Where My House Went

£675.96

2010-01-29T16:14:00.000Z

On the great list of terms that one might use to describe me, “athletic” is going to be way, way down there – just above “NASCAR-loving” and “light sleeper”. I suck at sports, I’m happier horizontal than I am vertical (wahey hey hey!!) and I just have no interest whatsoever in physical activity “just for the fun of it”. I’m sorry, but yoga just looks like stupid snobby stretching to me. I don’t get it.

Of course, this isn’t spectacular for one’s physique. When I lived in NYC, no weight stuck to me because I walked miles daily – it’s just the way of life. Now, though, I’m lucky to walk a mile per day. Thus, eight magical pounds have attached themselves to my midriff, giving me the silhouette of a sweet, chubby baby – not an excellent look when you’re pushing 30. Typically, it’s not the end of the world to have a paunch, but My Attractive Husband had just popped the question and literally thousands of photos were going to be taken of me by crazy photographers and crazy friends and relatives. The eight pounds simply had to go.

Thus, I did the unthinkable: I joined the gym. For most people, this is not actually unthinkable, but people actually laughed when I told them. That’s how unathletic I am. I figured, once I spend a shitload of money on the gym, I will have to go. So I signed up for the gym next door to my office, where we received a corporate discount – £56.33 per month.

I’m not sure I expressed clearly enough just how intensely I hate the gym and all elements of the gym experience. I hate locker rooms: if you want to see me naked, I want you to buy me a few drinks. And that smell. Seriously, don’t they make sprays for that? I hate lockers themselves: no matter how you put your things away, it’s still hard to retrieve them without them either smelling like your shoes or getting wet. I hate gym clothes: they’re uncomfortable, ugly, smelly and just completely devoid of style. I don’t even own a pair of sneakers – unless you count my All-Stars. And I don’t. And exercise itself: I believe Tyler Durden put it best when he stated, “Self-improvement is masturbation.” Back and forth and back and forth and back and forth over and over and over again on a stupid elliptical machine, going nowhere and achieving nothing… and the elliptical machine is my favourite thing to do at the gym. Don’t get me started on step machines.

So I’d go to the gym, self-consciously dress myself in ugly, ill-fitting exercise clothes and horrible sneakers, and cram my headphones into my ears. I’d hop on the elliptical machine and spend my hour there, watching The Weakest Link and marvelling at how stupid the people were and trying not to look at the time clock. When my sentence ended I’d trudge back to the locker room and make myself look like a person again as quickly as possible. The best part, undoubtedly, was showering; we only have a bathtub and showers have actually grown to feel luxurious. Then I’d go home, relieved that I had finished for the day. For this, I spent a total of £675.96. For eight little pounds.

I never enjoyed it. I never “felt good afterwards”. I felt cranky afterwards. I resent having to pay to do something I hate. “Why didn’t you jog outside, then?” I can hear you asking. “You can jog for free.” Well, not with my knees, you can’t. Not if you want to keep out of the immobilising brace and physical therapy. I spend a shitload of money to be miserable so that I could appear slightly skinnier. Isn’t that terrifying? It’s horrible to realise the depth of one’s own shallowness. Because, for me, health had nothing to do with it. I just wanted to look skinny. Period.

Anyway, it worked; I lost my eight pounds. My wedding photos are lovely, if I do say so myself. I promptly stopped going to the gym and my eight magical pounds promptly returned. I am forced to conclude that I actually paid £84.50 per pound to basically stick it in a fat storage facility until I was ready to reclaim it as my own – like a coat check for paunches.

If only you didn’t have to do the exercising part, it would be totally worth it.

Where My House Went: £3637.30

£657.00

2010-01-21T14:16:00.003Z

Disclaimer: I rant a little bit towards the end. Please feel free to skip that bit.

I was dreading writing this one for fear that My Attractive Husband would attempt to make me break my habit. And my habit is pretty severe. I’ve been an addict for over ten years now, and while I’m not proud of it, I’m certainly not planning on giving up anytime soon. Still, try not to judge me. I’ve decided the pursuit of depressing-myself-over-lack-of-mortgage-deposit was a noble cause that had to be undertaken, no matter the backlash.

I’m a little bit into that sweet nectar, Diet Coke. (Everyone who knows me just let out a hearty belly laugh and said, “A little bit? How’s that for the understatement of the century? Har har har!!” And yes, everyone I know laughs by proclaiming “Har har har!!” Aren’t they freaks?) So yeah, Diet Coke. It’s my poison. It’s my go-to beverage. It’s my coffee. Sometimes, I do celebratory dances dedicated to it. So what?

I began drinking soda when I was about 16. It started with daily trips through the McDonald’s drive-thru, getting a 32-ounce cup of heaven for $1.26. (Yes, it used to be cheap, didn’t it?) When I moved to New York and no longer had a car, or indeed, drive-thru windows, I switched to cans or bottles or any permutations I could find. Around junior year of university, I was a full-blown addict. I’m not talking a 12-pack in the fridge, I’m talking a 12-pack in the fridge and four others stashed under my bed as reinforcements.

Nowadays, My Attractive Husband brings me a can of Diet Coke every morning before I get out of bed. I’d like to think this is because he’s such a wonderful man and he’s so madly in love with me, but it’s at least partially because I am a giant pain in the ass before I have caffeine streaming through my system. I drink two cans at home before work. I drink another can before lunch. I drink two Diet Cokes at lunch. I usually drink one in the afternoon before I go home from work. And I think I drink three in the evening. This brings us to a total of 9 per day (only 6 of which I pay for – I get free lunch at work, which is a decidedly awesome job perk). And that is the basis of Where My House Went today – 6 Diet Cokes per day, for the past year.

In London, I can usually get a 10-pack (they sell them in packs of 10 here as opposed to packs of 12 in the States – probably because we have little midget fridges here) for £3. They retail for higher, but Tesco typically does 2 for £6. Six cans daily at £.30 per can is £1.80 daily, 365 days a year, for a total of £657 annually.

Ouch.

[RANT COMMENCES HERE]
Now, I do not want any snotty remarks about how unhealthy I am and how I’m going to die of caffeine/aspartame/whatever poisoning, and how it’s rotting my bones, and how if you put a tooth in a glass of Diet Coke it will eventually disintegrate. I don’t care. Something’s gonna get you in the end anyway. And, if you actually DO YOUR HOMEWORK and check the caffeine content, Diet Coke has 9.6mg/100mls. Drip coffee has at least 61.3mg/100mls, and espresso has 173.6mg/100mls. So my can of Diet Coke has 31.68mg of caffeine. Your Venti drip coffee has 350 - 415mg of caffeine. And a Venti DECAF has the same amount of caffeine as a can of Diet Coke! Therefore, I can have OVER TEN CANS OF DIET COKE before I ingest as much caffeine as your morning coffee. So BITE ME.
[RANT CONCLUDED]

But this is about money, not about being pissed off that people keep lecturing me about caffeine. And £657 per year is probably not going to kill anyone – hey, you’ve got to drink something – but it is a bit chilling to see it written out like that, so clinically. £657.00 annually on Diet Coke. And honestly, it’s got to be higher than that – I mean, a Diet Coke costs about €7 in Barcelona. And what about all those Diet Cokes ordered in restaurants? Sadly, £657 is quite a conservative estimate.

There was recently an article in Closer Magazine (http://tinyurl.com/yfclzgb) about a woman who spends £4000 annually on Coke and thus has lost most of her teeth and can’t afford to buy her kids school uniforms. Now, that’s trashy and gross. As long as this woman exists, I am allowed to feel good about myself and my comparative restraint. Thank you, woman in Closer Magazine.

They’ll have to pry my Diet Coke out of my cold, dead hands. Honestly, it’s worth every damned penny.

Where My House Went: £2961.34

£83.16

2010-01-15T13:24:00.000Z

I’ve realised, while writing this blog, that I am making myself look like a massive dork. If you’ve not met me, you may be picturing a little troll that lives under a canopy of Menudo posters, drinking strawberry milk through a bendy straw and giggling anytime somebody mentions geometry. “Hee hee hee, polygons!” Actually, I’m fairly normal. Fairly. But this entry is going to do nothing to disprove the geeky troll hypothesis.

I was a little girls in the 1980’s, and like many American girls my age, I was batshit obsessed with the Babysitters Club. According to Wikipedia, there ended up being 131 volumes in the original BSC series (there were also specials, super-specials, mystery specials…) and I believe I read them up until about book 83. Which is embarrassing, because that one didn’t come out until 1995. Which would make me 15. I suppose that’s not terribly shocking, considering I still devour children’s books like a donut-smuggling kid at Fat Camp. Happily, Harry Potter and Twilight have made grown-ups geeking out with kids’ books a bit more acceptable.

For those of you who are male, young or not American, The books revolve around a group of Connecticut girls who form a babysitting business – and they’re best friends. Each book started out with a chapter describing each of the members and her characteristics (including Claudia’s “fresh” threads) before we got into the meat of the story. I use the term “meat” loosely, as often a book’s central event might be a child beauty pageant, a missing kitten or an oh-so-terrifying chain letter.

Anyway, about a year ago, overnight, I developed a desperate need to reread the Babysitters Club series. I can’t explain how this happened, only that it was immediate, intense and all-consuming. I couldn’t just read one, and I certainly couldn’t read them in any old order: I needed as many as I could get my hands on, sequentially. And I couldn’t just skip from number 6 to number 8: I needed continuity. The fact that each book was a stand-alone, and stories didn’t continue from one book to the next, was irrelevant. If I was gonna do this, I was gonna do it right.

With a determination rivalling Kristy’s, I began searching amazon.co.uk. With math skills to put Stacey’s to shame, I examined pricing, shipping fees and discount rates for multiple purchases to get the maximum number of books for the lowest cost. With secretarial skills surely channelled from Mary-Ann, I notated each book added to my cart to ensure all volumes were purchased and no book was left behind. When I clicked the “purchase” button, I danced with celebration – much like Jessi probably would have. Beautifully, and in a tutu.

When all was said and done, I managed to get volumes 1 – 50, plus several Super Specials, for the bargain price of £83.16. God, I was proud. I suppose I was slightly less proud when all 50-something books were delivered, in individual padded envelopes, to my office while I was away on holiday. I came back to a desk and bookshelf full of stacks of parcels and then got to explain to my boss and my lovely Co-Worker Next Door exactly what I’d received in all those dozens of envelopes. And that didn’t make me look ridiculous in the slightest.

Apparently, the books are now out of print (and no, I didn’t know that off the top of my head, I Wikipediaed that shit). Maybe my battered, dog-eared, third hand Babysitters Club books will suddenly become collectors’ items, bringing in four or five times their original value and providing me with a little chunk of change to sock in a savings account towards that elusive mortgage deposit. Until then, My Attractive Husband has packed them away in the top drawer of an old chest in our living room as if they’re holey knickers and mismatched socks. And there they will remain, until I get my butt in gear and list them on eBay.

Oh, who am I kidding? You know I’m starting over from Kristy’s Great Idea tonight.

Where My House Went: £2304.34

£153.00

2010-01-14T13:54:00.002Z

I’m a music snob. I’d like to think I’m fairly open-minded, but I do believe I know exactly what qualifies as good music (example: The Airborne Toxic Event) and what’s garbage (example: Fergie). I like to make fun of my students when they listen to Miley Cyrus, and I feel justified in doing so. Occasionally, I shun people who listen to Nickelback. Hey, they're asking for it. I am, however, human: even my armour has weak spots. And one of my weak spots became painfully evident about two years ago on eBay. Want a hint? Zig-a-zig-aaaaaah.

Yes: I paid £153.00 for a Spice Girls reunion tour ticket. Am I proud of this? No, not exactly. But was it completely awesome? Yes it was. Why was my ticket so expensive? I’ll tell you why my ticket was so expensive. Because it was a ticket for the second row. [I don’t think there’s any point in going to a stadium or arena gig unless you’re right up close. If I wanted to watch a monitor, I’d turn on the TV.] Once again, eBay, that terrible bitch-goddess, caused me to drop a pretty penny on something completely ridiculous and unnecessary.

And it was awesome. I took amazing photos. I danced around. Posh waved at me. As in, looked me directly in the eye and waved at me. I'd like to think we really had a connection. Do I realise that I sound completely pathetic right now? Yes. And I don’t care. It was amazing. They performed all the hits, they had weird hydraulic effects to represent Geri’s split with the band, the costumes were sparkly and marvellous… I am also pleased to report that while all of the other girls performed solo numbers, Posh just walked along the catwalk holding a mobile phone and looking sassy. Another fun note: once the gig ended, there was a massive “MISSION ACCOMPLISHED” sign across the back of the stage – I’d like to think it was a subtle dig at GW Bush, but I’m probably reading a bit too much into it.

I’ve been to hundreds and hundreds of concerts over the years, and the Spice Girls show is the most expensive gig I’ve ever attended. It was more expensive than The Who, Rage Against the Machine, the White Stripes, Björk and Bob Dylan put together. I’m delighted I went, though, and I had an amazing time. Someday, when My Attractive Husband and I have kids and we’re living in a tree house because Mummy has squandered the Mortgage Fund on 90's pop star reunions, I’m sure it’ll be a great consolation to us all.

Where My House Went: £2221.18

£45.43

2010-01-08T10:44:00.007Z

I love eBay. I've loved eBay since the beginning, back when it first started and you could actually buy things cheaply. This is back in the days of UrbanFetch, for you New Yorkers who remember the sheer luxury of ordering in a Kit Kat - just a Kit Kat. Oh, UrbanFetch, how I mourned when you went bust. Anyway, eBay. I love it. I love finding the random crap you'd never be able to find were you actually forced to, y'know, go to stores.

Anyway, I have bought some amazing things on eBay... but I've also bought some clunkers. Things that immediately seemed less essential once the PayPal funds had been transferred. Allow me to share a few of these flops with you.

£6.74 - Sexy PVC Trousers. Now, don't run away with the idea that I would ever, EVER, in real life, wear PVC trousers. More power to you if you've got that kind of ass, but I prefer something a bit less... sweat-inducing. Anyway, they were for a costume party I ended up not attending. And they were crap. Stained (yeah - I don't want to know, either), stinky and generally horrid. I'd like to think I burned them in the backyard, but I'm pretty sure I just threw them away.

£4.45 - Cowboy Guns. The cowboy guns, a kids' plastic gun-and-holster toy set, were meant to accompany the PVC trousers for my costume. I think they sat in a desk in our living room for two years until My Attractive Husband finally threw them away.

£19.99 - Worcestershire Sauce Flavoured Pretzels (200 bags). Now, I really expected to love these. I'd eaten Worcestershire sauce flavoured pretzels on a British Airways flight, and I found I could order a case of 200 of those teeny bags extremely cheaply. Well, after 5 or 6 bags, they get REALLY old. I pawned off a handful of bags on my lovely co-worker, and finally had to throw them out because they were taking up so much space in my office. I still find random bags in my office and kitchen.

£4.25 - Star Wars Episode 3 for Gameboy Advance. Yeah, I wasn't smart enough to figure out how to play this. It didn't come with an instruction manual, so I didn't know how to even get my lightsaber lit. And that's just a sad, sad situation.

£10 - Wizard Rock. Yeah, I spent ten quid on two CDs by Draco and the Malfoys. And you know what? They're hilarious. I defy anyone who's read Harry Potter not to giggle whilst listening. But they are probably one of the dorkier things I own... which, for me, is saying an awful lot.

This is a list I am sure I could add dozens of entries to, but as I should probably save some of the jucier purchases for other entries, I'll end this one here. And yes, I am still an eBay lover. And yes, it's probably a matter of time until I end up purchasing a portable bouncy castle that looks like Helms Deep. [OH MY GOD. THAT IS MAYBE THE BEST IDEA I'VE EVER HAD.]

Where My House Went: £2068.18

£2022.75

2010-01-06T09:22:00.002Z

For those of you who are unaware, My Attractive Husband is British. I am too, now, but my quest to become so has cost me quite a bit of money. I was born in America, but I am now a dual citizen. However, it's cost me quite a large chunk of a house deposit to become so.

[Sidebar: According to one of my best friends, I now "write like a Brit". I would like to counter that his shoes make him look Italian-er. Sidebar over.]

Anyway, I have come up with the figure of £2022.75 as my total fee for legally moving to, and working in, the UK. Here's how it breaks down:
$500 (approx. £329) - Spousal visa application fee
£35 - Life in the UK test fee (required to apply for Indefinite Leave to Remain)
£820 - Indefinite Leave to Remain application fee
£720 - Citizenship application fee
£35 - Citizenship application "check and send" fee
£83.75 - UK passport application fee

This does not include stuff like tube fare back and forth (repeatedly) from the embassy, several sets of hideous passport photos (required for each step along the way), overnight-tracked-recorded-stamped delivery costs, and a myriad of other little things, all of which doubtless add up.

There is nothing more nerve-wracking than filling out a 45-page application form, knowing full well that if you forget to cross one "t" or dot one "i" or misspell a single word, they will KEEP YOUR £800, REJECT YOU, AND MAKE YOU START ALL OVER AGAIN. Seriously. Not only was I lucky enough (or painstakingly careful enough?) that this did not happen, but I actually got my citizenship in record time - literally. Average time to receive citizenship is about 6 weeks, and most people wait between 3 and 5 months. Mine took exactly three weeks. Clearly, they understood they were dealing with a crazy woman and wanted to get rid of me as soon as possible.

Despite the insane cost, I wouldn't have it any other way. I can now live and work legally anyplace in the EU, UK or USA. And I can wait in the quick line when I land at either Heathrow OR JFK. Besides the aforementioned Italian-er Euro-shoed friend, I don't know anyone else with that privilege. And it's worth its weight in gold when you've gotten off of an eight-hour flight and really, truly, sincerely have to pee.

Now, My Attractive Husband did pay half of the cost for all of this tomfoolery, but as we're married and what's mine is his and what's his is mine blah blah blah kumbaya, I'm counting the whole figure towards my running tally of "Where My House Went".

Where My House Went: £2022.75

Where My House Went

2010-01-05T11:17:00.001Z

I've realised that the majority of my friends have now become real, legitimate adults and bought houses. Which is great - seriously, it means I have places in several tourism hotspots where I am permitted to crash for free when I travel. And, of course, I love them all dearly and am delighted they've done so well for themselves, particularly "in this economic climate" (it just DOESN'T STOP being amusing to type, does it??). I mean, what's a house cost nowadays? Several hundred thousand pounds. And MY FRIENDS have these ridiculously costly things! It's amazing! We used to go the drive-thru ATMs and take out a single $20 bill of an evening, and now they're dropping serious cash! That's like Biggie shit.

Anyway, this thought occurred to me last night in my rented flat: where's my house? Or, to use more words, where did my house go? Look, I'm not going to go all "financial one-upmanship" on you; I'm just going to say that My Attractive Husband and I both earn good wages that our parents would high-five us for. Well, my mother would; My Attractive Husband's mother is British and doesn't really "do" high-fives (more's the pity). So if we're earning the same as our friends, why do they all have houses and we don't?

Then, the answer came to me: I have done a lot of weird, irresponsible, wonderful shit. Shit that is really not conducive to saving up tens of thousands of pounds for the sole purpose of being permitted to borrow HUNDREDS of thousands of pounds, that you will then spend the rest of your life paying off. Shit that makes for great stories, but for completely rubbish storage space. Shit that I should really be celebrating more, since I've certainly paid plenty of cash for it.

This is an account of that good shit. The shit that makes the monthly rent worthwhile. This is an account, dear reader (if I ever get any) of Where My House Went.