UNDER ESTIMATE STUPID GLASS

 

Slabs, Christmas shopping and units of measurement

Because most of our household goods are still in storage, I am without most of my kitchen appliances and cookware.  I will never take my toaster for granted again.  I've gotten pretty good at using the broiler to make toast but the time and attention it takes makes me marvel at just how wonderful toasters are.  I also miss the Kitchen Aid mixer, blender, food processor and crockpots.  (I miss just about all of my kitchen implements.)  The other day I found a recipe that I wanted to try that involved some butternut squash and a pork loin.  It was designed for a crockpot, but I figured I could just roast it at a low heat in a covered pot in the oven to the same effect.  I followed all the instructions and after about two hours at about 250 degrees I grabbed the instant-read thermometer and stuck the 2.5 lb loin, just to get a sense of where it was at.  I glanced at the reading: 48.  "Huh," I thought to myself, "the oven must run really cold."  (We haven't used the oven much since we moved in.)  I turned the temperature dial up another 25 degrees, replaced the lid, and tossed it back into the oven.  


[In my, albeit weak, defense I was working this afternoon and was more focused on getting my project done than spending time in the kitchen.]


About an hour and a half later I checked the meat again.  As I turned the thermometer I just happened to notice the "C" to the far right of the display.  Oh crap.  The thermometer was set to Celsius, not Fahrenheit.  I toggled over to Fahrenheit and stuck the meat again.  I pulled out the thermometer in disgust as it soared past 160.  Apparently 48 Celsius is about 118 Fahrenheit.  My meat was actually pretty close to done when I had checked it the first time.  (Were you aware that the USDA revised it's cooking temperatures back in May and now solid cuts of pork only have to be cooked to an internal temp of 145?)  Luckily for me the pork was halfway submerged in a broth of onion soup and it was still surprisingly tender when I sliced it up.  I guess the moisture and the low heat kept if from drying out too much.  Why does the thermometer even HAVE a Celsius setting?  I am not a scientist.  I don't like units of measurement based on 100.  Get out of my kitchen, Celsius!


I've done very little Christmas shopping yet this season.  I chalk this up to three major reasons:

1. After three Decembers in Hawaii, I am once again in a warm(ish) climate and it's hard to remember that it's winter.
2. My Christmas decorations are all in storage so there is no festivity around the house.
3. We've been house hunting every weekend for hours at a time.

I finally ordered my Christmas cards the other day, only to realize afterwards that my Christmas card address book is in storage.  (This is a recurring theme in my daily life.)  I think I remembered everyone we wanted to send a card to, but I'm sure I'm missing people.  One of these nights I'm going to have to sit down and do some serious online shopping so gifts can arrive to our families on time.  I'm terrible at giving gifts.  I have one friend in particular who is amazing at giving gifts.  She remembers off-hand things you said six months ago and gets you that item for your birthday, or she gives you something saying, "I thought you might like this" and she's totally right - you absolutely love it, even if you never knew you did.  I don't have that ability.  I need lists.  I'm not a creative or skilled gift-giver, but if you want those Isotoner slippers from Kohl's, I will get you those Isotoner slippers from Kohl's.

Like I mentioned above, we've been house hunting like crazy.  We found THE house on Sunday, complete with a glowing aura and a chorus of angels singing in the background.  (Ok, maybe a bit of an exaggeration.)  Zac and I looked at each other and we just knew.  This house was it.  The house was awesome, the yard was fantastic, it had recently been renovated and required no upgrading on our part - it was perfect.  It had been on the market for about four days and our real estate agent told us that she had heard from the seller that they already had a couple of offers in on it.  We weren't surprised - we're finding that houses are either on the market for a week or two out here, or they've been on the market for months.  There isn't much in between.  If you see a house you want, you had better get your offer in quick.  Zac and I filled out the paperwork to put in an offer that afternoon.

The next day we got a call from our real estate agent.  She said that when she was going over some of the information about the renovations to the house, she noticed that there had been a crack in the slab that had been repaired.  Houses out here don't have basements, and many of them are built on concrete slabs.  Apparently prior to 1970 slabs were not reinforced with rebar making them more vulnerable to cracking when the soil is disrupted below it.  In this case, a broken underground water pipe caused the slab to crack in a couple of places and the cracks were pretty substantial.  The seller had hired a engineer and contractor to repair the cracks.  The engineer devised the repair plan and oversaw the contractor's work.  At the end of the work, the engineer issued a report that the contractor had indeed performed the work correctly.  (The repaired parts of the slab are now reinforced with rebar.)  

Zac talked to his cousin (an engineer) and some of the Seabees that he works with (the construction guys in the Navy) and all of them gave a thumbs up to the work, but a thumbs down to the idea of buying it.  That reinforced what Zac and I were already thinking: If Zac and I were going to be living in this house for the next 10-30 years, we'd have no qualms about buying it.  But we will be selling our house in San Diego in (possibly) as little as three years.  Cracked slabs are not attractive to buyers, and we might end up taking a loss on the house.  It's just too much of a financial risk for us to take right now.

Our realtor called us to let us know that the seller counter-offered all of the offers on the house.  That sealed the deal as far as we were concerned.  Zac and I have decided to pull out of the race.  Our realtor has a suspicion that more of the prospective buyers will also back out once they find out about the slab issue.  If it ends up that the house has no interested buyers, and the seller is willing to drop the price enough, we might consider re-submitting an offer but for now we're moving on to looking at more houses tomorrow.  

*sigh*  Oh well.  At least now Zac and I are optimistic that there are, indeed, houses that we both like and that we'll find something that makes both of us happy.  I just hope that it happens sooner rather than later.  I miss my crockpot.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

Thanksgiving, house hunting and bespectacled again

We were lucky enough to celebrate two Thanksgivings this year.  And by "lucky" I mean, "Holy moly, I need to live at the gym next week."  So.  Much.   Food.


On Thursday we celebrated with a Navy friend of Zac's.  Zac and this guy went to "A" school together back in the day.  ("A" school is where most sailors go after boot camp.)  They are both originally from rural Nebraska and they're both gunner's mates.  While they've spoken to each other a couple of times, they haven't actually seen each other in more than 10 years.  They seemed to pick up right where they left off, however, chatting and laughing like they'd been close buddies for years.  Zac's friend is married and I really enjoyed getting to know her.  They're similarly situated to us - mid 30s, no kids, she works.  I'm hoping that we'll get the chance to hang out with them again in the future.  They've been here for a few years and really enjoy it, so hopefully they'll be able to impart some of their San Diego knowledge to us.


On Saturday night we had our second Thanksgiving at the house of some of our Navy friends from Hawaii.  The sailor and his wife PCSed to San Diego a little more than a year ago.  We weren't really that close in Hawaii (our relationship was "friends of friends") but we were happy to get an invitation from them.  We spent the night catching up and talking about what all has been happening in the last year or so.  We were glad to spend some time with them and I think we'll hang out with them in the future.  The only low spot of the evening was when, for the second time in three nights, I waddled back to the car wondering if the buttons on my jeans were going to pop off.


The house hunting is still ongoing.  We spent four hours today checking out about 12 homes.  It's nice that Zac and I are finally getting in to a grove with each other, and our realtor.  If we're not feeling good vibes from a house (or neighborhood) we've gotten pretty good at telling each other within the first few minutes of walking through the place.  I'm trying to not let the stress of house hunting get to me, but I know it is.  I told our realtor that I was getting stressed out with the process as we were leaving one of the first houses this morning.  We drove separately to the next listing and when we got out she walked with me up the sidewalk and said, "You said you were stressing out.  Why?  Is there something that I can do to make it better?"  She asked with genuine concern which caught me off guard.  (I'm not sure why, but I was surprised at her concern.)  I explained that I was worried that maybe we were looking at too many houses and asking her to go to too many different neighborhoods.  She laughed and assured me that, no, we weren't looking at too many houses and that she was perfectly happy showing us different places in San Diego.  She said that it's perfectly normal that home buyers that are new to an area take a while to find the neighborhoods that they like best.  *exhale*  Ok.  Needless to say, while I'm still a little stressed about finding the right house, I'm not stressed about my relationship with my realtor/therapist.


The only other major development around here lately is  . . . deep breath . . . I got glasses.  I'm beyond devastated.  I hate that I need them again.  Quick eyesight recap: 


-Got glasses for the first time when I was in first grade.
-Endured a decade of worsening eyesight, thickening lenses and terrible 1980s frames (some frames from the early 90s weren't too hot either).
-Got gas-permeable, hard contacts in college (prescription didn't allow for soft contacts) which were impossibly uncomfortable.
-Underwent Lasik surgery about six years ago, causing me to no longer need corrective lenses of any type.
-Six years of sheer happiness being able to read the shampoo bottle in the shower and reading the clock on the nightstand if I woke up in the middle of the night.  


I'm not exactly when I noticed that my sight wasn't as sharp as it used to be, but I'm guessing it was probably about a year ago.  I noticed it mainly at night, when I was tired, and tried to read things like street signs or license plates as I drove.  During the day, I had no issues.  But then a few months ago Zac pointed out that I was starting to squint at street signs during the day as well.  I finally broke down and went to the optometrist who gave me my first eye exam since I had the Lasik performed.  She noted that yes, indeed, my sight wasn't as good as it used to be.  She said I was still find to drive without corrective lenses, but that I should probably have them at night.  She wrote me out a prescription and I decided that I'd wait until I got back to the mainland to get a pair.


As Zac and I drove around San Diego, looking for houses and getting to know the area, we both noted that it was time for me to get a pair of glasses.  A couple of weeks ago we were up at the Marine Corps Exchange and I walked into the optical shop.  I tried on probably 40 pairs of glasses, making cranky faces in the mirror with each pair.  I was heartbroken that I needed to do this.  I figured that once I got older that I would need reading glasses, but six years after Lasik and 34 years old is not "older".  It didn't help that I found most of the current, hip styles to be ghastly.  I finally settled on a pair, and while I was sad that I had to buy them at least the frames and lenses were discounted.  Paying full price would have been an indignity to much to bear.


The optical shop called me yesterday morning to let me know that my glasses were in.  I went to pick them up and sat down in the chair across from the glasses-fitting-person.  (Clerk?  I'm not sure what their official title would be.)  I was still fairly arrogant as I sat there.  I was confident that even when I put the glasses on, that I wouldn't be able to see any better than I could without them.  How much of a difference could it make, really?  Before she handed me the glasses, the clerk asked me to look across the room at the exit sign above the door.  Ok.  I can read that, no problem.  See?  I don't need glasses.  Then she handed me the glasses and I slid them on.  "Let me know if it's more clear," she said.


Crap.


It was like looking at an exit sign in High Definition.  Everything was sharp, clear.  A surprised, and disappointed, "Wow!" slipped out of my mouth.  The clerk was pleased, we tweaked the fit of the frames a little, and I was on my way out the door.  Once outside I folded the glasses up and put them in their protective case and tossed them in my purse.  I was heartbroken.  I did need glasses.  Seeing was better with them.  I didn't wear them that day, but I did wear them that night and it really was amazing.  High Def is really the best way to describe it.  When you're watching a regular tv with a regular signal, it looks fine.  You don't notice that anything is off.  But when you put that tv along side a HD tv with an HD signal you're dumbfounded at how much clearer the HD picture is, and how much detail was lost watching the regular tv.


I don't want to wear glasses again.  I'm not sure why it is such a crushing blow to my self esteem, but it is.  I suppose I could see if I can get contacts or if maybe I could get Lasik again.  I was just so happy to not have to deal with my eyes anymore, to not have to spend money every month or year on new glasses, contacts, cleaning and soaking solutions.  And while some people look great in glasses, I am not feeling like a sexy librarian right now.  I am feeling like an awkward 12 year old.  


Dumb, stupid glasses.

I was up at Marine Air Corps Station (MCAS) Miramar today and stopped at one of the convenience stores.  As I was coming down an aisle, a Marine was coming down the same aisle towards me.  He didn't see me at first so we ended up doing that "dance" that people sometimes do - you both step to the left, oops, both to the right, back to the left again.  I said, "'Excuse me," as we finally passed each other.  He nodded and said simply, "Oorah."  I was glad we continued walking away from one another, because I didn't want the Marine to see me giggling to myself.  Really?  Oorah?  Not, "Excuse me" or "sorry" or just a smile of resignation, but the famous battle cry of the Corps?

When I told Zac about the encounter, he laughed and noted that for most Marines oorah is probably the first word they think of in any given situation.  One of Zac's friends worked extensively with Marines and he said Marines use oorah it in many contexts, not just when they're being given instructions on how to storm a beach.  But even Zac couldn't help but chuckle that this Marine used oorah as his means of conveying "excuse me" to a 5'2" female in civilian clothes and pigtails.  (It was a bad hair day.)  Even now, a couple of hours later, I can't help but laugh, thinking about the possible contexts in which that Marine has used oorah.  I'm picturing some awkward flirting in bars.