largely just a vent.

I decided to start writing on this thing again, though I don't think anyone's really paying attention anymore. I don't even think this feeds into people's readers, which I could take the time to update and problem-solve, but frankly, I don't really care. Read it if you want. Don't if you don't.

Good pieces of news:
1. Dan gets home soon. Can't believe it's been seven months, give or take.
2. I have mostly finished decorating the house. Screw that, I've gotten two and a half rooms done. But I do have a comfy new bed that I got for about 10% of the price. Overstock.com and I just came together at the right time and the right place.
3. I have REALLY blonde hair again.
4. I like my job for the most part, and at this rate, I couldn't get laid off - there is ALWAYS plenty for me to do.
5. It's almost summer. It has been a long, cold, rainy winter.

Things that are currently driving me up a wall:
1. The lovely military can't seem to nail down a date. This is not my favorite topic.
2. My lawn looks like shit. And the gutters are clogged. And I have a big ass oak tree in my backyard that's inevitably going to cost me a ton of money to remove. Awesome.
3. Our company lost about 24 hours to this crazy McAfee corporate update that shut down mine and thousands of other computers - no access to anything, just the blue screen of death. While I took it in stride and realized that when that happens, there's nothing I can do, I had everything pile back up today when we were able to get it all fixed. One of my analysts had the foresight to unplug from the network as soon as they heard people were having problems, allowing him to work offline through the outage. Now I REALLY wish I had done that - man, what I would give now for 24 hours of offline productivity where no one is able to email me.
4. In general, work is insane. My latest insanity-driver is the fact that I need to find the building age for 200 commercial properties in four western states. I found a lot through tax assessor websites, but more than half these counties have either nothing online or they charge for the parcel maps, which they won't even promise has the age of the structure. Since my job is all about centralizing efforts to streamline costs, I don't exactly have funding to pay these government agencies to tell me the age of structures that my client ALREADY OWNS. It's like this most days...I'm just chasing my tail to find a needle in a haystack...one that's been found several times before, but should have been saved somewhere.

Well, hell.

I need to go grocery shopping.

Horrible...

I guess you can tell I moved in, but unfortunately, my first post since then isn't a happy one.

I moved in on November 6, and I've LOVED my new house. The Colonel settled in well, I got great deals on furniture and Ikea-hacked myself into a decently-decorated house. I was planning on buying a new bed (mine is a queen, and it looks TINY in my HUGE bedroom), and was THIS close from splurging on a nearly $2,000 bed and mattress.

Until December 29.

I came home late from work, and was so worried that the Colonel had an accident because I had left so early that morning and couldn't make it home for lunch. I opened the door, which was sticking a bit - I assumed the cold was making the door and new lock settle a little oddly. I looked up, saw the empty television stand. In my naivete, I assumed the dog had gotten curious behind the TV stand and knocked the flat-screen over. I freaked out, thinking I'd find a squashed beagle under a 50" plasma. I ran over, looked down, and the carpet never seemed so...barren. No television. I looked to the kitchen, the dining room, and the rest of the main area...

And I swear, it was like it was in the movies, where everything comes into focus. My entire house was ransacked. The back doors were basically destroyed, having been kicked/battering-rammed in - through a deadbolt. The trash can was on its side, having been thrown across the room. The dog food container lay on its side, and I noticed I was walking on dog food. A heavy can of peanuts, a hammer, a rubber mallet, and several other throwable, heavy objects were on opposite sides of the room from where I had placed them before. I looked in my bedroom, saw my bedroom door destroyed as well. The entire time, I called for the Colonel - nothing. I looked to the guest bedrooms, saw the doors were closed, and suddenly realized it was possible I wasn't actually alone in the house.

I literally dropped my purse and work computer on the floor, left my keys in the door, and took off for the neighbors two doors down, as the next-door neighbor's light wasn't on.

I interrupted their late-Christmas dinner. I was hysterical, said I had JUST moved in, and I was sorry I hadn't introduced myself yet, but that I needed to use their phone because I had been robbed and everything looks gone worth any value and I CAN'T FIND MY DOG AND IT'S TEN DEGREES OUT...

We called 911, and an officer took my statement and said it would be a little while before the Crime Scene unit came, but to NOT. TOUCH. ANYTHING. The neighbors scoured the neighborhood all they could for the Colonel, and found nothing. I sent them home and thanked them, and that I was very sorry to have disturbed their dinner. I called Meghan, and asked if I could stay with her - I couldn't sleep at my own house that night. Of course, she said yes. I called the insurance company, who dispatched an emergency reconstruction contractor to repair my recently-painted dining room wall and door. I stood in my house, not touching anything - just...staring - for three hours while I waited. I called my parents and one friend from home, who started the Lynchburg Rumor Mill, which truly runs at a speed greater than any force EVER. I texted a few random people. I called for the dog. Nothing. My mother offered to drive down immediately, as did more than a few friends both locally and otherwise, but I felt like even though I wanted the company...for once, there was nothing she nor anyone else could do.

It was freezing.

The Crime Scene Unit came, and I tried to at least make conversation with the officers. We discovered that the theives had driven around the back of my house - and just loaded right up. I remembered turning the lights on when I came home, so it was obvious they hit in broad daylight. The Crime Scene investigator covered almost every inch of my house in fingerprint dust...and apologized that it's hell to clean up. I said it was ok. He took about 10,000 pictures, and then said that the only fingerprints he was able to lift - from the entire house - was one palm print on a closet. He took my palm prints as elimination prints - because he couldn't rule mine out as being the one he found. I guess that means I really am a good housekeeper if he couldn't find one other print - even from me. He apologized for having to take mine twice...because he'd "never done it on anyone alive before..."

Finally, he left, I called Meghan and said I was going to be LATE, called a coworker and asked her to look up my boss' phone number (my internet was out because they'd stolen my router), and she was extremely sweet in offering to call me in on PTO and offering me a place to stay. The contractor finally got there and boarded up my doors...it looks like a railroad got laid over them. I still called for Colonel Mustard. I drove through the neighborhood until at least 2 am. Nothing. I finally drove over to Meghan's and got in her guest bed, exhausted. I sent Dan an email, saying only "I have bad news...my house got robbed. They took a lot, and the Colonel is missing. I'm safe, I'm fine, and I'm sleeping at Meghan's. I'm sorry, I know you're busy and can't deal with me, I'm just...lost." He called five minutes later from Afghanistan, and for the first time that night, I burst into tears.

I woke up to a friend's call - he wanted to know HOW to help. He offered to come over and help find the Colonel, to help me clean, a place to stay, guns, anything - and again, I felt so awful, I couldn't tell people HOW to help. Nothing helped. I got up, sat with Meghan and Matt and the kids, had a BIG cup of coffee, and ate a couple of donuts while Caroline drew me a picture of "Miss Molly and her Doggie", because she was worried about him. I'm still crying thinking about it when I write this - a week later!

I finally decided to go home and have a hard look for the Colonel. When I got home, I tore through the woods, calling him, and finally, when I got back up to the house...there was this little beagle, curled up on the blanket from my bed that I had left out for him on the back porch. He was a little lame on a leg, and shaking, but not bleeding or broken. I don't think I've ever hugged him so much or apologized so much - I kept thinking he'd run away, believing I had put him through that experience - getting hammers and trash cans thrown at him by scary people, when all he was doing was barking his head off trying to protect me. I thanked my lucky stars.

Then I came in, and for the first time, I understood why people coming back after hurricanes, tornadoes, floods and fires burst into tears. Because I did. The house was still a wreck. Fingerprint dust was everywhere. I didn't even know where to start. I tried cleaning the dust, and realized I needed professionals, and called the first licensed maid team I could find. They had no availability, but called a COMPETITOR when they heard my story, they came that day. $150 for 1300 square feet of solid MESS. Worth every penny, even if the insurance refused to pay.

My cousin came that day and stayed for three days, and we drank like sailors. That's about all we could do - nothing else works. I went to Ikea and replaced some of the broken stuff. I rang in the New Year, and tried to remember that 2009, and the decade that no one wants to properly name, was actually pretty good to me. I drank a lot of champagne and egg nog and danced like an idiot, remembering that exactly ten years before, Meghan and I were standing in NoWhere Bar in Athens. I won't elaborate on the trouble we got into the first hours of 2000. I couldn't believe where she - and I - have gotten since then.

My stepdad and brother spent the night this past Sunday, and I've slowly been piecing my life together since. I can't sleep, not more than 2 hours a night. I'm scared of the bad guys coming back, and that I'll be there. I got a security system and am protecting myself even further. The detective has taken my case and said she might actually be able to track it down since I had pretty good documentation, but...90% are unsolved.

Overall, how do I feel?
Frantic until I found the dog.
Elated once I did.
Now...I'm terrified, violated, and mostly, ANGRY.

I'm terrified that someone staked out my house and knew three things - that I lived alone, I worked long hours, and the dog was all bark and no bite. I'm terrified they'll come back and that I won't be able to protect myself. I'm terrified that they might somehow be connected with me and I don't know that I'm walking among them. I'm terrified that I'll never be able to sell the house. I'm terrified that I'm never going to get the fingerprint dust out of the carpet - by the way, there's no hint from Heloise on that. I'm terrified that they stole my credit card statement and other pieces of mail that I had assumed were just lost. I'm terrified about it turning into an identity theft nightmare. I'm terrified that they've seen pictures of me. I'm terrified that the Colonel will get scared in public and bite someone if they happen to be the same size, shape, race or smell of the thieves.

I feel violated that I had to watch police officers take pictures of my underwear, because the thieves tossed everything out of my drawers. I feel violated because my laptop was in my bed. THEY WERE IN MY BED. I feel violated because it's the ONLY place I NEED to feel safe. I know it sounds crass, but it really feels one male organ short of rape. I'm absolutely shocked at how violated I've felt - I was once mugged, and never felt violated. My car has been broken into, my bike has been stolen, and someone TRIED to break in when I lived in Philly while we were actually in the house, but they got chased off by police. I was a little aggravated and saddened by all situations...but I never felt like my very personality had been stolen. Not like this.

And I'm angry. Angry that they made me lose a general sense of pacifism and faith in human nature. I had grown up in two houses where we NEVER locked the doors, and even though all my doors were locked and deadbolted, they got in. I'm angry that no one saw anything. I'm angry that Dan wasn't there. I'm angry that someone raised their children and didn't set the example of forcing their 5-year-old to take back the pack of gum they had stolen and apologize, and those kids grew up to rob my house. I'm angry that Samsung doesn't print their serial numbers anywhere permanent on their televisions, just on a label that's easily peeled off by thieves. I'm angry at my original home security people for not being able to install until January because of the first-time homebuyers program pushed them to a backlog. And I'm angry at those ass-clown scumbag cowards who had to admit to each other that they were ass-clown scumbag cowards in order to carry a 50" television out of the house. Angry as hell. For breaking my new doors, for tearing up my back lawn, for making a mess in my FINALLY-cleaned up house, for two televisions, for my laptop, for my hard drive, for a DVD player that wasn't worth jack, for every piece of jewelry I'd ever received from a boyfriend, from my dad, from my grandmother who had received them from her husband and unbelievable people while working for the state department, and every other piece of jewelry I've ever owned except a few minor pieces I was wearing or in a shoebox about to give away to goodwill. I'm SUPER-angry that they hurt my dog and might have to be restrained if they ever are caught. I'm angry that CMPD doesn't have the resources to track them down, and that even if they did, Mecklenburg County won't prosecute unless it's ironclad more than freaking Law & Order cases. I'm angry that I couldn't figure out ways for my friends to help when they offered. I'm angry that I have to suck it up when I get scared, because I HAVE to get back to normal sometime. And finally, I'm angry that it made me this angry. I never wanted to be a victim, and I hate being one.

If you come over to visit, do me a favor - come in the front door, and ring the doorbell. Don't surprise me around back - because I'm not necessarily waiting for the ADT panic signal to get to police. I'll be relying on a more traditional system of home defense if I get an intruder, and I'm not going to be asking questions first.

House hunting - over?

I've survived. That's all I can say. I've had a few posts ready to go about this , but I haven't said anything because:
a) I don't want to jinx it.
b) Every time I feel one way, another thing changes.
c) I've been worried about who reads this. Yes, I've been a little paranoid that maybe a seller would see me get excited about a house and then try to take me for more money. Whatever, no one reads this thing anymore (I've seen readership, let's say...FALL...since I left Philadelphia, but I don't care), but it still freaked me out.

So. I'll try to post these in the order in which they were written. Forgive me if I leave anything out or if I forget to post anything. Just ask me and I'll fill you if you see a gap in the storyline.

"And now," Max cried, "Let the wild rumpus start"

I'm inherently a bit wary of movie adaptations of books that I've loved since childhood. I think Hollywood ruined James and the Giant Peach and The Witches, two of my favorite Roald Dahl books. Charlotte's Web - sorry Dakota Fanning, but you are NO Fern. I'm going to pass on Tim Burton's take on Alice in Wonderland because I'm convinced that it's one of the few stories in which a darker Burtonesque adaptation is just...well, passe. Burton has done it before and ruined Willy Wonka, I'd love it if he'd just lay off my childhood and find a new story to tell. So help me God, if they ever turn Goodnight Moon into a box-office extravaganza, I might join a protest.

Last Sunday, I fell upon a New York Times article about Spike Jonze's journey in making Where the Wild Things Are. I should say - I loved this book to pieces when I was a kid. Even with the bland color pallette, I loved the illustrations - Maurice Sendak became one of the first illustrators I could name off the top of my head. I understood the significance of Max as a character, as well as his relationship with his monsters - even at a really young age - and I just fell into the camp of people who just got it when it came to WTWTA. It's about imagination, about a child's discovery of the adult emotion of loneliness - and how children deal with it. And along with Christopher Robin, Holden Caulfield, and Scout Finch, Max was a key example I used for a senior Children's Lit paper in illustrating how books have best described the fragility of childhood itself. So when I saw the article, I instinctively built my wall up - I thought "my GOD they have ruined it all. Great, my kids will NEVER get it like I did. Another Shrek knockoff."

But after reading the article, I really was excited to at least give this movie a shot. Then I saw the trailer. And the other trailer. And the featurette about the making of the movie. And now I'm super-pumped to see this - I think Spike Jonze, for lack of a better term, GOT it. This is what film students should study to find out why we bother adapting books into movies in the first place.

So I have now found the perfect formula for convincing Molly to spend an actual $10 to end her 2-year absence from the theaters. Take one quality director who has made a career of using his overactive imagination. Add a classic story and hire a superb writer - say, Dave Eggers - to write the screenplay. Involve the original author and illustrator at every step of the process. Fight the studio to make a film that keeps true to the integrity of the original work. Refuse to dumb down a story for children. Also refuse bright lights, vivid colors, and other children-trapping visual tricks unless germaine to the story. Hold the impact of the original work on its audience dear, and don't release it until you feel it's ready for that audience. Finally, set the trailer to Arcade Fire.

And then you've got Molly in cinematic tears...at the TRAILER.

A Cautionary Tale: Lessons learned the hard way. Or, Adventures in Myers Park.

Two little pieces of advice that I figured out the wrong way today:

1. Check what you're wearing before you go out in public. Beyond just covering the naughty bits, you might want to foresee who might look twice at your clothing. Because if you walk into the Myers Park Target wearing an old painting t-shirt, it looks a little odd to folks. Especially when it's covered in red paint splatters, and it makes you look like you're a serial killer.

2. If your caffeine addiction has grown to the point where the "Red Eye" (coffee plus a shot of Espresso) needs ANOTHER shot of Espresso, and you've learned that the Starbucks lingo for coffee-plus-two-shots is called a "Black Eye" (for it's strong punch), do yourself a favor and exercise restraint on the lingo. Just order like this: "Coffee with 2 shots of Espresso." Especially when in the often-crowded Dilworth Starbucks. Because when you place the order of "Can I get a tall Black Eye?" over the hiss of the machines, the baristas and everyone else in the crowded coffeehouse stop and stare. And you'll suddenly hear crickets. Because it sounds like you just asked loudly for a tall black guy.

Shameless begging for money - for a good cause!

One of the most frequent suggestions I got when I started training for the marathon was to tie it into raising money for a cause. Running has a way of getting that little devil in your head that says "WHY are you doing this? Your feet hurt, you're tired, you don't have the time, and God gave us horses and then cars so we WOULDN'T have to go far on foot. Why run unless being chased?". Raising money for a cause gives you motivation to get off your butt, ties you into a commitment greater than the $88 entry fee, and all that jazz. I had a hard time figuring out what I wanted to do, but the hands-down winner was the Multiple Myeloma Research Foundation. They're a great charity that spends over 93% of all their funds on research (some charities spend 93% on fundraising and administrative costs - I wanted something that actually DID things to make a difference!) and they don't have the benefit of a huge public celebrity to help them meet their goals. They're the little guy that's doing things the way that the big guys SHOULD!

Most of all, though, I picked the MMRF because my own Granddad died of the disease. I'm not here to give you a tearjerker campaign, but suffice it to say, I'd really love any support that's out there. Please visit my fundraising site and contribute anything you can - even if it's $10 or whatever - and it would really really mean a lot to me. All you anonymous blog-stalkers out there - you know who you are, I don't even have statcounter hooked up on this thing, so I can't single you out - but I know you're out there. You can make a donation anonymously if you like. The site is secure, it's quick, goes directly to the MMRF, and there's even a link on it to see if your employer matches charitable gifts. I found out that mine does by searching the database myself, and they even give the contact person of who to email for matching funds!

If you can't click on the link, here you go - no excuse! www.active.com/donate/2009MarineCorps/mollypants

If I get good response, I'll even post more often! See, two days in a row!

Big news: recent revelations about the real estate world.

Soooo...What's up with Molly? I finally have a few minutes, so I'll say hello and share some news that I realized I haven't discussed on here!

BIG NEWS...

No, I'm not pregnant, though everyone seems to be. And no, not getting married, though nothing in this world would make me happier than military discharge papers given to a certain Captain right now. Sidenote: since many have asked - the BF is stationed in California right now, and he ships out for deployment late fall. I kind of don't want to speak too much on a public forum on that, just because I get nervous in case the internet is patrolled by the enemy. I know, highly unlikely that they're reading my babble, but honestly, it scares the sh*t out of me every time I think about any of it. So I'll figure out some way to update y'all without such a public audience.

Anyway. The big news?

I'm likely buying a house soon. I know, you all are like "been there, done that." And Meghan has done it enough for all of us. But yes, after 16 moves over the past 12 years, I'm finally ready to move to some place that I will actually STAY. For at least three years, and hopefully past five. I signed with a real estate agent (a locally-owned small company, thanks to Drena's blog and my own preference for patronizing small businesses), and we've been doing the house-hunting. So far...I've read literally every listing in my price range, and have seen over a dozen in person.

And I don't know how so many people survive this experience. I'm already slammed at work, am running a freaking marathon in 8 weeks, and oh yeah, have to pack UP my current place. I know I'm forgetting something on my to-do list just by sitting here and writing this. Anyway, we saw a few (I'm committed on seeing 50 houses before I start freaking out), and I've figured out a few things:

1. There is absolutely no shortage of really ugly houses for sale in Charlotte, regardless of your price range. I bet you a million dollars that there's a house listed for over a million in Charlotte that has fake wood paneling or a dropped ceiling.
2. Location is everything, and resale value is everything. Especially when your realtor won't even let you out of the car to see a house when a location is THAT bad.
3. "Good" locations are incredibly arbitrary in Charlotte. Case in point: Grier Heights. You can buy a house for $40,000 that's liveable. The area is less than 2 square miles, and is completely surrounded on all 4 sides by Elizabeth, Chantilly, Cotswold and Eastover, which are 4 of the best areas in the city, with prices over $400,000 for a modest bungalow, if you can find one. But it's worse than Fallujah from what I've heard. I wouldn't know, I won't even venture in.
4. I'm REALLY trying to expand my thought. BUT. I am just not a fan of the Ranch/Split-Level/post WWII house. The irony is that all of my friends who live in them - love them. But me...I'm just different. I grew up in a house that was built in 1840. My mom bought the mother-of-all-blights when she split from my dad and then slowly turned it into one of the most unique houses I've ever been in, and my Dad bought 2 downtown rowhouses and restored one to the point that everyone who's EVER seen it thinks it's the most awesome house in Lynchburg. And hell, I lived next door to the workshop of one of Philly's most eclectic artists. All of that? I think I learned a bit of vision and a value of character. I'm trying to use that same vision for the ranch homes, but I dare say it's stretching even my wild imagination. I specifically hired the realtor I did, though, because he's the OTHER, more logical voice I need to hear, the one who will reign me in from creative clouds back down to practical earth. The one that tells me about return on investment, the one that points out asbestos ceiling tiles, and the one who indicates that an area is way worse than it appears. I'm guessing he'll be thinking about how I'm passing on gold mines and he'll inevitably have NO clue why I'll buy the house that I'll end up with, but he's good, and certainly earning his worth via time spent on emails and phone calls alone. My dad's fiancee (a realtor in Virginia) has also answered enough questions of mine that she's probably ready to keel over. I genuinely feel like a complete idiot about something else having to do with this process every day.
5. I'm starting to believe that "For Sale By Owner" means "Realtors wouldn't even take the listing because the Owner believes that it's worth twice what the market data says." I'm amazed at what some of them think their houses are worth.
6. Apparently, North Carolina defines a "bedroom" as a room with a closet and a doorway. It does NOT have to have a window.
7. Charlotte listing agents have a habit of classifying any adjacent bad area of town as "Arts District".
8. No Artists actually seem to LIVE in the Arts District. The Arts District's residents seem to be:
a) Yuppies.
b) Crazy old ladies.
c) Pothead renters.
d) People who were idiotic enough to invest in condos that promised to attract artists simply by calling them "factory lofts" when the only thing "factory" about them is that they were made in assembly line fashion to LOOK like converted factory spaces and renaming the streets for non-renaissance artists in a community called "renaissance".
I fall into category A & B to some extent, but my status as an artist means that I won't actually FIT IN with any of the four. D completely baffles me, however.
9. Meghan is my other voice of reason and for some reason ENJOYS house-shopping. Meghan, if you ever wanted to be a realtor for a living, I'd recommend you to anyone I'd ever meet, I think you've bought enough houses to be a fantastic buyer's agent.
10. On that note, I thought I would LOVE the "shopping" part. But sadly, it's not shopping in the sense that I enjoy it. The only way that it's like shopping for me is that it's like when you are raging on PMS and have to buy a bathing suit in March just after binging on Frito Pie and ice cream - nothing seems to fit, you're trying everything on, you've got a headache, and you're just praying for one to fall into your lap. And when you finally see a glimmer of light and hope, you realize you didn't check the price tag. Ironically, I feel way more confident about the once-I've-found-the-house side of things. Contract and project management. I do those for a living and do them WELL. I know how to negotiate, I know what I'm looking at, I know how to bring two sides together, and I know how to close out a checklist and make sure everything's legal, insured, and done right. I even know how to install faucets, tile bathrooms and deal with Home Depot, for crying out loud. It's the navigating through all the frogs to find the prince that has me stressed out.

But enough of my babble. I have to go running. Please, whatever real estate God is out there - send me a beautiful restored bungalow in my price range in Plaza-Midwood. I'll go to church every day, I'll be kinder, and I'll put more money in the Salvation Army kettle this Christmas.