It’s been real, Nashville. Peace out.
The next time you see me here, I’ll be back where I left my heart years ago.
This is what I was bursting with in this post, and what made me smirky in the photo here.
Heading back to live in Austin, my friends. With a huge grin plastered across my face.
I’m sure I’ll be tweeting all along the way there, so if you’re interested in coming along, follow me on Twitter! 
I am so, so, so happy.
being out of touch and kind of an emotional wussbag
You could call me asleep since the 90s a completely clueless old fart slightly out of the loop, and you’d be right. I don’t stay current with all the hottest new music, the best new technology, or the latest fashion trends. I notice some things, much I do not.
I feel like being online, especially on Twitter, does keep me up to date with things, but it still seems like I miss a lot. I’m constantly having this conversation in email with my more observant, hip friends:
Me: Huh? Dur.
Hip Friend: What, Bitch? You didn’t know?
Me: Huh? *fart*
Hip Friend: Yeah, it’s been around for ages now. Where have you been?
Me: Huh? Dur.
Hip Friend: I have no idea why I even talk to you, loser.
So, yeah. I am kind of a ditz in that “doesn’t know what the hell is going on” kind of way. Lingo, for example, hits me from weird places. I was on the phone with my husband last night, telling him about how Braden was sick and having a hard time sleeping.
John was between shows downtown. He was driving to the second show, and after we’d chatted briefly, he told me, “I’ve gotta jump.” Uh, okay? It took me a minute, but I got it. Still, I had a hard time not quipping, “There better be something just out of your reach, over your head, because if you’re on a bridge, I hope you rot in hell. You could at least wait until we have something in savings before you kill yourself. I’d have to get a job and everything, you selfish, insensitive bastard.”
Yeah. It’s a loving, gentle relationship.
But, “Jump?” WTF? Is this what the kids and trendy young adults are saying now when they want to get off the phone? Yeah, I’m feeling a bit like I have cobwebs. Not in my house, but ON ME. And for the record, that jerk is older than I am but HE GETS TO LEAVE THE HOUSE REGULARLY. AND DO STUFF. WITH PEOPLE.
Ass.
Anyway, totally wandered away from the actual thing I wanted to talk about.
I’ve seen a commercial put together by a local news station several times now. I am drawn into the commercial every time because the way it is shot is really cool (black and white, different speeds) and the song always pulls my attention. I had no idea what it was, and kept wondering if this was a popular song I have just missed (would not surprise me).
I saw the commercial again tonight, hit YouTube and found it, and listened to the whole song while watching the video.
Really, actually listened to the words, felt them.
Got the deeper meaning, was moved. A couple of tears slipped down my cheeks.
I kind of like it when something has the power to move me like that, with no warning.
What song(s) have the power to move you?
Also, I should probably check PMS Buddy… I totally haven’t kept track of my cycles anymore and this could be a sign that I need to be protecting my underwear soon. Because The Red Crotch is, I’m pretty sure, not the latest fashion trend.
Right?
Once more, for good measure.
Long time readers will
remember the story of
our last, moldy house.
What a trial that was!
We have been in this new home
for a whole year now.
I could never say
thank you enough times to those
who helped us get out.
To all of you who
stepped in to help us move then
and are still around
I want you to know
that I think grateful thoughts of
each of you often.
And now we’ve got a
whole year of new memories
in a better home.
So much has happened
in this year that has now passed.
It’s remarkable.
March 2008………………………………………………………………………………………………………….March 2009
So, once more I say
Thank you, Thank you, Thank you all
Thanks so very much.
Nashville For Dummies
Who Also Happen To Be Lovestruck, Underage, and Extremely Gullible
So, Lotus clearly hates you and wants you to be miserable, and I know this because she asked me* to guest post for her. I only agreed because I actually have some valuable information to share with you, her devoted readers. You see, I remembered that there is some blog get-together thingy going on in Nashville in February, and I realized that many of you dear Sarcastic Mom readers will probably be going to that, if for no other reason than to get a view of The Rack close up. Something you don’t know is that I am The World’s Leading Authority on visiting Nashville.
Because I did.
Once.
So naturally, I am more than obliged to provide you all my expert advice on navigating through Lotus’ hometown and getting yourself good and married in 17 easy steps. Prepare to be dazzled.
Fall head over heels in love with your bald, fat, 9 years older than you restaurant manager before you even come close to your twenties.
Let him take wild advantage of you, your car, your ability to both drive legally and go more than 17.39 seconds without snorting anything up your nose.
Hunt him down over the course of 18 months after he takes off from Denver to Nashville with little more than a “So long and thanks for all the fish” mumbled in your general direction one day.
Drive 23 hours straight through the pouring rain to spend two long, glorious weeks winning him back. In Nashville. That’s the key to this whole thing working.
Get to his apartment after getting totally turned around trying to go straight through on the 65 only to end up on some horrible, middle of the night, lost and alone goosechase that lands you on the 40, which is weird only because the 65 and the 40 don’t exactly hit each other even remotely closely to where you wanted to be in the first place.
After finally arriving, have the most awkward make up sex the world has ever known, or ever will know, and watch as he over the span of four hours goes from professing his undying love and suggesting marriage to forgetting you ever existed in the first place. Make sure this happens within your first 24 hours there, so you’re certain to have 13 more days to be stuck waiting for your next paycheck to be deposited so you can get the hell out of there already.
Get fed up 10 days into your 14 day stay because you’ve been stuck in his apartment with his roommate that you don’t even know, you’ve read all your books, and it’s still raining all around you. Realize you are a rain god.
Get into your car and drive. ANYWHERE. End up dead smack in the middle of downtown Nashville, totally on accident. Park and walk. ANYWHERE. Check out Vanderbilt. Follow the river for a ways and end up in some back alley bar with a fabulous live band and a fabulous random guy more than willing to buy you drinks all night.
Get said guy’s number.
Call said guy in front of dipshit ex-boss.
Get taken out by jealous ex-boss to a company function, get introduced as “the bff” and later that night get asked to move to Nashville with him. WITH him.
Drive 23 hours back to Denver, straight, and start packing your life up. If you survive the Kansas stretch.
Get a call at work two weeks later from the man you’re planning to spend the rest of your life with saying he’s just met the woman he plans to spend the rest of his life with.
Die.
Get the hot guy at work shit-faced drunk and nail him in your car to make it all go away.
Marry hot guy from work.
Thank god for small favours. And Jack Daniels.
*Me would be Mr Lady, which is of absolutely no relevance whatsoever to the post.
__________________________________________________________________________________________
Mr. Lady is an amazing writer, a hell of a strong woman, and a damn sexy broad. She authors Whiskey In My Sippy Cup. Not being subscribed to her website is like waking up in the morning and finding out someone has removed both of your lungs. (Have you ever woken up dead? Don’t start tomorrow… visit her today.)
Besides. There’s a half-naked photo of her on her sidebar, for crying out loud! Go.Now.
PS: She asked me not to blurb her because it makes her uncomfortable, but I like it when hot chicks squirm.
What I’m doing right now instead of writing posts…
What I’ll be doing after that…
I can’t wait until everything is all sorted, and I can take you guys on a tour of the new house!
Don’t get me wrong, I’m MORE than happy to be unpacking.
Been scheduling posts
all week amidst the moving
chaos we are in.
So many of you
have already helped us with
gifts, words, and support.
We thank you from the
bottom of our collective hearts.
It means so much.
New internet should
be hooked up sometime today.
I won’t hold my breath.
What will I be doing?
Taking a bath in front of
a window, for fun?
At some point, I guess.
But until that time comes,
we’ll be unpacking.
Unpacking, you know,
is another way to say,
“wishing I was dead.”
The rest of the story…
This past week has been
very long and so tiring.
There is much to tell.
To make long story
short, please read this post and then
come back and finish.
Okay. Now you know
the heart of the mold problem.
And you are outraged?
Asked to terminate
lease last Friday, but we were
ignored all week long.
We figured that we
will leave here no matter what;
need a place to live.
Well, we’ve been looking
for a house to rent all week,
so we can leave here.
Over and over
we “just missed” getting a house -
“Someone else got it.”
So much FRUSTRATION.
Home, John started falling ill.
So hard to keep going.
Found another one
and looked at it on Wednesday.
We really liked it.
While we were in it
looking around, a woman
walked in to look, too.
Would she beat us to
apply, taking the house off
the market once more?
Like I said it’s been
such a very long week and
my wits were frazzled.
I had crying fests.
We gave written documents
to our manager.
The documents were
strongly worded and we gave
them prints of photos.
Wednesday night I was
just ready to fall asleep.
Awake was too hard.
But I saw that there
are friends here who want to help
us leave this HELLHOLE.
Angie rocks my rack here.
And tells you how you can help
us move away, too.
Victoria, too!
She’s also trying to help
me get Braden out.
And Dawn! She posted
so that people would see the
ways to help us out.
I cried last night and
it was the good kind of cry.
I felt loved by them.
They say it’s darkest
before the dawn, and that means
get ready for good?
I wasn’t ready.
In fact, I was thinking that
the worst would happen.
Today we got news.
Owner will let us out of
lease with no more pay!
I cried, crapped my pants,
and did a dance of joy, all
at the same time. Wow.
Also, guess what else?
Application was approved!
A home to move to!
Now we just have to
cough up the savings to move
and pay for that place.
If you want to help,
Donate on the sidebar or
do this or do this.
(To paypal donate
leave a comment on the form,
“Use money to move.”)
Thank you so much to
all who have already helped
and supported us.
True friends gather round
when a person is in need.
I am bowled over.
Paradise Below Us
Ahhh. Renting a house. I suppose that some people are able to have a good experience renting a house. Unfortunately, The Carrolls are not those people. Let me tell you our lovely story.
May 2006: Move from Austin, TX (*sniff*) to Nashville, TN. Move into apartment (gag) while trying to sell house in Austin (torture).
I really, really tried to keep a positive view of things.
After all, I was glowing with the aura of happy pregnant lady!
It didn’t work.
May 2006 – May 2007: Miserable living in apartment. Why?
*Brown Recluse Spider infestation.
*Loud “Horse-Laugh Harry” upstairs. I honestly think he is the illegitimate child of Mr. Ed. Really.
*Drug Dealers outside our window. Thank you, but no, our recovering drug-addict friend would NOT like to buy some pot from you, asshat.
*Stupid lady smoking a cigarette practically in my VERY PREGNANT face at the pool, who obviously had a death wish, but got lucky and somehow survived with her life. I am not holding a grudge, she just really deserves to have her Marlboros shoved into her other bodily orifices. While they are lit.
*Sh*tty Property Management Office that likes to lose your packages. “Ohh, really? That was your package? So sorry. We thought the box looked like it would be happy WITH SOMEONE ELSE.”
Etc.
May 2007: Not ready to buy another house yet, but eager to leave apartment living, we rent a house.
Summer 2007: Among (many) other crappy things, we discover that there is a problem cooling the house. The AC Unit runs all day long just to try to maintain a 78Degree temp setting. It fails. It is usually at least 85 in the house.
We nearly die.
Property Management fixes some of the faulty duct work (wasn’t even ATTACHED TO THE VENT under the house!!!), but refuses to do the entire job. We are left with leaky duct work.
Bills arrive for AC. We die again.
Current Day: We have just received a gas (heating) bill. This is separate from the electric bill. Almost $250.
For one month.
Our heads simultaneously exploded.
For that amount? My ass better have been leaving all the doors and windows open, cranking the heat up to about 85 and walking around here NAKED, sipping rum-filled drinks from my SWANKY COCONUT CUP and getting my feet rubbed by the Cabana Boy by the INDOOR, HEATED POOL that we had installed, while lovely Hawaiian tunes play in the background. AND I’d be needing to have had perfectly moisturized hair and skin and a FREAKING TAN.
Oh. No. Wait. Is that what was happening? HELL NO. I was all up in this mother wearing my ugly sweatshirts and socks, scratching my dried out, pasty-white, itchy skin, wondering why the stupid heater has to run so much just to maintain a temperature of 68.
DUR. It’s because our CRAPPY Property Managers and CRAPPY House Owner refuse to fix the duct work properly! They literally told us this on Friday. “Hi. This is your CRAPPY Property Manager. I am a useless bag of ****, have a nice day!”
They refuse to fix it. They don’t care about our exorbitant Heating/Cooling bills.
I think, in short, this is what they said to us:
Except they aren’t cute.
John walked outside the other night and saw steam rising out of the door to our crawl space.
STEAM IS RISING OUT FROM THE CRAWL SPACE.
*slaps self in forehead*
Of course! The Tropical Party is under our house, not inside it!
I need to pack up my hula skirt and my coconuts and squeeze under there. Do you think the Cabana Boy is waiting to give me a foot rub?
Until then? I’m off to browse real estate in Nashville. Guess who’s moving in May?
Show Sponsors
The Awesome
