have a damn nice ride. I’m not even picky, either. ‘Damn nice’ in my world means having a “clicker” and power windows. But, while I’m not exactly “picky” due only to being poor, I’m super particular, at the same time. It’s a Jetta, or the highway.

Since I’ll likely be driving the most expensive thing I’ll ever possess soon, I know I’ll also be an anxious mess. I like to keep my nice things nice, and we know how people are assholes. I’ll be paranoid about it getting dinged, scratched, or hit. The anxiety is already creeping in. UGH. I think I have an ulcer. 

When you are super OCD, decisions like this are not fun, like most people would treat them. No, all I’m thinking about is how long I’ll have to give up morning Starbucks runs or buying beef because I’ll be paying on a car. I’m dreading the car hunt, because shopping around for something you really can’t afford really kinda sucks. Also, my car has already been keyed by some asshole, and I haven’t even seen it yet.

Wish me luck on my search. Pray I hit the lotto. Something. Anything.

My friend and I would blast this song as we “dragged main”, in my first piece of shit car, an ’86 Mazda 626 with maroon interior and purple tinted windows. We thought we were so hilarious.