A Room of One's Own

How hard can this really be?

I love the new house but I have been feeling like I live in someone else's home. So, last night, I took it upon myself to actually move a little further in getting things set up. I needed things on my walls. I needed something to do as I gave up on mowing my lawn after taking 39 seconds to try and figure out my lawn mover, deciding it was not worth it and calling a man named Rodrigo (hereforth known as "my new best friend") to mow my lawn for me.

Let me just say that I suck so horrifically bad at hanging pictures or anything else on walls. I have no idea why this is. I just suck at it. I have not hung a single picture as I am too scared it will come crashing down and shatter all over the place 3.7 seconds after I actually place it on the wall. I know the frame cost me next to nothing at JoAnn Fabrics. I am certain it was 50% off and I had a coupon on top of that. So what. I don't need that frustration.

I have been in avoidance mode for two weeks. Off I go to the garage to obtain all require tools to hang a magazine rack. It looks like this:                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                               I am quite fond of it as I have eleventy million magazine subscriptions, mostly food related. It's heavy as hell so I have the requisite wall anchors that came with it and the screws. I have one of those Black and Decker wall levelers with a bunch of laser beams that sticks to the wall and can even tell you where the stud is. This is my key to success and I was thinking that, with this little baby, I totally rock. I am going to kick that magazine rack's ass!

I do what I think is a fantastic job of hanging this bad boy all by myself. Yeah, not so much. I am wrong. So very, very wrong. I fucked it up. Bad. It's crooked. I have a very creative idea for making it look not so crooked. It involves black crepe paper. Just don't ask...

I have decided though that I just don't care if it's crooked. I am going to totally let it go. Look at me embracing imperfection! The only time anyone will be able to see it's crooked is if they were sitting in one particular spot at my dining room table. I will just have to have the conversation with whomever shall sit there that they are not to mention the crookedness, lest they beat beaten about the head, neck and shoulders with one of the wrought iron rods. I will only sit people in that seat that would be fearful that I would be serious in my threat. Oddly, I think I may have a good amount of people that fall in that category to choose from.   

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.

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.

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.

It made sense at the time

When my daughter was a little baby she did as most little babies do. She woke me up repeatedly or she refused to fall asleep in 30 seconds despite my bleary eyed pleas. So, I had to do what every parent has resorted to doing. I walked or rocked and sang. Of course, I found that at two o'clock in the morning my brain is just not sharp enough to remember any children's song. Any of them. So I made do.

At three years old, my daughter's bed time ritual involves three books and three songs. Out of nowhere tonight she asks me, "Mommy sing me a song you sang to me when I was a little baby." My first thought was one of absolute elation for not having to make up missing lyrics to a medley of Laurie Berkner songs. Then I tried to recall what I sang her. There were no kid songs. No nursery rhymes. It must have been a long thought process as she had to ask me what I sang her because THAT was what she wanted to hear. So I complied. I sang her The Gambler, Folsom Prison Blues and Delta Dawn. If I had been asked for a fourth song, it would have been Mama Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys.

I know. I know. These are by no means kids songs. I mean, what kind of sick individual soothes their baby with "I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die." But really, these songs were the ONLY songs that I could remember all the words to in the middle of the night so that's what she got. Also, I they worked. Delta Dawn worked like a charm. I would sit by her crib and sing the chorus over and over. I think there was something about that old country style and the low voice of Kenny Rogers and Johnny Cash or Willie and Waylon that was slow enough and had enough resonance when sung as quietly as possible that it just worked.

It kind of amuses me now. If something were ever to happen to me, I think that the fact that these songs were the only ones I could think of and that, even with the lyrics of booze and prison, I sang them to her would tell her just a little about her mom. Really, I do love those songs. And part of me insists that they worked because she loves them too. Inherently. Like it just got programed in there. There may be validity in this assumption as it worked tonight and my daughter is sound asleep down the hall.

Gawd, I hate this house.

My house needs to sell. If I had a dime for every time I said that. It is completely exhausting. All I do is clean the damn thing just in case someone comes to look at it. Every night, every morning, every weekend. Clean, clean, clean. I have NO energy left. And, my realtor told me today that one of the agents mentioned that they thought the house should be, guess what, cleaned. Well, fuck me running. He suggested I get a cleaning lady. Well, gee, I'd love to have someone else do my dirty work but I'm real busy trying to pay for a house that has not sold. Mmmm 'kay?

So, now starts the total pissed off bitch going through of the whole damn house. I'm very much in a "fine have it your way. I give up" kind of mood. I just read a number of articles on "staging" a house. Essentially, I have to go make my house a cold as possible. I have to get rid of everything that I love that makes my house an actual happy place to be for me. I have to get rid of all the pictures, send my dog to live with my ex-husband, store my cookbooks somewhere else, and pack up all my books. This makes me want to cry. I have also arranged to have the carpets steam cleaned.

I hate this. I have damn fury about this. I hate the housing market. I hate the home builders that made it this way, and yes, I think they are to blame for the soft market. They have completely screwed me and didn't even have the common decency to buy me a freaking martini first.

Things I love right now

I got back from a four day trip to DC and NYC with my dear friend Kate. I had a fabulous time but there are a few things I am currently in love with:

• Cacti
• Weather in the 80's
• The large expanse of desert behind my house, which I stared at for almost an hour today
• My bed

My favorite thing in the world at this very moment is my bed. I have been up since 2am Arizona time. Stick a fork in me. I'm off to go enjoy the luxury and happiness that is my bed. Have I mentioned how much I love my bed? I'll tell you all about the trip tomorrow.

Three

Today, my daughter turned three. This confounds me. I remember, in the first few months of her life, thinking that 18 years never seemed so short in my life. I tried to put a full out ban on growing up when she was six months old. That didn't seem to work. I had to carry her around everywhere at that time and she was so small and so perfect. How could it get any better? It has. She is certifiably a big girl now.

We spent the day well. We got up and had breakfast and watched Dora. I had invited Stuart to come to swim lessons. It's my day to have her but I knew it would kill him not to spend time with her today. The hardest part of divorce with a child is figuring out how to orchestrate something as simple as a birthday. After that, we took her for pizza, then he went to work. My parents, sister and brother-in-law came over this afternoon for dinner, presents and cake. More toys with a million pieces. My family room looks like Toy 'R' Us threw up in the middle of it. I hate "Cooties."

I tucked her into bed around 7:30. Of course she popped up. I was laying in bed, writing a little, and she came in "to say hi." She dragged with her Baby Panda, her new bear she named after herself and Tigger. She climbed up in my bed with all three and snuggled up to me. I just sat here petting her hair and her face, her just looking up at me. I asked her if she had a good birthday. She said, "Yes. Sure. It was a good birthday." Then, without me saying it first, she just hugged me and told me she loved me. I told her I loved her more than anything in the entire world. She said, "Oh, that's good." Yes, baby, it is. We hugged a little more. There were tears on my part. I asked her if she was happy today. She said, "Yes. Sure." Me too, baby. Me too.

Happy Birthday Caroline.

A few obervations

I won the auction on Ebay for the print of the Mercer House in downtown Savannah. I am literally turning my bedroom in a veritable Savannah shrine. Savannah makes me very happy. I felt good there in a way I want to feel good much more often. If I only knew what it was that made we feel that way, I'd try to capture it. Isn't that always the way? We try to find something and we have no idea what we're looking for or where to look for it. But we just keep looking.

I've been biting my tongue lately. This is a stark contrast to my earlier theory of speaking, stolen from Danny Tripp, of, "Say it, say it, say it." I'm trying to find the balance in that. Trying to figure out what to let fly and what to keep to yourself is a daunting task. I've never been on to err on the side of caution.

I need to go somewhere for a vacation

I miss slow dancing. I have not slow danced with someone in such a long time it's sad. I am addicted to my iPod. I will be driving around or sitting at home listening to something and just have the urge to slow dance. There are just some things we should do as often as we ever can. Slow dancing is one of them.

I love Fleetwood Mac. I truly do. Currently, my iPod is in heavy Fleetwood rotation. It's making me delighfully happy. What is not to love about Silver Springs? If i could blare this at top volume right now, I so would. Stevie Nicks kills me. There is such amazing passion in that song. "I'll follow you down 'til the sound of my voice will haunt you." Gawd.

I am a sick individual

I just did the most heinously anal retentive thing. Ever. I'm almost afraid to say. But that won't stop me. I just ironed my duvet cover. I'm serious.

See, Sunday is clean linens day. It one of the many things about Sunday that I love. I wash my sheets and towels every Sunday. I just like it. Sunday is my favorite day and I love nothing more than to climb into a bed at the end of the day that feels like I'm staying at a fabulous hotel.

My duvet cover came out with a towel balled up in the center, still damp. It looked like hell. It was not exactly the definition of pretty. So I ironed it. Not a hard task but I still think I'm nuts for doing it. She's all pretty now, though. And, that's what counts.