We have a toilet! When demolition started three weeks ago today, the toilet was the first thing to go, which then presented a problem when we had to go. Seeing that nasty old thing ripped out and sent away was pretty heartwarming, but its absence over the last couple weekends means that our renovation party has seen its fair share of the Home Depot bathroom, a facility one would be hard pressed to describe as sanitary. It only took me two squeamish visits to opt, instead, for the facilities at our local McDonald’s - a mite cleaner and a visit there always ends in soft serve. After a good hand-washing, of course.
But now! Now we have our very own toilet! A toilet I didn’t even notice until I’d been at the house for a couple hours. I’d inspected the taping and mudding on the walls and the new door frame but because I’d been so used to a gaping whole where the crapper once was, I missed the glorious addition entirely. What a happy discovery (happier once I remember to bring some toilet paper).
Tonight, I buy doors… because the doors decided to join the guest bedroom walls in spontaneously shedding their latex paint. Look, I don’t know who painted those doors or the bedroom walls and whether or not it was the previous owners. It could be a coincidence of timing, but I’ll admit I find it very suspect that we have our first hot, humid day and bam! it’s like a molting effing paint snake at our house. IF the previous owners painted as a quick fix for the sale, and they did it incorrectly (as evidence by the peeling), I can’t help but feel immensely disappointed. As a contractor, he would know better. Period. And yes, I bought the house from a coworker – and then quit. We don’t interact at all. Which is good because I am fuming and when fuming, deliver one mean stink eye.
Up next: tub refinishing, floor refinishing and – pending carpenter quote – banquette seating for the dining room. T-minus two weeks and two days til move in.
Last night, I showed up at the house to sand the final room in preparation for painting this weekend. What will eventually be our shared office was, in its previous life, the master bedroom. The purple master bedroom. The most common question I get when I show friends and family around the house has to do with the status of the previous homeowner’s… uh, man bits. That a grown ass man went to sleep every night in a seven year old’s My Little Pony dream room either says that he really loved his wife (who, clearly, loved purple) or he simply didn’t notice.
Anyway, when I got there, I walked through the house cleaning up the assorted painting supplies that were strewn about and when I passed by the guest room I noticed that SURPRISE! the paint was peeling off the walls. Paint. Peeling off. The walls. Oh, man, I sure do love surprises! This whole time, I’d been thinking that the guest room would be a breeze. A breeze! A lovely Caribbean breeze! Not some dirty, downwind of the dumpster breeze. As the only room with the original paneling intact, the walls we a far sight cleaner than the rest. But joy of joys, they were painted with latex paint over years of oil paint, either to test of my fortitude or because some really just didn’t know how freaking foolish that is.
Just how freaking foolish is it? Really freaking foolish.
Now I don full body armor and a mask and I scrape. Because I’ve been left with no choice. Most of the offending paint peels off in long, rubbery strips. But let’s not kid ourselves into thinking the whole thing will work that way. Tonight will be interesting.
Did I mention that we have to be done by Tuesday? As in, one week from today? Oh ha ha, yeah. On Tuesday, the floor guys start sanding the every lovin’ crap out of the lovely hardwood that apparently doubled as a dog toilet for many moons. Those floors are going to be glorious when they’re done. At some point I’ll probably roll around on them naked just to commemorate said glory. In the meantime, though, I’ve sort of hit this cement wall. And the more I tell myself, “Keep going! You’re almost there!” the closer I come to a persistent vegetative state. I’m worn out (to the point I feel sad instead of tired). But also, it turns out, stubborn. So full steam ahead.
Ahem. If you’re handy with either a small electric sander or a putty knife, PARTY AT MY PLACE! Tonight. 7PM. Who’s with me?
Woke up this morning to an email from Google telling me my AdSense account had been terminated for invalid clicks and that any money I’d earned was being refunded to advertisers.
Well, that’s not good.
They don’t explain why, and per their Terms and Conditions they don’t have to. The strange thing is, over the last several weeks (content updates have been few and far between because someone decided to up and buy a house and take up residence at the Home Depot) ad clicks were way, way down. I mean, like fewer than half of the months before. So, I’m confused. Were all four of yesterday’s ad clicks invalid?
I’m also confused as to how I could have controlled invalid clicking, a task which their messaging seems to suggest I was in charge of. For as much as I’m a part of ye olde Interwebs, I still don’t actually understand a lot of it. Bots. Spiders. Whatever.
Anyhoo. I guess I can appeal, but the kicker is, how to appeal something I don’t understand? So. Looks like we’re rolling ad free – and I’m off to plan a bake sale. If only I were any good at baking.
Know what happens tomorrow morning? I get tile in my bathroom, that’s what!
Oh, it’s funny the things that get me all riled up with excitement these days. Or pathetic. Maybe even really pathetic. But the tile is awful purdy. I do know you’re all probably just leeetle bit tired of the house renovation talk by now, but it’s all I’ve got, so let’s roll with it.
When we decided to gut the bathroom (it was hardly a choice, but we can talk about that when we get all Before & After in a few weeks), I was darn sure about two things:
One, I was keeping the bathtub. Part it had to do with this guilt I have with new things. It’s why I wanted an older home over new construction. Reuse, reuse, reuse. Refinishing a tub doesn’t save a whole lot of money over buying a new one at the Home Depot, and maybe it’s just as rough on Mother Nature as the production of a new fiberglass jobby, but it made me feel better to keep the original fixture. Besides, a tub from the 1950s is made from cast iron and porcelain and try to get something of that quality these days and well, I’d be eating ramen noodles and honeymooning in the back yard.
Two, I wanted to find a balance between the freshness of a modern update while still paying homage to the age of the home. So, we chose modern things like vessel sinks in classic materials like white porcelain and modern, durable quartz Silestone counter tops in a delicate gray and white color (think, Carrera marble like). The 3/4″ inch hexagonal tile on the floors might just be my favorite though – and I’ve only seen it in the box.
Once we chose the look of the bathroom, we went bargain hunting. God bless the interwebs for that. Warehouses, remnants, floor samples – you name it, we went for it. It’s entirely possible to get good, quality products without paying what everyone thinks you should pay. You just have to put in a lot of time and keep a big, bad spreadsheet. It helps, too, when you have some dude at one of the Big Stores call you up to “unofficially” clue you in to upcoming promotions.
Although I don’t know what we would have done without the Boy’s parents over the last week or two, I do know what we wouldn’t have done. The hours and hours of work I’d already put in at the house were eclipsed in a few hours with two extra sets of hands and volumes of home improvement know-how.
In the last week:
The bathroom has been gutted and re-floored (and two rotten floor joists) replaced. The walls of the utility room, kitchen and living areas have all been sanded (we’ll get to that later) and there is a first coat of paint on them, ceiling fans and light fixtures installed. One door jamb and two sets of door frames have been torn down and replaced. The doghouse and fifty-year-old rust pole (er, clothes line) have been demolished and the yard mowed and trimmed. The kitchen and utility room floors have been steamed and the grout sealed. The attic fan has been removed and the ceiling repaired. A new attic entrance has been framed. The garage has been gutted and power washed. The windows (and screens), brick and siding have been washed. Pansies have been potted and added to the front porch next to a bench that was refinished (spray paint!), just beneath the also newly refinished mailbox (more spray paint!).
Next up: bathroom cabinet, tile and a painting frenzy.
The wall sanding thing, which I stubbornly insisted would be done prior to priming and painting, did not go over well with anybody. The standard, “You don’t need to do that,” was almost always followed by a head shake. “You’ll never get them the way you want them.” Okay, so you might not know this about me yet, but from the minute you tell me I won’t be able to do something, I’m busy figuring out how to prove you wrong. Not that I was asking anyone to do it for me – if no one else wanted to play along, I’d have Little Red Henned that shit in a second if I had to. It was getting done and that was all there was to it. Years and years of inconsistent texturing and gloppy paint made the house look its age – not to mention all the years of bad smells and dirt that it trapped. In the end, my almost-mother-in-law and I got down and dirty with some hand sanders and holy cow, the result is nothing short of glorious! A coat of primer and just one coat of paint and it’s a whole new place. Our place!
When that thing reached its ten year mark in 2008, it set into play a series of nightmares in which I found myself in a foreign country, suddenly aware that my passport had expired and I couldn’t go home. How I got in that predicament, I was never sure, seeing as I am pretty sure they don’t let you get on a plane to even Canada these days without a passport and a DNA swab, but bad dreams don’t really deal much in fact. Just fear. And lordy, it turns out I’m really, really afraid of being being stuck somewhere horrible like, say, Italy where, per my experience, the worst thing that happened to me involved discovering a vendor didn’t offer hazelnut gelato.
Um, yeah. Like I said, light on reality.
I’m not sure if I’ve mentioned it, but the fabric I ordered for my wedding dress still isn’t here. I know! Isn’t that damn skippy? Look, I’ll get married in one of the five white sundresses I’ve got stashed in my closet if I have to, but that a seamstress is waiting, we’re going on six weeks until the blessed event and I, it turns out, am not so good at having things up in the air – well, I’m saying, ‘It’s no big deal,” with less and less conviction all the time.
Seriously, did you catch that? Six. Weeks. I’ve had one fairly hefty freakout, wherein I sat on the ottoman and cried until snot ran down my face and the Boy sat there puzzled and silent while I tried to explain that the impending job switch, the mortgage and the DIY wedding were all just too much for one person to be in charge of. It was pretty ugly. But so justified. What’s funny, though, is that the house has taken over all of the space in my brain slotted for the wedding junk and I’m now only vaguely aware that there’s this gigantic To Do list that I’m not… well, doing.
I probably care much less now because I have a passport AND a plane ticket and come the twenty third of May, I won’t give a rat’s ass what I was wearing a couple days before because I will be in Italy. Caring about gelato flavors.
Holy mother of Bob, you guys, I’m so spun around I’ve been relying on the label of my birth control container to tell me what day it is. And even then I’m still never quite sure.
From Monday afternoon when we took possession of the house, I have spent every free moment (including some lunch hours) cleaning and fixing and prepping and painting. I must have been kidding myself to think that we’d be taking on a relatively tidy piece of real estate – after all, it was inhabited – because after my third hour of sanding food and grime off of baseboards (even the mighty magic eraser failed, so I resorted to sandpaper), I realized that I was in for more than a few nasty surprises. Like the petrified hairball I found in one of the bedrooms. No, I’m not joking. Gagging, yes. But not joking.
There was an actual charcoal hard tater tot in the oven. Hungry? Yeah, me neither.
One of the many happy little surprises came when we discovered that the dog smell we’d thought was contained in the utility room (we hadn’t been assaulted by it anywhere else) was actually everywhere – saturated in the wood floors. So those? Are getting refinished. We had already planned on gutting the bathroom (and thank goodness, because you’d have to attack that room with a powerwasher before I’d actually consider using it) but between the floors and the investment in cleaning supplies we are hemorrhaging money. And elbow grease. If we didn’t operate on a cash only system in our house, it would be pretty tempting to yank out the credit cards and pay someone to make this all better.
Though, I have to admit, I’m enjoying the labor part. Especially the projects involving spray paint. I think I’ve decided that when I grow up, that’s what I want to do. Spray pain stuff. No, not because of the contact high. Okay, maybe a little because of the contact high, but mostly because it’s so satisfying to change things with a ten dollar can of magic. And at this point, my spray paint projects are the cleanest surfaces in the joint. Too bad you can’t eat off of vent covers and the mailbox.
T-minus one month til move in. Grab yer rubber gloves!
Like that? I figured we’d start at the end of the story this time and work our way back. Or, maybe, hop around in time a bit until we’re all dizzy and uncertain of the plot like your standard Lifetime Original Movie starring a former 90210 cast member. In any event, we’re taking things out of order.
Work anxiety reached its peak less than a week following the robbery. After working two weekends in a row to nail a proposal and presentation for a high profile job, I had the most humiliating experience of professional life. It felt like a tribunal, the way I was sat down in front of the firm’s leadership and grilled, item by item, on the contents of my job description. It was a series of, “You’re not doing this” followed by my, “Oh, yes I am” defense. It’s shameful to say that I had grown accustomed to being talked to without much respect – due both for my experience and for just being another human, for pete’s sake - but something happened toward the end of the meeting. I gave up. And when the meeting broke, three of us stayed behind, and I burst into tears. I was tired. Exhausted.
“I mean, he is putting food on our tables,” one coworker said, as though to offer an excuse.
“No,” I said, feeling a knot of hot rage form in my stomach. “You are. You do the work that brings in the money and in return, he lets you have a little bit of it. So unless you mean that he comes to your house at night and quite literally serves up dinner, he’s not putting jack on your table. He needs you and you need him – only, one of you doesn’t seem to be aware of that.”
Maybe we’d all been drinking the same, In This Economy flavored Kool Aid, but I realized I was done. I told them that I could have another job tomorrow, conceding straight away, though, that was the last thing I wanted to do. Admit defeat. Admit I’d been wrong to take the job even after people had warned me. “Just make sure you know what you’re getting into,” a complete stranger had told me. The Dork Lord had been wanting me to get out for months. “No one should talk to you that way,” he’d said. He was right.
Obviously, it was a bit of an exaggeration to say I could land a new job in 24 hours. It took a couple weeks. By then, though, there was a home loan in progress and there was nothing I could do but accept the job offer and wait. It was torture. So was resigning, though. I worried for weeks, in a punishing sort of way, about how it would play out – doing what’s best for you doesn’t always make other folks exactly happy. My hands shook when I handed over my letter. And even once it was delivered, I didn’t exactly feel better.
That took a couple of hours.
Now I feel like a tremendous weight has been lifted. I’ve been feeling so heavy with this decision that I haven’t been able to celebrate. No more! I’ve got a bottle of champagne in the fridge, a key to the new house (we take possession today) and a new job to start on Thursday. I don’t even know where to begin! Ten bucks says I drink that shit straight from the bottle and fall asleep on our new kitchen floor.
And, actually, landlords until Monday. But the owning thing is pretty much the most awesometastic feeling ever.
There was a lot of stress leading up to today – and that’s the biggest reason I’ve been 100% less bloggery the last couple of weeks – and on Monday when I get to tell you the whole sordid story you’re going shake your heads and say, “No WONDER.” It will be a sharing moment. We’ll all hug. In the meantime, you know what I’m going to do? Take a nap. And sleep the deep, deep sleep of someone who owes a financial institution a hundred thousand dollars or so more than she can possibly be worth.
Last night, I sat in the bathtub with a glass of wine and watched my heartbeat go thub thub under the skin around my bellybutton for over an hour. Literal navel gazing. Setting a new standard of Gen X* uselessness. And if I thought that at the conclusion of that epically newsworthy event I’d have emerged tranquil and enlightened, I fell a bit short, having only accomplished pruny and very, very clean. It was a good effort, though.
Waiting to close on the house has me in gen-u-ine fits of nerves this week. Once the loan is in underwriting, you can’t really do anything with your finances. I have wedding money to deposit (and deposits to pay), transactions with the insurance company (we have their offer, and soon their check and soon after that, laptops at home!) and other exciting adventures that involve deposits and transfers – none of which I can do until the loan is officially approved. Otherwise, it’s back to the documentation and proof stage and I want to go there about as much as I want to open my Twitter app before SXSW is over. Ugh.
I’m so excited by the idea of having a computer at home again! I won’t lie, though, I’m also really, really nervous about buying anything that’s not cemented into the floor, surrounded by laser beams and accessible only by retinal scan. This is what a successful home robbery will do – make you wish you lived in a bad Mike Meyers spy film. Yeah, baby.
I’ve been working on getting the last 50 thank you notes out – I’m simultaneously addressing wedding invitations so if you haven’t yet gotten your note, it’s because I’m moving a little bit slower, what with the epic hand cramp and all. By this weekend, I promise! My New Year’s resolution was to send more real mail. I think I can safely put a little black check mark next to that one.
*Actually, I don’t know if I’m Gen X or some other more generic classification of Kids These Days. Anyone? I’m 32 and change.
Perhaps the most romantic words ever uttered in the history of our relationship:
“Baby, don’t put this on your spreadsheet.”
The Boy and I split everything right down the middle. Bills, rent, groceries, dinner dates. If he drops his card at dinner one night, I take the receipt home and add it to the spreadsheet I keep of our expenses so I can settle up later. Perhaps it’s not exactly romantic, but marriage is as much business as it is pleasure. Besides, we essentially bring in the same salary and have the same goals and challenges related to debt and saving for the wedding, so it just makes sense. Plus, I’m totally enamored of fair. This love affair with equality is most likely some holdover from growing up one of five in, shall we say, less economically favorable times. Ever try to split a package of M&Ms between five kids? You should see me cut a cake into an odd number of symmetrical slices. It’s masterful.
The Dork Lord doesn’t have the same hang-ups with fair – in his mind, what’s his is mine, period, and what’s mine is his and it will all work out in the end. I probably don’t have to tell you that’s not quite concrete enough for me. I demand precision! This philosophical difference causes relationship hiccups from time to time, but even he can’t deny he’s grown to love the spreadsheet.
Last night, I dragged myself home later than usual – literally, dragged. By the time I crossed the apartment’s threshold, I was pulling my laptop bag behind me by its strap, my purse hanging from my wrist doing uncomfortable things to my circulation. Everything hit the floor at once. Laptop, purse, shoes, keys, sunglasses, jacket. And then I crawled onto the couch next to the Boy and pulled a blanket up to my chin.
“I think I might be dead.”
“What can I do for you right now that would make it even a little bit better?”
I thought for a second but said nothing. Everything I came up with would land one or both of us in jail and that’s not exactly what this relationship needs right now.
“How about a cheap dinner out?”
Cue the balancing act in my brain. Dinner sounded awesome. But it’s hard to eat healthy out and do it on the cheap. Speaking of cheap, spending any money right now is the quickest way to give me an eye twitch. And you remember that damn eye twitch.
“Or,” he offered, “I could put something in the microwave…”
“No, let’s go out, ” I said, doing some mental math. Carry the one. “I need it.”
Dinner was all things cheap, healthy and relaxing and while we were finishing up eating and talking about our days, the Dork Lord leaned over for a kiss.
“I’m glad I could take you to dinner.”
“Me, too. Just what I needed.”
And then he said the words that made my heart flutter.
I’m pretty sure my coworkers think I’m pregnant. Ooof.
Skipping out on hurricanes last night at happy hour was all about appeasing my inner control freak – the girl who had big, big plans to go home and eat a healthy dinner, low in guilt and saturated fat. And as relationships go, booze and willpower’s is, by the laws of nature, an inverse one; booze goes up, willpower goes down, and vice versa. It’s like the Boyle’s Law of self loathing. And boy, can it get ugly the next morning (insert all of your bad morning after memories here).
Also, hurricanes? Meh. Start passing out dirty martinis and you won’t see such restraint. Or brownies. Then I’m just a girl who can’t say no.
I guess this is a very normal thing, but once you’re in the settling down mode, the workplace seems to hum with Womb Speculation. Gain a little weight and the office goes nuts. There’s an over/under at my office, which I’m pretty sure has something to do with actual dollar bets being placed on my uterine occupancy status. Turn down a drink and Whoa, Nelly! Getting married means everyone wants to know when you’re going to spawn, but the second you say, “I’m not drinking,” speculation is bypassed completely and you get that look – the one that says, “Oh, we know.”
Please. I didn’t get pregnant. I got chubby.
I keep thinking I’ll jump back into the 30 Day Shred, but something tells me that right now, I probably can’t handle being yelled at by Jillian. Not to mention that every time she says, “Chop, chop, ladies!” I kind of want to stab things. I’ll show you chop, chop.
No cause for alarm or anything, but I think I just might be losing my ever loving mind this morning.
I’ll venture a guess that it’s something to do with Mercury or Venus or Mars in retrograde (whichever of those retrogrades and messes everything up, that’s the one I mean) because sitting at the counter this morning, lapping up coffee and ruminating on the uneasy feeling growing in my gut, I said out loud to the cat, “Something is wrong.”
The cat didn’t answer, which is pretty normal for Sir Hal. He’s not very talkative in the mornings. So I continued with the coffee and some cataloging, sorting out the pieces of my life into mental piles of Messed Up and Not Messed Up. House? Not messed up – the appraisal is all done, just waiting for the final paperwork. Wedding stuff? Not exactly messed up so much as mildly overwhelming. Work? Eh, maybe messed up, but that wasn’t it.Blast!
Lather, rinse, repeat. I went through it all again and still I didn’t locate that thing plaguing my stomach.
It started last night. The Boy was on the couch doing Trig, I was next to him writing thank you notes and suddenly, like a switch was flipped, I just knew something was amiss. The Dork Lord patted my head, reassured me with “honey” and “baby” but there wasn’t a lot he could do. If I were a math problem, he’d have me all sorted out in no time.
If I wasn’t always right about these things (Impending Doom and I are tight), I’d push the feeling aside and go all in on the Mardi Gras festivities. I’m pretty sure we’re closing up shop early today to, you know, boost morale and enhance our work relationships. Happy hour sure beats trust falls.
It’s Thursday night and I’m just now getting around to watching the Academy Awards. Wait, let me set the stage first: the Dork Lord is at school tonight, so I’m standing barefoot in the kitchen, my hair pulled up in a post-exercise sweaty knot, and I’m hovering over the counter eating rotisserie chicken off the bone. Glam-or-ous. In a perfect world, “I Feel Pretty” would be playing somewhere in the background.
And so pretty, that I hardly can believe I’m real!
I was going to go on about how the Academy Awards – which even as an adult, I watch primarily only for the dresses – is on the tube and about how I’m feeling so uncomfortable for the hosts, yadda yadda, but this stuff is days old. You already know. Because you watched it when it actually happened. It probably doesn’t get old to hear that Colin Firth is scrumptious, so I feel okay putting that out there.
Guys, I wish I had something riveting to tell you. You know, besides that I did fifteen whole push ups this morning – something I was pretty proud of until I told the Boy and he said, “Real push ups or on your knees?”
“Well, dammit. On my knees.”
Who decided those aren’t real? Considering I’m finding it difficult to wash my own hair after ten or so, that’s real enough for me, thank you.
The house news is that… there’s no news. The appraisal supposedly happened on Tuesday but all’s quiet on that front (is this normal?), so we wait and in the meantime, I have very vivid dreams about mistakes in paint colors. I feel like I should put up an Out of Order sign on the blog until something actually happens, until I actually have something to say other than, Nothing to see here! Otherwise, we’re left wrapping up here by covering my unreasonably elevated excitement over getting a haircut tomorrow.
Told you. EXCITING.
Please don’t break up with me. I’ll put away the chicken.
It’s the month of March, I believe, that folks say comes in like a lion. Meaning the disposition of the weather, of course. Well, it’s March today and though the sun is out, the sky is crisp and spring is sprung, around here – be it a lion or some other cranky beast - something is certainly roaring.
If you thought planning a wedding, getting robbed, buying a house and all that goes with that is a special sort of mayhem, something else fairly large-and-in-charge is now afoot at the Circle K. One of those, I’ll tell you something when there’s something to tell things, so you’ll have to hold your proverbial horses for a bit. No, it’s not babies, you hush your mouth.
Getting ready for bed last night, I leaned forward to check out the stellar collection of under eye luggage I’m sporting these days and whispered to my reflection, “I don’t know how you’re supposed to do all this.” The answer was right there in front of me. On the counter. In an amber colored prescription bottle. My doctor may have ignored my repeated phone calls but my mother didn’t. Ah, the miracle of modern medicine. Say what you will about self medication, but one teeny white pill and I’m sleeping the sleep of a fat, happy baby, blissfully unaware of this thing called growing up and this other thing called, anxiety.
Speaking of fat, I did push ups. Five. And fairly sorry I did even that many. Washing my hair was a bit difficult this morning which felt a little pathetic, but I told myself all I needed was some time and persistence and I’d get my yoga arms back and I felt a little better. Then I gave myself credit for daily flossing and felt a whole lot better. That shit’s gonna pay off in like, forty years for sure.
This morning, my friend Laura and I went for a nice, long chatty walk. Seven miles of chatty. And then I spent the next two hours trying really, really hard not to puke. As it turns out, going for long chatty walks with nothing but coffee in your belly is not on the top ten list of good ideas. The weather was just so nice and the catching up so blessedly therapeutic, I didn’t notice until we were about a mile from returning home that my insides were fuh-reaking out. I think maybe this newfangled substance they call water would have been called for. Lesson learned.
Lesson also learned is that three or four months of inactivity is pretty effing difficult to overcome over the course of one Saturday morning. Who knew. But if that woman who wondered out loud if I was trying to lose weight for the wedding yet thought I shoulda been on it months ago, she’s probably shaking her head in utter disgust at my bridal diet failures. Ah, well. That’s why you have a dress MADE. Then it always fits. No matter how much you love cheese.
Speaking of! Um, wedding dresses, not cheese: The shop in London has ordered my wedding dress fabric from India and it should arrive the third week in March – in plenty of time for the dress maker to work her magic. Done and done!
Also done and done are the wedding invitations which arrived and are so wonderful. And unique. Seriously, should you ever require her services (she did the banner for this blog, too!), Maura at Paper Guppy is so easy to work with and unbelievably nice.
And semi related – the inspection issues are resolved and signed back. Next step, appraisal! Good grief, I can’t wait until this is all settled. I am not really much of an ‘up in the air’ kind of gal.
I apologize that posting has been so spotty the last week or so – it’s a wee bit of a challenge keeping up with the blog (email, Facebook, Twitter, bills, People Magazine – you know, important things) without having a computer at home.
Living without “stuff” has meant that our down time is spent in more of an Amish fashion – and aside from the difficulties with my freelance work and the Dork Lord’s school, really not horrible. So we read instead of watch the next item in our Netflix queue or go on a walk instead of putter around on the interwebs. These are good things (the walks, especially. Living on melted cheese and beer is not exactly calorie efficient) and were I able to kick that pervasive feeling of ickiness with regard to the robbery, I could feign being largely unaffected.
Except, I’m nervous most of the time now. And if you thought I was high strung before, well, I won’t lie – I’m a little less likable in this state. That said, I believe most of this is attitude, feeling sorry for myself is getting old, and henceforth (until I forget) I will direct my focus to the positive.
Like, the fabric that I fell in love with? The shop in London didn’t have enough. Now it must be special ordered from India and will take six weeks. Could that be a huge inconvenience? It could. But it could also mean I have more time to tone up these arms before trying on my wedding dress in front of floor to ceiling, three-way mirrors. Bright side!
Or like, the inspection didn’t go as well as I’d hoped. I haven’t really had time to formulate a bright side for that one, but I’m sure it’s there!
This weekend, I’m committed to sitting down and writing thank you notes. I’m so lucky, you guys, for how supportive you’ve been – and for Maura, who (on top of doing our wedding invitations) offered to design and print This Fish thank you notes so that I could say danke schoen in style. The cards arrived yesterday and are absolutely delightful! Naturally. Everything she touches is gold and I can’t wait to send these beauties to you!
I suppose that the only downside to all this delight is, I have run out of ways to express my appreciation to her (and to all of you, for that matter). Thank you is beginning to seem so very insufficient. If only I had a skill like… interpretive dance.
I cried at work yesterday. In front of people. If there are more humiliating experiences to be had, I’m not aware of them (and I’ve been stripped naked in the ER after throwing up on myself, so I’ve experienced some humiliation). Part of my breakdown came from being tired for sure (still not sleeping, called the doc, they’re to busy to see me, need a new doctor, the end). Part of it is that two people should be doing my job and since I’m just one person – even a smart, hard working person - I never get it all the way right. That’s such an ugly feeling.
Yesterday had some lovely bright spots, though! Real, in the mailbox mail (my name written all pretty on a purple envelope) and also ta da! the fabric sample that arrived from London turned out to be perfect. Now we’re crossing all our fingers and toes that they have enough of it. And then revising the budget because they are not kidding about that ‘sound as a pound’ bit. Boy do we take it in the kidneys with that currency conversion! Worth it, though.
Also, we have plane tickets for the honeymoon. Eeee! And since the Boy’s father does a lot of traveling for work, we potentially have business class upgrades. Potentially, because the airline will let you know 24 hours before if the upgrades are available. Therefore, I’m potentially psyched not to sit in coach for that long flight!
Today is the inspection on the house. I’m choosing to believe it will go really, really well because oh, hey, did I tell you the Dork Lord had to have an emergency root canal on Monday morning? Surprise! Here’s your Novocaine; that’ll be $500. Yeeeeah. I’m definitely looking for the yin to that yang.
The Dork Lord’s parents took us to see Cirque du Soleil: Ovo this weekend (it was our Christmas gift; we’ve had an eight week build up). And all I have to say is, boy am I glad I never saw that show as a kid because everything – and I do mean everything – I experienced after would have earned so few Awesome Points in comparison. Holy. Badass. During the first act, I leaned over to my almost-sister-in-law,
“I’ve decided what I want to be when I grow up. It’s not too late, right?”
“No way.”
I’m gonna look into the job requirements, so don’t be surprised if you start hearing rumors of my incredible flexibility and uncanny knack to look ah-mazing in spandex.
And if your name is Teak, and you are ignoring my email asking for your mailing address, don’t make me beg. I’ll do it via video, wearing spandex and as I’m pre-Cirque training, I guarantee you don’t want that.
As of 1:30PM, I am – I believe this is the proper term - in escrow.
There should be so many exclamation points after that but friends, I am so, so tired.
On the day that we were dealing with having most of our worldly belongings stolen, we were also in the process of making an offer on a home. I know! The Universe is just one crazy kid, right? I mean, why not take naturally stressful situations like planning a wedding and buying a home and then add robbery to it? I’d make a joke about an unplanned pregnancy, but come on, at this point, it would happen merely from suggestion.
Obviously, I didn’t want to say anything until there was actually something to say, but now there is – I have parted with earnest money and an April closing date is set. Pending inspection, etc. etc.
In case you’re thinking you missed something, we were not in the market for a home. Not even sort of. But my architect coworker and her very talented carpenter husband put theirs on the market and I knew I would never find a custom kitchen like that as long as I lived (one that I could afford, anyway). So. We looked at the house on a whim and by the time we left, we were calling it “ours.” You know how that goes. So, we ran numbers (buying = cheaper than renting), got a little assistance from my mom, I applied for financing and holy cow, it turns out? My credit score is really, really good. What can I say, I love to pay bills. Anyway, six days later, we’re under contract. Because that is how we roll.
I want to be so much more peppy about this, but like I said: tired. So very tired. Last night, the Boy went to watch a basketball game with his buddies and I laid in bed flinching at every sound, every creak of the building, terrified that someone would come in. I know it’s irrational. I KNOW. But I can’t make it go away.
I am also fully aware of how silly this is going to sound, but periodically, I would succumb to a flash of panic, climb out of bed and move things. Like, my work laptop. It can’t possibly be safe wherever I have put it, so I have to move it. My great grandmother’s watch. Move it. Hide my purse, the phone charger I brought from work. Our passports. I did this until well after 1AM.
There will be celebrating, because this house is precious and we are thrilled, but I’m pretty sure that a nap will have to happen first.
Today might be the busiest day at work in a long time. Which is good because it keeps a girl’s mind off Bad Things and instead on Printer Jam Things and WTF Font Is This? Things. But I can’t go another minute – no matter how it takes away from GAH! InDesign Things – without telling you how most sincerely grateful I am to you all for your kindness and your unbelievable generosity. There just are not enough words for how I feel right now.
I have been absolutely filled to the brim with hate and anger for those who robbed us yesterday - and absolutely uncomfortable feeling that way – but then came this amazing outpouring that you’ve shown me, this ability to rally and be a community and family for someone you’ve never met, and it’s pushing all those bitter things right back down.
I’m having a very hard time with the knowledge that strangers dug through my drawers, that they carted our belongings away in my down comforter (who steals bedding?), ripped cords out of walls, upended anything that got in their way and that they will never, ever consider the devastation that they caused. I didn’t sleep last night. I probably won’t sleep tonight. I don’t feel safe and that’s not in my control.
They stole wedding gifts and Christmas gifts and the police tell us that even if they can find them at pawn shops, the likelihood is slim to none that our possessions will ever be returned to us. In the end, yes, it is just ‘stuff’ and as hard as I could try to remain as unattached to that ‘stuff,’ as un-materialistic as I can try to be, it feels so insulting and so belittling to be parted with it involuntarily.
To answer many inquiries, yes we have renter’s insurance and the Boy has been wading through that murky mess, as well as keeping up with the detectives and such who are involved in the case. I have no idea what the outcome will be, but I am glad my meticulous, meticulous man has kept serial numbers and receipts and records just like a good little information hoarder.
To answer as many others, Hal is perfectly fine – he seems to have spent the adventure underbed and did not make a break for it when our front door was rendered into nothing more than a splintery gap betwixt two walls. The loss of that furry pain in the ass would have been unimaginable.
Again, thank you over and over. For so much kindness and support when it is most needed and appreciated. And even if you expressly forbid it, you’ll probably still get a real, in the mail thank you note because… well, that is just how it’s done here.
While we were at a funeral this afternoon, someone smashed in our apartment door and took everything. Everything. The laptops we got as a wedding gift from the Boy’s parents. PS3. The router. Phone chargers, for pete’s sake. Anything they could carry. I think I might throw up. Or hit something.
No, really. I was up all night tossing my cookies in celebration of love. Love and food poisoning. Tomorrow, we can dish all about that cute little house we looked at this weekend, but right now, I hear a nap calling my name. For your immediate amusement, I offer the following bit of hilarity my brother sent me. I want this guy to narrate all of my nature shows from now on. He is priceless. Honey badger don’t care!
First thing this morning, I got an email with a YouTube clip of my niece Penny saying my name. Oh, man. That’s maybe the best thing ever! The first time my two year old nephew Owen said, “I love you, Heather” I was so overcome with cute, I very nearly forgot all about that finger he had jammed up his nostril while he said it. Aw, kids.
Second thing this morning, I got an email from the boss filling me in an yet Another Thing I’ve Done Wrong. There’s a long list. Lots of times, the list includes things I’ve never even heard of, but no matter. It sure makes for a stormy morning. I just told my coworkers that I was planning to stab myself in the eye.
“Um, why would you do that?”
“Because they would have to send me home.”
Drastic, yet necessary measures.
The Dork Lord and I are looking at a house on Saturday. Which may or may not be the most Not in the Plan thing we’ve toyed with ever. Were we in the market for a house? Nope. But someone I know is selling one. It’s precious. And we’d be stupid not to look at it and run a few numbers and just see how possible it is to you know, heap even more onto our stress plate. It should be fun and breezy – after all, it’s only hypothetical at this point. We’re only going to look. Though, we might be in a little bit of trouble. I’ve already decided where all the furniture goes.
Out of curiosity, on a scale of One to Peg Bundy, how wrong is it to use your man’s electric razor to shave your legs?
I’m, uh, asking for a friend. Obviously.
Unrelated, I feel like maybe this was a Valentine’s gift for me (from Elana). This actually was a Valentine’s gift for me (from the Boy), which rocks my SVU-lovin’ face right off. Roses, schmoses! What else says love like, “I Huang to be with you!”? Nothin’, that’s what.
