Hey, not dead yet!

So, we made the move.  It was rough.  The puffed up pile of "used car sales wouldn't have him" real estate agent said we'll get our entire deposit back.  Said we left the place better than we found it.  Which we did.

It's been 48 days, still no deposit.  This is the guy who, at the first "landlord is selling" get-together, insisted that state law requires a deposit be returned within TEN days.  Luckily, we knew he was lying even as it rolled off his tongue, so we're not too panicked yet.  Yeah, he said that to keep us from making any "we won't leave" noises.

What an asshole.

While the law seems to say we should have had the deposit back within 45 days, the renter protection laws here only speak to landlords with more than a certain number of properties (I believe it's five). We emailed the landlord last week, and he has--can you guess?  That's right, not answered.  Because that's what Scott does.  He doesn't answer.  For weeks.  My money is on this--he didn't keep the $1950 deposit set aside for refund.  He threw it in with his cash and is now near-bankrupt and doesn't have it.  The old place STILL hasn't sold.  Remember how they told us we couldn't stay until it sold because "houses in this neighborhood don't last a week in this market?"  Yeah, my ass.  I knew that was a lie then.  Not only is our old place still on the  market (it went on the market July 1st--you do the math), but remember how they tried to palm it off on us?  For "low 300s?"

The price has been reduced a number of times now.  They're now asking 249K.  In other words, they tried to rip us off for over fifty grand.

Next step is, I guess, to send a demand for our deposit via certified mail.  And then, I guess, small claims.  Which is incredibly scary because there is the chance that, even though we have the pristine walk-through in writing, even though the time period allowable for submitting deductions from the deposit is well gone by, we could wind up with a judge who decided he likes landlords more than he likes tenants.  We could wind up with a judge who is an old golfing buddy of Scott's.  He has a lot of them around here.

It is so unfair that he would do this to us.  By his own reckoning, we were "the best tenants ever."  By his agent's reckoning, we "left the place in better shape than it was at move-in."

Way to reinforce the "scuzzbucket slumlord/all landlords are thieves" stereotype, Scott.

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So, other things have changed.  Pretty big changes.  Our boy, who has been homeschooled since day one, announced that he wanted to go to school.  Understand, this is an abrupt about-face--every time I've suggested it, even as recently as last spring, he's shut me down with pleas to not make him.  He sprung this on me a mere two weeks before the start of school, and made it clear how important it was to him.  At first, I demurred, and he became very despondent, saying he understood, it was a stupid idea.  Broke my heart.  Understand, I have NO experience with the public school system, other than my own 30+ years ago.  I scrambled, I hoop-jumped, and I got it done.

We decided on part-time, just a couple of classes.  That way, if it turns out it's horrid and he hates it, it's not a huge deal.  So it's a sort of "getting his feet wet" thing.  He's got Guitar Ensemble and French.  He seems to be enjoying it, and he's making friends.  He joined the Gamer's Club, Drama Club, and the Planning Committee.  Has get-togethers at a local burger joint and a sleep-over this weekend.  He gets to have his picture in the yearbook, and was even issued a laptop.

He's excited.  So are we.  I hope it turns out to be all that he wants.  

Silly as it will sound, the lack of yearbooks has always troubled me.  Hubby and I both have all our yearbooks, and I've always been sad that our boy wouldn't have that.  Now he will.

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Haven't been to a doctor since January.  I'm having a terrible time with my weight, and I just can't bring myself to deal with the constant, devastating disapproval from doctors.  It's hit the point where I am just so humiliated and so completely overwhelmed with anxiety that not going is the only option I see.  I know how stupid that is, I do.  But I just can't.  Walk in, first thing they do is throw you on the scale and an eyebrow cocks just a little.  Stress so bad by the time they take the blood pressure that it feels like a full-blown anxiety attack is in the offing.  Doctor finally comes in, and the disapproval is palpable.  Is that disdain in her exotic eyes?  Doesn't matter, because it feels like it.  I'm almost in tears just typing this.  So I don't go.  

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The new place, btw.  You know all those horrendous, petty, obstructionist, self-righteous nightmare stories you've ever heard about home owners associations?

Yeah.  First thing, first day, we ask the real estate agent if we can put in a gate so our dog doesn't run away.  Yeah, fenced yard, no gate.  He says we can't, HOA won't allow it.  Yet we've driven around and some folks have gates.  Some are nice matching gates, some are cheap, fake wrought iron that don't match at all, some are plastic baby gates, and some, like our next-door-neighbor's, are crappy white latticework leaned against the gate posts.  So we took two solid boards, put them together, painted them to match the fence, and attached magnets to lightly keep the thing in place without it actually being attached.  It took ONE day for a note to be taped to it, telling us that it's not approved, and giving us an application to the design board.  Problem is, the design board application requires permission of all neighbors/OWNERS whose properties adjoin OR who can SEE the "addition."   Yeah, not likely; these are all rentals, none of the OWNERS actually live here.  Plus, plans, photos, proposed paint colors, and cost/construction proposals must be submitted in advance.  

For a damned barrier to keep the dog in.

So we figured maybe it was too tall.  So we disassembled it, removed the magnets, and just leaned it like the folks next door with the cheap, ugly latticework.  We were taking it up when the dog came back in, but one evening we forgot.  By 7 am the next morning, another note, nastier, telling us that the "partial barrier is unapproved."  Again telling us we must submit an application.   And then another nasty note, telling us that we cannot have bird feeders in any form.  Which means I'm stuck for at least two years with no birds.  Bastards.   I cried while taking them down.

I was very upset, made my way to the website to read the HOA guidelines and there was no mention of bird feeders (though there was mention of bird baths, which was scary).  But then I dug deeper, and discovered we're not in that particular HOA--we're in a SUB-HOA specifically for Condos.  And it doesn't allow gates AT ALL.  Because our front yards are considered part of the "open area."  That's right--our front lawn is actually part of their open space.  No wonder they MOW it.  

So, in other words, their nosy-assed neighborhood narc is handing out design applications that will not be approved because we're in the Condo area.

Thanks, folks.

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Here are some pics of the new place--it's not as nice as the old, but it's also not awful.  The carpet is a cheap Berber, which concerns me on the vacuuming front, and the master bedroom is a giant (19x19) loft-type set-up with no door.  The stairs are murder on my knees (four flights of 8 stairs a pop to get to the bedroom), and the kitchen is minuscule (we had to leave most of our cooking stuff packed because there's just no room).  But the blinds are nice, and the front yard is nice (even if we can't have a damned gate), and the stove is gas.  The tubs are slightly larger, and being two floors up keeps the TV from driving me nutty at night.  We don't know much about the neighbors (other than the chain-smokers across the way who throw loud parties and beat each other up), but those awful rat-children are no longer our neighbors, and that is everything.  I can let our boy walk to school or Hapkido without worrying that those kids are going to ambush him.

So, all in all, it works out slightly to the better.  And I will take that any day.

And finally?  If you're reading this and you see an Amazon.com shopping spree for Christmas in your future, please consider using my Amazon link, which is the search widget below.  This public school thing, with yearbooks, ensemble uniforms, daily lunches, etc., is pretty pricey.  Christmas is coming, and every bit helps, especially with the landlord tugging us about on the deposit.

Armus waiting to die

Ever make yourself cry?  Not on purpose, not by reverberating on sad things, but just out of the blue by saying something that rebounds, gut punches you, and suddenly you're in tears?

Did that to myself last night.

Almost 16 years ago, my sister and her then-husband ditched their dog on us.  A huge, white thing (we later figured out she was a Labrador Husky), she was one year old and had already whelped a litter.  Her name was (and still is) Armus--named after the black blob from some Star Trek Next Generation episode (no, we didn't name her).

The dumping of Armus into our world wasn't supposed to be long-term. No, it was supposed to be "just for a few months, until we find another place."  All things considered, I should have known that was bull, but what are you going to do, right?  Say no?

Armus wound up staying with us for thirteen years.  To be fair, there was a point, maybe six years in, when my sister and the ex-bother-in-law (no, that's not a typo) offered to take her back.  By that time, she was joined at the hip with our other dog, and the bother-in-law planned to leave Armus outside.

No.  Not going to break up the happy couple so you can keep her on a chain in the back yard.  Turned out that, even if we had agreed, the dog would have been back a few years later, when they divorced and she moved into a "no pets" place.  How she left her three cats with us at that time is another story.

So Armus was ours for 13 years.  JoJo, her buddy for life, died.  And then we moved--first, to a place where we couldn't have a dog (and so we went to my mom's a few days a week to take care of Armus and keep her company).  And then we moved cross-country.  Oh, we agonized over that.  But, by then, Armus was 15 1/2, and was and there was no way she could make the move with us.   No matter how you sliced it, just getting her up into the cab of a gigantic truck (it had stairs and a pull-up bar to get in) would be hell on her and us (she's quite arthritic now), and making her ride on the floor, cramped up, for 500 or so miles a day?  For the better part of five days?

I didn't think she'd survive it.

So Armus is now almost 17 years old.  Mostly deaf, has a hard time getting down those three little stairs to go outside and do her business.  My sister goes over with her kids and helps make sure Armus is being cared for.  I was telling hubby and son that Armus had fallen down in the snow and ice the other day, and my Mom, who is 78, wound up also falling in the snow and ice trying to help the dog.  Between the two of them, they managed to drag each other into the house.  I said, "I can't believe Armus is still chugging along--amazing!"  Hubby said, "I know, it's a near-miracle."  And I said, with zero forethought, "What if she's just waiting for us to come home and play with her?"

Oh, damn.

That was it, I started to laugh, but I was crying, too, and the crying took over pretty quickly.  What a crappy thing to think of.  What a devastatingly SAD thought.  What if she IS waiting for us?

And now I'm crying again.  Poor Armus.

I'm not sure what to do about my weight at this point.  I had lost six pounds, but, in a month-and-a-half, I've managed to gain back that six PLUS eleven more.  Seriously, seventeen pounds I've gained since the beginning of January.  It astounds me, how fast I can gain, it's unnatural.  If gaining weight was an Olympic sport, I'd do my country proud, you know?  But I was back on it yesterday, and I'm back on it today, and I've just got to make this work.  It's easier when I can sleep.  But waking up at five in the morning is almost a guarantee that I'm going to start grazing.  This morning, I forced myself back to sleep, and it worked.  Big pear and ice water for breakfast, I'll have my nummies for lunch (only 200 calories), and I'll have pasta for dinner (we do pasta very carefully).  Even with smoothies for dessert, I'll come in at around 1,400 calories for the day.  More than anything, I need to force myself to keep track on My Fitness Pal every day.  That's what does it for me--accountability.  Seeing what I'm taking in and admitting it.  

So here I go again and still.  Forever.

Bad paneling?  I dunno, I'm a bit down right now.  Probably later, though.

I need to be a loser again . . .

At my heaviest, I weighed over 400 lbs.  I don't know how much over, because I stopped weighing.  Judging by the rate of loss when I first started taking it off, I'd say I was around 425.  I felt like hell.  All the time.  My back, which was mangled in a car accident back in 1993 (back when I was a skinny girl), was a constant source of pain and worry.  I had sleep apnea.  My blood sugar was starting to be a real problem.

Over the course of a year-and-a-half, I lost 180 lbs.  I felt great!  I was still fat, but I felt amazing!  I could walk for hours (though the plantar fasciitis would give me grief the next day)!  I used a program called My Fitness Pal to log calories and exercise, and I was religious about it.  Very dedicated!  My blood pressure was amazing, my resting pulse 60, my A1c down to 5.4. 

And then I just stopped.  I don't know what's happened.  I have spent the past seven months just eating.  Is it because of the surgery, the stress, the fearing it was cancer?  The relief of it just threw me into a celebratory pig-out that I don't know how to climb out of?  I don't know.  I do know that, for months, I kept being "good" but kept not losing--I plateaued and, no matter what I did (add calories, subtract calories, increase exercise, decrease exercise, etc.), I just couldn't lose.  Three plus months of 1250 calories a day, and no loss.  I kept telling myself that it didn't matter, that being healthy was the reward, regardless of the number on the scale, but that's not true--the number on the scale mattered, because when you're holding yourself down to that few calories a day, that number is your only tangible reward. 

It's not just me--yeah, I've gained almost 50 lbs, but my husband's gained a good 30 lbs, too, and he's never been "big."  We're just eating everything we want.  Ice cream with Chambord and black raspberries, gourmet cheeses, jalapeno poppers, and peanut butter!  Constant peanut butter!  See, I used to have one Clif Builders Bar (chocolate mint) a day--I would actually break it in half and have half for breakfast and half for lunch.  Then it became two bars a day, one for breakfast, one for lunch.  Then it was two for breakfast, and two for lunch.  Understand, these bars have 270 calories a pop.  In an effort to break that one, I switched to yogurts.  I started with light yogurts, one for breakfast, one for lunch.  But then I developed a taste for the Greek yogurts--Chobani Cherry, to be precise.  That's almost twice the calories of the light.  And then I wanted two.  And then?  Granola on top.  And suddenly my low-cal bar replacement was worse than the bars.  So I cut that out, too, and it was replaced by an overwhelming urge for peanut butter.  I would just slather it on bread and eat four pieces.  Yes, it's low cal, low carb bread, but still.  And I'm left wondering--is the urge for peanut butter (which I went YEARS without eating) a way for my body to make up for the protein I'm not getting from bars and yogurt anymore?

I don't know.  But I'm sinking myself, and it's devastating.

I did come across a blog today, a very nice lady who's lost a good bit of weight and talks of going back to daily logging/journaling to keep track of her weight if she should begin to gain again.  I know she's right--I have to start daily logging again, even if I'm screwing up.  Because then it's there, in black and white, and I can't deny or pretend.  And from there, maybe I can get this turned around.

But I'm scared. Terrified. I don't want to be contemplating wheelchairs again. I don't want to be unwilling to go to movies because my ass is too big for the theater chairs. I can't do that again. Please!

About 25 lbs shy of my heaviest, on the upswing

Obligatory duck-face, about 170 lbs down

About 180 down

Fall Again

So, it's been over a year since we moved here from Utah.  Northern Virginia (or NOVA, as we locals call it) is amazing, nasty rat children not withstanding.  Our concern over the longevity of the car has kept us closer to home than I would like, but we've still visited amazing places like Occoquan Bay National Wildlife Refuge, Mason Neck State Park (ticks!), Virginia Beach, Washington DC more times than I can count, both Air and Space Museums (DC and Dulles/Chantilly), and other mundane-seeming but actually really cool places like Wegmans (both in Fairfax and in Gainesville), the dog parks in Vint Hill and Reston, an amazing little bakery in Arlington (http://www.heidelbergbakery.com/), and a cheap little greasy spoon in Manassas with surprisingly good diner food and perhaps more than a few flies in the summer (http://www.ashtonfamilyrestaurant.com/).

Things aren't how I would have them if I had the power to make it all wonderful. The kids in this neighborhood are scary and unpleasant (they've taken to stalking our boy on his Play Station Network and ridiculing him--we only just figured out today that he can block them), and the money situation is always tight, but, all in all, here is absolutely better than Utah.  The constant blooming of trees and plants, the greenness, the amazing sound of cicadas and frogs in the night (spring peepers!  Tree frogs!  Leopard frogs!), the astounding array of birds (including our hoped-for cardinals), and the way that wind actually cools you off.  Not like the hot desert blasts of Utah summers.  Here is absolutely better, even if it's not yet perfect.

Sadly, there has been one really bad thing--I'm gaining weight.  Pretty quickly.  I have got to find that place in my head again or I'm going to totally blow this, and I'm not sure my health can take that again. 

Anyway, here are some pictures of our beautiful new world.  Love!