A Room of One's Own

One fell swoop

A few weeks ago my 90 year old grandmother whapped me upside the head. This is the second time she's done this in the last 6 month. I decided about a week ago that I deserved it. She just wants me to call. She just wants to be part of my life. She comes from the old school. You call your elders. I just haven't. I haven't been a good granddaughter.

I could list a whole array of reasons that I could have for generally being pissed off at her. She's not been the best grandmother. It's hard to just turn a blind eye to that and just move past it. But still, she is the only grandparent I have left. She is my family. All she wants is my love and how hard is it really to love someone back?

I decided to make a conscious effort to be a better grand daughter. I think I could be a better whole lot of other things but that's a whole other topic.  I called her on Monday because she had asked my mom if I needed help. She has nothing better to do. I invited her to come help me today to unpack. She now lives two miles from me and I am fresh out of excuses. We had a good time. She was incredibly helpful and disappointed I didn't have her do more. She could have stayed and helped for four more hours.

I made her day. It wasn't hard. I feel good about it. I'll be sleeping a little better tonight. And Lord knows I could use that. 

And we're LIVE!

Awww, good ol' internet. Good ol' blog. It's official. The move is over. I am in my new house and very happy to be here. Getting here was not very fun though. Let me recap for you. Welby is welcome to chime in at any time.

Long story short on the closing: my docs did not even get there first thing in the morning, let alone Friday afternoon. My docs were not ready until 10:00. I went and signed them at 11:15. I had to leave Welby and Andy, both of who I have not seen in 13 years at my house with three movers who look like missing cast members of Pirates of the Carribean. Then my ex-husband showed up. Good times.

On my way home, I am told that my buyer is not signing the docs for the close on my home because the carpets are not clean yet. Well, fucking duh. Did they think I could use my levitating skills to lift the furniture off the floor and clean the carpet underneath? Or, would it have made better sense to clean the carpets while I was out. Let's just say that these fine folks did not grasp the concept of the simultaneous close.

Wifey had not actually seen the house in person and was not pleased to get to HER house and find people in it. Started making demands left and right. Now, I'm sorry. It is not my fault you left the entire house buying responsibility to your ex-Marine husband. But, now is NOT the time to decide to grow a set and start exercising your authority! Christ on a cracker!

So now, I have no home. I have all belongings in a truck with Captain Jack Sparrow.  I have a realtor at my house and I'm 18 shades of pissed. I inform him of this. Repeatedly. HE was supposed to coordinate and communicate the timeline for the day. I told him he did a rather shitty job. I may have called him, "Son." I meant it as condescending as it seems. I was THAT mad. It cost me and extra $200 because he doesn't communicate well. I havce a very long fuse but I had had it. At the end of that long fuse is a very big stick of dynamite.

Meanwhile, Welby and Andy get talked into changing out and electrical outlet on my BBQ island. This was something I had been arguing about with the ex-husband for two weeks. Ex was hell bent on not doing it and I have not had the time. Fine. I put him to work elsewhere. God damn it, he was going to help clear out the marital home even if I had to endure hours of nit picking, poking, and snide critical comments.

We get on the road to the new house where all I want to do is clear out Welby and Andy's cars and cut them loose as they got more than they bargained for. Done. Really, these two are amazing friends. So, this leaves me alone with Captain Jack and his buddy. This starts to get scary as number of off color comments begin to increase as the afternoon progresses. Let me just give you a word of advise if you should be moving. If you should walk anywhere near movers, make sure your presense is completely known as you are then not subjected to overhearing any comments on any of your body parts and/or the contents of your underwear drawer. I just shuddered right now.

Moving kicks into high gear. I am saved by the DirecTV guy and no longer alone with the pirates. Just as we finish moving everything in, the DirecTV guy leaves. Crap. My ex calls and says he's bringing over a few things. He'll be there in 5 minutes. I had never been so damn happy to see that man. Everything settles about 6pm and I can finally start unpacking, and unpacking, and unpacking. The house looks great today. I'm taking a break now and am going to go jump in the pool later. Home is sinking in. It feels good.

The fun part

I have been packing in a fury and have avoided a number of boxes as I know I need to go through them and figure out what is in them. This is particularly heinous as I have avoided these boxes for at least 5 years. Push came to shove today and it had to be done.

Everyone should have a box like the one I just opened. It had my life in it. It had things in there that I forgot even existed. The contents included:

* Every ribbon I ever won in the 8 years that I swam competitively. My mom wrote the event on the back of them. I just held in my hand one of the greatest moments of my life. When I was 8, I was thrown into a relay at the last minute at a swimming championship. When I got in the water, we were in fourth place. It's a second place ribbon. It was the BOY'S relay team. The judges said they would allow it. I'm taking it in tomorrow and hanging it in my office.

* A list written on January 15, 1999 by a then 15 year old kid named Tyler. "What I learned in English." Among funnier things like, "Half the class are Jews," and "I am not funny and no on likes me" were such things as, "Epiphanies, self worth and love of life," and, "Hemingway was a brilliant man."

* A black and white photo taken of me, by an old boyfriend, sipping a margarita in San Antonio with the Riverwalk in the background in the Spring of 1996. It is one of the only pictures of me I have ever really liked.

* Another large black and white photo of me at who knows what hour of the day, sitting on the newsroom floor at NAU, looking way too serious, working on a story. I remember my friend Pete took it.

* A CD of music recorded by a student of mine. When I opened it up, the case also had a CD of mine I thought I had lost with poets reading their own works. It included Maya Angelou reading Phenomenal Woman.

* An article I wrote in college that pissed off Governor Symington. The copy I have was the version that ran in a national college news magazine.

* A complete guide to all books that were requested to be banned in 1992-1993. Elie Weisel's Night made the list for being "negative." Apparently, the parents thought the kids should read something uplifting. It was unanimously voted to be kept in the Illinois school.

It took me an hour to go through the box. Not because of the quantity of items, but because I couldn't resist diving in and wallowing. After having the day I've had, this was so needed. It was like a box of good. Just good.

Stick a fork in me

I am done. Actually, I wish I was done. I packed up about 5 boxes tonight. I have reached that critical point where you pack up just about everything you humanly can without truly inconveniencing yourself to a heinous level. I, literally, stood packing up the contents of my pantry trying to determine the likelihood of actually needing cupcake paper cup things in the next 11 days. Anyone who really knows me knows that this is a legitimate debate. The answer? They're still in the pantry with half my other baking items. I have baking issues, I think.

I think I am determined to win. I have never won at moving. I start out with great expectations. But, it did hit me tonight that, no matter how bad this move goes, it can't be worse than the last. Let me paint this lovely picture for you: my former in-laws came to "help." Yes, I know. That sounds nice. It wasn't. They asked if I needed help and I told them that what I need is help on the tail end in getting everything OUT of the boxes, not in. Oh no, I didn't realize I had stepped right into that month's episode of Passive Aggressive Theatre! A few weeks before, my then mother-in-law had expressed concerns that beloved items handed down to her son would end up in the garage sale. I am certain she came to help move to make sure all items were accounted for.

This was how the Box of Ugly came into play. Some of these "family heirlooms" were some of the most amazingly awful pieces of shit that they had acquired in their world travels. They could NOT be gotten rid of or given back. So I packed up a good number of the truly hideous items and wrote "BOU" on it and labeled it "Garage." As my ex-husband did nothing to help the packing effort, no one knew what was in there but they knew it belonged in the garage, not the house! That's where they stayed until we got divorced and he took all the ugly shit away. Evil genius? Yes, ma'am.

This move will not involve a BOU. This is the true beauty of this move. It will be a good move.

Only 6 more damn days

Today, it took me an hour and a half to get work. There was an accident on the only road I could use to get to the freeway and they had to divert what seemed like a half million of us down a residential street, past a school, during rush hour. Good times.

Of course, I have a breakfast I need to be at that includes my entire company and lots of good food. My best friend calls me asking where I am. Oh, I'm still an hour away, little did I know. That bitch then proceeds to tell me how great all the food looks. I don't like her anymore.

The commute has introduced me to road rage. It has also cost me $400 a month in gas and, more recently, $150 for a full car detail. Why, you ask? Try driving for at least an hour twice a day with a three year old in your car. It ain't pretty. It's especially ugly if the child has inherited her mother's gene if getting highly irritable if she is denied food within a reasonable time. It has become of utmost importance to always carry a bag of goldfish, "floop floops" or Cheez-its in the car at all times. In anticipation of moving 12 minutes from work, I took the car to get detailed this weekend. I asked them to do the equivalent of taking my car and turning it upside down until all of the "floop floops" were a thing of my past. Done.

As I'm sitting in my office being generally discontented with the whole breakfast matter (I had skipped it altogether as not appearing is not as rude as walking in 25 minutes late while a big wig is speaking), it occurs to me. I only have to do this damn commute 6 more times. Six. That was enough to put a smile on my face. I had no breakfast but I was happy none the less...

Close the damn shop already!

I saw a link today. It was about the Duggars having their 17th kid. The second I clicked on it, my uterus reeled back and kicked me in the stomach as if to say, "Bitch, don't even READ that shit!" Yeah, my uterus has a bad attitude. Rightfully so, I wouldn't want to be her.

I watched the special on them when they had only 14 kids. Only 14. I can't imagine having two! I think that crabby ass uterus of mine would flat walk right out of my body if I even considered the thought. It would protest. As a matter of fact, it has frequently protested, leaving me to believe I was meant to be a one kid woman. Of course, God does not have the same plan for Michelle Duggar. According to my calculations, when #17 is born, she will have spent a compiled 11 and a quarter years of her life pregnant. Wow.

I have several questions beyond the obvious of why the hell does she wear her hair like that? How in the name of all things holy do they actually have time to have sex? Have any of the older kids gotten wise to the fact that while they were in charge of their "buddy" sibling, mom and dad are storing up energy to have more Duggars? Or worse yet, making more Duggars? I can't wait for that light bulb to go off.

Nevermind, I have to ask. What the hell is up with her hair. And those poor girls. I think they could all get together, cut off their hair, make a rope of the collection and strangle their mother. I can't figure out why they haven't thought of this.

Do you think that Michelle Duggar ever has the urge to run screaming from the house and then sit in a remote part of their 20 acre property swigging whiskey, chain smoking and plotting how to maim Jim Bob? Because, honestly, that is exactly what I would do if I were her, especially if I had to wear those Keds every day.

In today's news...

My house is under contract! They buyers accepted my counter offer on Saturday. They want to close on the 29th.

I put an offer on a house! It's lovely and I want to move right now. They countered with an ugly contingency clause that basically says that they're going to continue to market the house and should they get another offer, I have 48 hours to remove all contingencies and promise to buy the house or walk. I'm terrified this may get fucked up and I could end up totally screwed. With a closing in 3 weeks, odds are slim. I just need to get my buyer to move fast on all the inspections, etc. If they're going to back out, it's going to be during the inspection period.

At risk of sounding like a Jane Austen novel, I think I may be smitten. Nothing huge, just smitten. Sure signs include a stupid grin on my face and random giggling and giddiness. I feel very similar to my best friend's 14 year old daughter. It's kind of fun.

Idle hands, not so idle mind

The worst thing for me to ever be is bored. It is just dangerous. All kinds of hell breaks loose. Just ask my mom. She’ll tell you stories of horrific childhood activities that were a result of boredom. My co-workers fear a slow workday and me in the office. My brain gets going and I have a very active imagination.

Friday night, after the sick kid finally went to bed, I had a good amount of time on my hands and absolutely nothing to do. Good times. So, I’m playing on my computer and for some reason unknown to me, I end up taking an online IQ test. I have been tested twice before in my life. I wondered if maybe a combination of motherhood, my job, and a silly amount of liquor consumed in the last ten years of my life has changed anything.

First, what kind of freak am I that I really enjoyed taking the test? I love word problems! I spent a good part of last summer annoying my co-worker but getting the “Mind Puzzle of the Day” in 30 seconds. It freaked them out and they would get mad at me. Ooops. Second, did I mention that I had two glasses of wine? They email you the results. That was the longest 30 seconds of my life. So, drumroll please, my IQ is 142 under the influence. I’m wicked smart! I have the email to prove it.

I’m telling this to my best friend, who has a 137 IQ (yeah, we could take over the world) last night and the conversation turns to John Mayer and Jessica Simpson. It’s a very hostile subject for me as you may remember that John is in deep shit with me and I have shifted much of my lusting energy to Michael Buble. We still don’t get the seemingly smart man with the dumb girl with big boobs. It makes no sense to me at all and it pains the smart chicks. Why? Oh, because I can’t wrap a bra around my 142 IQ and make it look good under a shirt. If I could, I would so win!

But here’s where the fun part comes in. Women can buy a pair of Ds like Jessica Simpson. I, personally, would never want them. You can’t buy a 142 IQ. So, Jessica can put that in her pipe and smoke it. And my brain does not require 8 hour support, won’t sag, and only distracts people in conversations when I use words like loquacious. You can’t buy 142. And you can embroider that on a Gawd damn throw pillow!