I am so done with this house renovation. Seriously.
We are approximately five weeks away from moving day. I am contemplating spending this remaining time in a state of perpetual drunkenness. But first I have to confirm a few things. Namely, will being drunk exempt me from having to look at a single other sample of tile? How about paint samples? If I promise to show up completely reeking of hard liquor, will I be allowed to just sit in the car outside the showroom?
At this point, actually, the majority of the picking out has been done. As of this morning, in fact. Thanks to Boyfriend and Contractor - who took it upon themselves to make Trip Number Three to stand outside in the beating hot sun and stare at giant slabs of rock with the purpose of selecting just the right slabs from which to carve bathroom countertops - I no longer need to fear that we will be taking turns brushing our teeth outside with the garden hose. Trip Number Two should have gotten the job done. I know, because I was involved in Trip Number Two. As was the paid consultant with whom we spent it. Said consultant paraded chunk after chunk of rock in front of us at the counter in her showroom until we all agreed that rock # 18 and rock #35 were absolutely perfect. Sadly, said consultant did not confirm that pieces of rocks #18 and #35 were actually available in inventory. She was smart enough to know that the chunks of rock retrieved by Boyfriend during Trip Number One were all wrong, but apparently was not smart enough to know that the actual available inventory could be found online. Hence, Trip Number Three.
Now the key will be for the vanities to show up on time to be installed so that the Slab of Rock People can take the proper measurements for cutting the chosen slabs of rock. Of course, even if they show up on time, it will be important that Contractor first get the staircase leading to the second floor rebuilt. Because the last time I stopped by? No staircase. Curious.
For the record, our original plans called for new paint. That's all. Okay, maybe take out some old carpets and sand the floors. But primarily it was paint. How hard is paint? I'll tell you how hard. Somewhere around three hundred dollars worth of paint samples, generously swabbed on every available wall, only to find that most things called "gray" are actually purple. And oh! Sometimes they change the names of the paints without telling you! And green? Is really, really hard to get right. The Tornadoes both want green bedrooms, preferably lime green, but not the SAME lime green. You can say eww, it's all right.
I believe that trying to solve the lime green crisis is how we ultimately ended up with the paid consultant. She claimed finality, and an end to the color swabs, and the clouds parted and the cherubim sang. Then she arrived for the first consultation, and she was armed. With questions. About bedding and window treatments and furniture and WHERE IS THE DAMN TYLENOL? This, on top of the fact that, as I mentioned, the countertop samples were all wrong, led us to spend two hours last Sunday in her showroom seeking to once and for freaking all get these colors picked and be done with it. So we did. W picked beige. Oh sorry, I mean sandstone. And cabot something or other. I think. Something about a field, or a garden, whatever. Beige. And for Fifth Grader, something called Stem Green which is a lot like lime green but not disgustingly neon. For Seventh Grader, Mermaid Green. Mermaid Green is actually blue. It's distinctly different from Stem Green. Because it's blue. And Seventh Grader hates it. She cried giant, colorless tears.
So sometime next week, Seventh Grader and I are going to see the consultant together. She seems to have moved on from lime green and would now like electric blue. So this should only take three or four more trips.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Friday, July 2, 2010
Why I Might Run Away
I made a decision this year to scale back on the amount of summer camp to which I subjected the Tornadoes. And, subsequently, to which I subjected my wallet. So it seemed like a pretty good idea at the time. Last summer, as I was only a few months into the New Job, I pretty much drove them straight from the last day of school to a 10 week succession of adventure camps, acting camps, gymnastics camps, run-around-in-a-bathing-suit-all-day-and-learn-slightly-crude-limericks-from-other-kids camps...in June it all sounded like fun, but by mid-July it dawned on all of us that we had not been free of a regimented schedule in a full year. And it was worse for them, I thought, because they were still being told at what time they could eat their lunches or go to the bathroom. By the middle of August, when all the camps rolled up their sign-in tables and sent their counselors back to college, we were completely fatigued. We had exactly nine days of actual summer vacation left. And we still had to go school shopping.
So this year, after much contemplation, I decided to cut the camp schedule down to about half. Gymnastics came first, which means one week away and two weeks locally. I did a little "Tornadoes will be away, Boyfriend and I will play" dance. And then I offered my ladies a variety of brochures describing a plethora of experiential opportunities for their other-activity-selecting pleasure. Ultimately, we ended up with a few weeks apiece of art camp. Oh, and Fifth Grader chose a week of bird-watching at the local Audubon Society, but I suspect that was mostly for the opportunity to learn new songs on the bus trips.
Things were looking up. The girls were going to get some actual downtime in between camp weeks. I would be able to hoard a bunch of days off for when The Move takes place, possibly work from home for part of the summer, and feel like a competent mother AND a responsible professional all at once. Plus, that week they would be going away for gymnastics? Pure gold. They get to have a weeklong sleepover with their friends while training intensively at their beloved sport. I get actual private time to spend with Boyfriend. Possibly with dinners at actual restaurants. Or not. Whatever. No kids! And we don't have to get on a plane and go far, far away! Which, by the way, is so not in the cards for us this summer. Because of The Move.
Well that was all fine and dandy until Seventh Grader projectiled herself over the uneven bars in May and landed all wonky on her arm. Many weeks of physical therapy and orthopedic evaluations later, guess what? No gymnastics for you, little girl. Not away, not locally, not on a house, not with a mouse.
Of course this upset her at first. But she seemed to settle into the idea that she could now potentially have absolutely no reason to leave the house - or maybe even sit upright - for the majority of the summer. She has essentially assumed the form of a cooked noodle.
Fifth Grader is upstairs right now, packing. She leaves for Away Week tomorrow afternoon. Without her sister. Naturally, she is overjoyed. Seventh Grader is in the family room right now, with a guest Tornado. They were up until 3 a.m. They just woke up and they are already bored. They want me to take them swimming.
There are eight weeks of summer left.
So this year, after much contemplation, I decided to cut the camp schedule down to about half. Gymnastics came first, which means one week away and two weeks locally. I did a little "Tornadoes will be away, Boyfriend and I will play" dance. And then I offered my ladies a variety of brochures describing a plethora of experiential opportunities for their other-activity-selecting pleasure. Ultimately, we ended up with a few weeks apiece of art camp. Oh, and Fifth Grader chose a week of bird-watching at the local Audubon Society, but I suspect that was mostly for the opportunity to learn new songs on the bus trips.
Things were looking up. The girls were going to get some actual downtime in between camp weeks. I would be able to hoard a bunch of days off for when The Move takes place, possibly work from home for part of the summer, and feel like a competent mother AND a responsible professional all at once. Plus, that week they would be going away for gymnastics? Pure gold. They get to have a weeklong sleepover with their friends while training intensively at their beloved sport. I get actual private time to spend with Boyfriend. Possibly with dinners at actual restaurants. Or not. Whatever. No kids! And we don't have to get on a plane and go far, far away! Which, by the way, is so not in the cards for us this summer. Because of The Move.
Well that was all fine and dandy until Seventh Grader projectiled herself over the uneven bars in May and landed all wonky on her arm. Many weeks of physical therapy and orthopedic evaluations later, guess what? No gymnastics for you, little girl. Not away, not locally, not on a house, not with a mouse.
Of course this upset her at first. But she seemed to settle into the idea that she could now potentially have absolutely no reason to leave the house - or maybe even sit upright - for the majority of the summer. She has essentially assumed the form of a cooked noodle.
Fifth Grader is upstairs right now, packing. She leaves for Away Week tomorrow afternoon. Without her sister. Naturally, she is overjoyed. Seventh Grader is in the family room right now, with a guest Tornado. They were up until 3 a.m. They just woke up and they are already bored. They want me to take them swimming.
There are eight weeks of summer left.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
I Think They Call This "Quality Time"
If memory serves, it was right around this time last year that Seventh Grader - then just a Sixth Grader in the making - began to change. Over time, she transformed from the familiar and loving child I had known, and accordingly groomed, into an unpredictably moody and friend-obsessed other being. Not yet boy-obsessed, simply friend-obsessed. Which, really, was bad enough. If I had just a few extra fingers, I could feasibly count on two hands the number of complete weekends she has spent at home in the last half of the school year.
It would take me absolutely oodles of posts to capture the essence of who she is at this stage of her young life. (Consider that a warning. This is quite high on the list of topics that constantly occupy my conscious mind.) And yes indeed, boys have now entered the picture. So it's been a challenging year with that one, let me tell you. She's still a fantastic kid. But boy howdy. Do people still say "boy howdy"? I bet they don't. See, this is one of a kabillion things that I might say out loud around Seventh Grader that would just utterly devastate her with embarrassment. For example, today I was reminded of a song I learned in the third grade from a particularly memorable teacher - a sweet song about a fly who goes into a grocery store - and I sang it to Seventh Grader. We were all alone in the family room, mind you. Not a soul around but her and me. Still, she was mortified.
So we've made it through the Sixth Grade. And for some reason, with summer now upon us, the child seems to be softening. Last night, for example, she actually tolerated my presence for an entire hour of television watching. Granted, she spent the majority of the hour IM'ing and texting, but still! I was not dismissed or made miserable in hopes that I would find something else to do! And, after this hour of what would have passed as the most meaningful of togetherness time in my own youth, she and her electronics actually followed me to my room and sprawled themselves across my bed while I attempted to read my book! And as if that was not enough, she proceeded to voluntarily share with me the general nature of what she was IM'ing and texting! Admittedly, for just a split second, I did find myself a bit annoyed that I couldn't get past a full sentence of my book without being interrupted...but then I told myself, "you IDIOT. SHE'S PAYING ATTENTION TO YOU!" and from that point on I merely pretended to read so that I would not look as pathetically starved for her presence as I actually was.
It was totally awesome.
And where, you may be wondering, was Fifth Grader during this bliss? I'll tell you where she was. She was on the phone, quietly but methodically badgering one of her friends about potentially arranging a playdate/sleepover/trip to the beach/camp out in her front yard sometime this week. And this morning, when Fifth Grader woke up, she started her campaign up all over again. She doesn't have a cell phone, so she had to resort to sneaking the house phone off to desolate corners and whispering intently. It took her a good six hours of effort, but guess where she is? At the beach, with her friend and her friend's beaten down mother. Poor woman. She fought the good fight.
So it appears that the friend obsession is beginning a little earlier for Fifth Grader. Color me frustrated. But you know, Seventh Grader and I put this afternoon to good use: A quick trip to the mall to get a birthday present for her friend (so what if it set me back double the twenty-five dollars I said I would spend?), a couple of subs in the food court (so what if that salmon I took out earlier today is going to spoil and end up in the trash can?), not to mention a half hour playing catch in the front yard, at her request, once we got back home.
Totally. Freaking. Awesome.
It would take me absolutely oodles of posts to capture the essence of who she is at this stage of her young life. (Consider that a warning. This is quite high on the list of topics that constantly occupy my conscious mind.) And yes indeed, boys have now entered the picture. So it's been a challenging year with that one, let me tell you. She's still a fantastic kid. But boy howdy. Do people still say "boy howdy"? I bet they don't. See, this is one of a kabillion things that I might say out loud around Seventh Grader that would just utterly devastate her with embarrassment. For example, today I was reminded of a song I learned in the third grade from a particularly memorable teacher - a sweet song about a fly who goes into a grocery store - and I sang it to Seventh Grader. We were all alone in the family room, mind you. Not a soul around but her and me. Still, she was mortified.
So we've made it through the Sixth Grade. And for some reason, with summer now upon us, the child seems to be softening. Last night, for example, she actually tolerated my presence for an entire hour of television watching. Granted, she spent the majority of the hour IM'ing and texting, but still! I was not dismissed or made miserable in hopes that I would find something else to do! And, after this hour of what would have passed as the most meaningful of togetherness time in my own youth, she and her electronics actually followed me to my room and sprawled themselves across my bed while I attempted to read my book! And as if that was not enough, she proceeded to voluntarily share with me the general nature of what she was IM'ing and texting! Admittedly, for just a split second, I did find myself a bit annoyed that I couldn't get past a full sentence of my book without being interrupted...but then I told myself, "you IDIOT. SHE'S PAYING ATTENTION TO YOU!" and from that point on I merely pretended to read so that I would not look as pathetically starved for her presence as I actually was.
It was totally awesome.
And where, you may be wondering, was Fifth Grader during this bliss? I'll tell you where she was. She was on the phone, quietly but methodically badgering one of her friends about potentially arranging a playdate/sleepover/trip to the beach/camp out in her front yard sometime this week. And this morning, when Fifth Grader woke up, she started her campaign up all over again. She doesn't have a cell phone, so she had to resort to sneaking the house phone off to desolate corners and whispering intently. It took her a good six hours of effort, but guess where she is? At the beach, with her friend and her friend's beaten down mother. Poor woman. She fought the good fight.
So it appears that the friend obsession is beginning a little earlier for Fifth Grader. Color me frustrated. But you know, Seventh Grader and I put this afternoon to good use: A quick trip to the mall to get a birthday present for her friend (so what if it set me back double the twenty-five dollars I said I would spend?), a couple of subs in the food court (so what if that salmon I took out earlier today is going to spoil and end up in the trash can?), not to mention a half hour playing catch in the front yard, at her request, once we got back home.
Totally. Freaking. Awesome.
Friday, June 18, 2010
The Little Johnny Post
I tend to read all kinds of strange things - really, any kind of printed material that is lying in close proximity. One time, many years ago, a stray magazine devoted to soap operas confronted me; next thing I knew, I was hip-deep in some article about how characters are done away with and later brought back under dubious explanation. I remember that the example was given of a prominent soap "family" with multiple "sons" that faced the problem of needing to weed out some kids. Too many characters and not enough plot line to go around, or something like that. So one day, the writers sent little Johnny up to his room to get his ski...gloves? Hat? Mask? It doesn't really matter, because little Johnny never came back downstairs, and nobody ever asked what became of him. Or if they did ask, the writers felt no compulsion to explain. Many years later, when a new, but somehow familiar, character was needed to round out a blossoming storyline, guess what the writers did? They brought back Johnny, all grown up! And all was forgiven.
You may now draw what parallels you must between that story and my return to AficioNada.
Moving on.
Today is the last day of school. Not just ANY last day of school, either, but the last day of elementary school for Sixth Grader and the last day of school, period, for either of the Tornadoes in this particular school district. At some point over the summer, we will be moving to our new home in a new town. New schools for everyone! Hooray! But also, holy crap! What have I done?! Am I ruining their lives? Or is this the best decision ever? I just have absolutely no way of knowing what is coming once this move takes place, and it is scaring the bejeezus out of me.
But that's okay. I have plenty of time to ruminate on the wisdom of this move because, guess what? NO freaking clue when it's going to happen. I know I said "at some point over the summer"...but that was a bluff. Truth is, I have no idea. What started out as a little painting, maybe refinishing some floors, change a few light fixtures, has morphed into "let's just keep the shell of the house but tear out everything inside it and start over". Which pushed the move-in date from June to late July to - last I heard from Boyfriend - MAYBE the middle of August. Giant letters on the MAYBE.
But that's okay. Know why? Because nobody wants to buy my house. Correction: nobody wants to even look at my house. That's right. The For Sale sign has been up for three months now, the staging that makes me feel like I live in the furniture department of Macy's is still all around us, and how many showings have I had? It's a number between one and one. One! Right! So hey, good news: we don't all have to try and cram into Boyfriend's apartment for an interim time "between houses". Bad news: two mortgages.
This is the gist of what is going on inside my head today...actually, there's a lot more going on in there, but it's terribly angsty. Lots to do with the evolution of Sixth and Fourth Grader into SEVENTH AND FIFTH Grader. Once upon a time, Seventh Grader was Fourth Grader. And Fourth Grader, who is now Fifth Grader, was but a mere Third Grader. But now they are Seventh and Fifth, and I am still 36, and the dish ran away with the spoon.
My point being, that's enough for now.
P.S. They make a lot of Father's Day cards to give to Husband, but only two to give to Someone You Love. I bought one of those two cards last year, and the other one is really ugly. Just saying. Life is hard enough.
P.P.S. Thanks for reading again.
You may now draw what parallels you must between that story and my return to AficioNada.
Moving on.
Today is the last day of school. Not just ANY last day of school, either, but the last day of elementary school for Sixth Grader and the last day of school, period, for either of the Tornadoes in this particular school district. At some point over the summer, we will be moving to our new home in a new town. New schools for everyone! Hooray! But also, holy crap! What have I done?! Am I ruining their lives? Or is this the best decision ever? I just have absolutely no way of knowing what is coming once this move takes place, and it is scaring the bejeezus out of me.
But that's okay. I have plenty of time to ruminate on the wisdom of this move because, guess what? NO freaking clue when it's going to happen. I know I said "at some point over the summer"...but that was a bluff. Truth is, I have no idea. What started out as a little painting, maybe refinishing some floors, change a few light fixtures, has morphed into "let's just keep the shell of the house but tear out everything inside it and start over". Which pushed the move-in date from June to late July to - last I heard from Boyfriend - MAYBE the middle of August. Giant letters on the MAYBE.
But that's okay. Know why? Because nobody wants to buy my house. Correction: nobody wants to even look at my house. That's right. The For Sale sign has been up for three months now, the staging that makes me feel like I live in the furniture department of Macy's is still all around us, and how many showings have I had? It's a number between one and one. One! Right! So hey, good news: we don't all have to try and cram into Boyfriend's apartment for an interim time "between houses". Bad news: two mortgages.
This is the gist of what is going on inside my head today...actually, there's a lot more going on in there, but it's terribly angsty. Lots to do with the evolution of Sixth and Fourth Grader into SEVENTH AND FIFTH Grader. Once upon a time, Seventh Grader was Fourth Grader. And Fourth Grader, who is now Fifth Grader, was but a mere Third Grader. But now they are Seventh and Fifth, and I am still 36, and the dish ran away with the spoon.
My point being, that's enough for now.
P.S. They make a lot of Father's Day cards to give to Husband, but only two to give to Someone You Love. I bought one of those two cards last year, and the other one is really ugly. Just saying. Life is hard enough.
P.P.S. Thanks for reading again.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Like Fuzzy Socks or Potato Chips
You know, life isn't fair. My kids told me. In fact, they tell me that one thing or another isn't fair, according to their calculations, on an average of twice a day. Today, for example, Fourth Grader concluded that it wasn't fair that she only got to snowboard for four hours. And then it wasn't fair that I expected her to read an entire chapter of her book before she could zone out watching television. It's just not fair, you know?
Sometimes the only thing a girl can hope for is a little comfort. Comfort food, comfort clothes, comfort vodka...obviously, these are forms of comfort for me, not for Fourth Grader. But forget Fourth Grader for a minute. This is about me, and I have been in dire need of some comfort recently. And after giving all three of the above options a go over the weekend, I still wasn't really feeling comforted. In fact, by eleven this morning I was feeling downright miserable. There wasn't any real reason for my misery - other than the fact that it's winter, and the view out the window is cold and gray and dreary. And the fact that the Tornadoes' father plans to grace them with his rare presence in a week's time, regardless of the fact that it is not convenient for anyone but him. And the fact that Sixth Grader and I had an insanely frustrating exchange last night that left us both in tears and me feeling like I possibly didn't matter to anyone at all for any reason.
...And also, I have to sell my house. I don't mind selling my house, but I do mind all the work that will be involved in doing so. Conveniently for my misery, I met with the stager this morning at ten. This was enough to seal the deal - on my misery, that is - and to nearly send me running for the nearest bag of Cape Cod Robust Russets. Window treatments on rooms where I didn't feel the need for them while I've lived here? Really? Renting furniture to fill a room that I have always hated and rarely enter? This is what the real estate market has come to?
Sometimes, in these situations, a few comforting words are enough to do the trick to start turning things around. And this afternoon I heard them. Standing in the snow at the base of a mountain, watching a disgruntled Sixth Grader and her disgruntled friends do my bidding by escorting Fourth Grader up a hill only slightly more difficult than the beginner's slope - and therefore not worthy of them and their mad snowboarding skills, this seemed to be the general nature of their disgruntledness - I found myself on the listening end of a fellow mother's expression of frustration.
"I don't think I'm going to survive this age," she sighed. The age in question being that of the sixth grade posse. What? You mean, I'm not alone? You mean, my Sixth Grader is not the only one who is occasionally possessed by demons? My parenting is not broken? LIFE ISN'T FAIR TO OTHER PEOPLE EITHER?
As pathetic as I'm sure it sounds, I felt a million times better after hearing that one simple sentence from my fellow mother. It was just so incredibly reassuring. I practically skipped. But I didn't skip, because it was really slippery out there in the snow. So I simply invited the nice, comforting woman to call me sometime if she wanted to compare notes on the "joys" of tweenhood. I'll bring the chips.
Sometimes the only thing a girl can hope for is a little comfort. Comfort food, comfort clothes, comfort vodka...obviously, these are forms of comfort for me, not for Fourth Grader. But forget Fourth Grader for a minute. This is about me, and I have been in dire need of some comfort recently. And after giving all three of the above options a go over the weekend, I still wasn't really feeling comforted. In fact, by eleven this morning I was feeling downright miserable. There wasn't any real reason for my misery - other than the fact that it's winter, and the view out the window is cold and gray and dreary. And the fact that the Tornadoes' father plans to grace them with his rare presence in a week's time, regardless of the fact that it is not convenient for anyone but him. And the fact that Sixth Grader and I had an insanely frustrating exchange last night that left us both in tears and me feeling like I possibly didn't matter to anyone at all for any reason.
...And also, I have to sell my house. I don't mind selling my house, but I do mind all the work that will be involved in doing so. Conveniently for my misery, I met with the stager this morning at ten. This was enough to seal the deal - on my misery, that is - and to nearly send me running for the nearest bag of Cape Cod Robust Russets. Window treatments on rooms where I didn't feel the need for them while I've lived here? Really? Renting furniture to fill a room that I have always hated and rarely enter? This is what the real estate market has come to?
Sometimes, in these situations, a few comforting words are enough to do the trick to start turning things around. And this afternoon I heard them. Standing in the snow at the base of a mountain, watching a disgruntled Sixth Grader and her disgruntled friends do my bidding by escorting Fourth Grader up a hill only slightly more difficult than the beginner's slope - and therefore not worthy of them and their mad snowboarding skills, this seemed to be the general nature of their disgruntledness - I found myself on the listening end of a fellow mother's expression of frustration.
"I don't think I'm going to survive this age," she sighed. The age in question being that of the sixth grade posse. What? You mean, I'm not alone? You mean, my Sixth Grader is not the only one who is occasionally possessed by demons? My parenting is not broken? LIFE ISN'T FAIR TO OTHER PEOPLE EITHER?
As pathetic as I'm sure it sounds, I felt a million times better after hearing that one simple sentence from my fellow mother. It was just so incredibly reassuring. I practically skipped. But I didn't skip, because it was really slippery out there in the snow. So I simply invited the nice, comforting woman to call me sometime if she wanted to compare notes on the "joys" of tweenhood. I'll bring the chips.
Saturday, January 9, 2010
Splintering News
So it's official. We're moving. In seven months.
I've held back on telling the story of how Boyfriend found a house he loved, brought me to see it so I could also discover that I loved it, and how we then moved forward, in a glacial series of steps, to eventually reach yesterday, when we scheduled the closing. Believe me, it was better for you that way. I also refrained from telling just about any of my friends, and definitely my neighbors - for what real reason I don't know, other than I didn't feel like the time was right to say anything - but it appears that everyone within a thirty mile radius already knows due to the fact that a certain Fourth Grader does not understand the words "private matter until I say otherwise." Seriously, people have been texting and emailing me for weeks: "So, you're moving?" Always, always, the source is the same. Love that kid. But anyway, here we are, and in twenty-one days I will be the proud owner of one and a half mortgages.
So, yay! We are buying a house together. And, eventually, moving into it. In seven months, give or take. First, it needs a little updating...and when I say a little updating, I mean there has been one family living in it for the past forty odd years. So imagine a family that has lived in the same house for forty years and raised three children in it and who now find themselves on the second half of this little mountain we call "life" - maybe updating the wallpaper from the 80s wasn't such a priority. Nor were the bathrooms. Stuff like that. So, since Boyfriend is renting, and I still have a house to sell, we figured we'd get all those things done prior to the move-in.
Which means, fair readers, that I have just opened up a giant trunk of future post material. There's the little matter of selling my house - already proving to contain comical elements, judging by yesterday's initial walk-through with the realtor. There's the merging of things, people, habits, tastes, preferences in cleanliness...oh, you don't even know the bounty of material available in that last item alone. And of course, all of this needs to take place in the midst of our regularly scheduled programming.
But all of that is not for today. Today I have a few phone calls to make, to line up the handyman and the stager. And then I will gaze out the front window and begin my long goodbye to that monstrous garage being built across the street. Goodbye, monstrosity. Goodbye.
I've held back on telling the story of how Boyfriend found a house he loved, brought me to see it so I could also discover that I loved it, and how we then moved forward, in a glacial series of steps, to eventually reach yesterday, when we scheduled the closing. Believe me, it was better for you that way. I also refrained from telling just about any of my friends, and definitely my neighbors - for what real reason I don't know, other than I didn't feel like the time was right to say anything - but it appears that everyone within a thirty mile radius already knows due to the fact that a certain Fourth Grader does not understand the words "private matter until I say otherwise." Seriously, people have been texting and emailing me for weeks: "So, you're moving?" Always, always, the source is the same. Love that kid. But anyway, here we are, and in twenty-one days I will be the proud owner of one and a half mortgages.
So, yay! We are buying a house together. And, eventually, moving into it. In seven months, give or take. First, it needs a little updating...and when I say a little updating, I mean there has been one family living in it for the past forty odd years. So imagine a family that has lived in the same house for forty years and raised three children in it and who now find themselves on the second half of this little mountain we call "life" - maybe updating the wallpaper from the 80s wasn't such a priority. Nor were the bathrooms. Stuff like that. So, since Boyfriend is renting, and I still have a house to sell, we figured we'd get all those things done prior to the move-in.
Which means, fair readers, that I have just opened up a giant trunk of future post material. There's the little matter of selling my house - already proving to contain comical elements, judging by yesterday's initial walk-through with the realtor. There's the merging of things, people, habits, tastes, preferences in cleanliness...oh, you don't even know the bounty of material available in that last item alone. And of course, all of this needs to take place in the midst of our regularly scheduled programming.
But all of that is not for today. Today I have a few phone calls to make, to line up the handyman and the stager. And then I will gaze out the front window and begin my long goodbye to that monstrous garage being built across the street. Goodbye, monstrosity. Goodbye.
Monday, January 4, 2010
Play The Music As Loud As You Like. But No Streaking.
This is a quote from an actual conversation that took place this past weekend between myself...and Fourth Grader. And? It was absolutely necessary.
Fourth Grader has officially entered the land of double digits. She chose to mark the occasion of her first birthday to end in a zero by filling our house with similarly aged children and riddling them all about the furniture from sometime Saturday afternoon until after breakfast on Sunday. We invited 10, expected 6, and received 7. So with the birthday girl included, I had eight tweens to contend with.
Mercifully, Sixth Grader was invited to a sleepover across town that same night. This solved the problem of having to allow her to have a friend over, as I had allowed her little sister to do last year at her party. Because Sixth Grader can never choose just one friend, you see. They travel in a pack. So Sixth Grader was absent, and her pack was riddled across another parent's furniture, and all was good.
I can't remember what details I shared with you last year after Sixth Grader's sleepover party. Did I tell you about the never ending dance-off? Probably. About how she didn't want a birthday cake but instead wanted her candles stuck into a ring of monkey bread at breakfast? No? How about the streaking? Did I tell you about the streaking? Actually, there was only one streaker. Unfortunately, it was my child.
I recall that the party proceeded pretty normally up until around 1 a.m. I insisted on pajamas and movies around 11 and attempted to go to bed myself, fully expecting that I would have to get up and reiterate "time to calm down, girls" at least one or two times. It was more like forty times. No sooner would I doze off then the music would start blaring. Up and down the stairs I went, each time more agitated then the next, until finally I decided I didn't care anymore as long as they contained themselves to one room. I buried my head under a stack of pillows and somehow managed to get back to sleep - until about 2:30, by which time the girls had violated my Stay In One Room! rule and were spread across the first floor of the house, right around the staircase, and I distinctly heard several of them say the word "naked". At which point I had no choice but to get up and investigate, and made it as far as the top of the stairs where I was immediately "treated" to the sight of Fourth Grader (Third Grader at the time, mind you), entirely unclothed, running at full speed through the front hallway, AND then completely frozen in the spot where she had realized that her mother was watching the whole thing from above.
Fast forward to Fourth Grader's party a few days ago. First of all, she is a traditionalist, so there was cake. I took her to a bakery earlier in the week and she asked them to make her cake look like the Game of Life, which they didn't even bat an eye at (And it turned out so totally cool, I must say. Kudos, Frederick's Pastries.) Second of all, she really really really wanted to have a sleepover and she PROMISED me that they would not stay up until four in the morning and she would keep everything under control and nobody would even cry. Fine. On Saturday morning, we drove to the bakery to get her cake. This was my time to detail for her all of the many things from the last sleepover party that had frustrated, horrified or otherwise mentally scarred me - the icing on the cake (pardon the pun) being the streaking episode. She PROMISED me that nothing like that would ever happen again, (I PROMISE, MOM, REALLY)...and that, by the way, her choices that fateful night, under the wicked demands of her older sister and the pack, were to A) lick the litter box, B) drink a cup of toilet water, or C) streak.
What do you say to that? "Well chosen, love. Well chosen."
So there was no streaking. No truth or dare. No crying. Fourth Grader kept all of her promises to maintain control, and her friends strangely complied. Yes, the music was quite loud for a while. But they were all tucked in at 11 and asleep by 1. Which was lovely.
Fourth Grader has officially entered the land of double digits. She chose to mark the occasion of her first birthday to end in a zero by filling our house with similarly aged children and riddling them all about the furniture from sometime Saturday afternoon until after breakfast on Sunday. We invited 10, expected 6, and received 7. So with the birthday girl included, I had eight tweens to contend with.
Mercifully, Sixth Grader was invited to a sleepover across town that same night. This solved the problem of having to allow her to have a friend over, as I had allowed her little sister to do last year at her party. Because Sixth Grader can never choose just one friend, you see. They travel in a pack. So Sixth Grader was absent, and her pack was riddled across another parent's furniture, and all was good.
I can't remember what details I shared with you last year after Sixth Grader's sleepover party. Did I tell you about the never ending dance-off? Probably. About how she didn't want a birthday cake but instead wanted her candles stuck into a ring of monkey bread at breakfast? No? How about the streaking? Did I tell you about the streaking? Actually, there was only one streaker. Unfortunately, it was my child.
I recall that the party proceeded pretty normally up until around 1 a.m. I insisted on pajamas and movies around 11 and attempted to go to bed myself, fully expecting that I would have to get up and reiterate "time to calm down, girls" at least one or two times. It was more like forty times. No sooner would I doze off then the music would start blaring. Up and down the stairs I went, each time more agitated then the next, until finally I decided I didn't care anymore as long as they contained themselves to one room. I buried my head under a stack of pillows and somehow managed to get back to sleep - until about 2:30, by which time the girls had violated my Stay In One Room! rule and were spread across the first floor of the house, right around the staircase, and I distinctly heard several of them say the word "naked". At which point I had no choice but to get up and investigate, and made it as far as the top of the stairs where I was immediately "treated" to the sight of Fourth Grader (Third Grader at the time, mind you), entirely unclothed, running at full speed through the front hallway, AND then completely frozen in the spot where she had realized that her mother was watching the whole thing from above.
Fast forward to Fourth Grader's party a few days ago. First of all, she is a traditionalist, so there was cake. I took her to a bakery earlier in the week and she asked them to make her cake look like the Game of Life, which they didn't even bat an eye at (And it turned out so totally cool, I must say. Kudos, Frederick's Pastries.) Second of all, she really really really wanted to have a sleepover and she PROMISED me that they would not stay up until four in the morning and she would keep everything under control and nobody would even cry. Fine. On Saturday morning, we drove to the bakery to get her cake. This was my time to detail for her all of the many things from the last sleepover party that had frustrated, horrified or otherwise mentally scarred me - the icing on the cake (pardon the pun) being the streaking episode. She PROMISED me that nothing like that would ever happen again, (I PROMISE, MOM, REALLY)...and that, by the way, her choices that fateful night, under the wicked demands of her older sister and the pack, were to A) lick the litter box, B) drink a cup of toilet water, or C) streak.
What do you say to that? "Well chosen, love. Well chosen."
So there was no streaking. No truth or dare. No crying. Fourth Grader kept all of her promises to maintain control, and her friends strangely complied. Yes, the music was quite loud for a while. But they were all tucked in at 11 and asleep by 1. Which was lovely.
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