A Mont Blanc, dropped gut, and Hell at signing

July 28, 2009 at 5:30 am (Closure, closing, and keys, Jon and Kate (minus seven), moving!, this writer's life)
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Yep, signed today.

Shoulda’ been a great day, only Agent St Rita warned me early in the day that the selling bank might not sign/close til Monday a week from today –a day after we’re totally, officially homeless.  Because selling bank won’t sign the last two days of the month.  Nevermind, we were supposed to have had all this shit in line to have happened by mid-month, realistic or un- as it might have been. –Don’t worry about that, for now, just remember you’re signing a ream of pages and your Mont Blanc pen stained the hands of the escrow agent, and don’t think about the looming volcano that is the Fine Print at signing, or implications of close-dates…  

So let’s recap the week-end.  We boxed furiously, I cleaned at the appliances and under appliances with everything from Magic Erasers to baby toothbrushes, we sweated in heatwave temperatures, we hung out with family in town from Arizona, Everett, and Orange County, we acquired the 26 foot UHaul, and we had help from family from OC and Everett in filling said UHaul.  We ate KFC, sweated, and smelled worse than plucked KFC chickens prior to boiling, ass-sticking grease.  We saw The House up the hill, one of us (me) painfully aware of how close it was, and how far it was.

7/8 of the UHaul is now filled.  We have the better part of a second truck still waiting go to a truck, in our garage, and then to shuttle all that crapsicle into Our New House Up The Hill.  We’re living in the kitchen (ten feet by twenty, with counters of work-space, gerbil-living space, and sink and 30 inch wide counter separating it from the table upon with I write) and master bedroom (twelve feet by 10 feet.)  

I know we’ve been in tighter quarters, I know we will survive, I know this too shall pass… and yet… I Am Grumpy.

Today for catharsis I went to look for, and finalize kitchen appliances, to become aware of any KaPOW! delivery surprises we need to think about.  Then we had our appointment to sign, only to be told therein that while origianlly we were expecting that closer (the bank) would pay costs, we owed nearly $700, cashier’s check, no warning.  GUH??  

The Man was a bit argumentative about those costs, and then became non-compliant with any finalization thoughts (for appliances and carpeting), and  I became surly.  For fuck’s sake, dude, throw me a bone.  Let me get some ideas of what will be where, when we have a space to have something somewhere.  More arguments ensued as we discussed his space-planning (poor) in the UHaul, and mostly, I just needed less heat, more closure, and CERTAINLY NOT the knowledge that the new house’s front door doesn’t actually, in point of fact, lock (along with a couple of slider doors with questionable locks) –I was not a happy, happy, wheeee! giggle-giggle girl. 

I feel displaced, homeless while owning –more or less- two homes, and just plain fed-the-fuck-up.

This time next week, I anticipate things will be better…  

I fervently hope…

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puppies and gerbils and fluffy happy delays.

July 16, 2009 at 7:00 am (Closure, closing, and keys, colors, Jon and Kate (minus seven), non-human family, random musings)
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So The Man says to me, “did you figure out what we’re doing about carpet yet?” and I reply, uh, no… remember, we don’t know when we’re closing???  And he says, “Well, figure it out.  Find something, make arrangements.”  I’m skeptical, and ask,  do you want to make a hot date to carpet shop with me this weekend?  And he replies an astonishing, “no,  Just find something, take care of it.”

It’s like a hallelujah chorus in my brain, full-on Choir of Angels striking that Triumphant Chord.

And then, just like an IKEA glass handled by a drunken housewife, the reverie is shattered with his next comment, “but remember, it needs to be cheap.”

 Well, hell’s bells.

once upon a time, I sold carpet.  I could tell a branded fiber from its poor country cousin with my eyes closed.  I could sniff out fiber content out like a connoisseur sniffs out quality.  I could, blindfolded, no hands, no breathing, tell  face weight and pile height as a county-fair trick, “fool the guesser.”

Okay, notsomuch.  But I can, just like any human being with fingers, toes, and eyes, tell a good quality carpet from a crap one, and my time in The Biz made me a bit wise to Tricks Played by Salespeople.  

So there I was, much to my surprise, at a wholesale outlet,(I tend to disdain Those Places–God help me if this disdain goes well-founded at the end of it all) letting my fingers do the walking (so to speak) and I found a few worthy samples to bring home.  To my surprise, the one I found the best value (Dupont Tactesse, textured plush, decent face weight and twist, not to high pile) was in our price range –though I didn’t think the bronzy-brown color would fly with the folks at home.  Third and final surprise –my fave was also theirs.  The Kid reveled at how good it felt on bare feet, even coaxing The Man from his spot in bed watching TV to give it a test toe-squish. He reveled at how the color looked like it’d probably hide dirty dog feet.  I reveled at my good fortune– a good carpet, good price, full family agreement?  Again, the choir struck up The Chord.

And so I was in the kitchen, looking at paint samples, checking the color against approximated tile, feeling pretty –dare I say it — happy , when the folder from Sainted Agent Rita caught my eye from it’s spot on the table– not where it had been when I left the house.  “Did you talk to Rita today?” I asked. “Yep.” He said. “So?” I prompted. “what.” he responded. “what’d she say?”  I said with the patience of a mom of a seven year-old.

“Oh.  We got papers for another extension.”

Again, the crashing IKEA glass, happy bubble popped.  I saw the fax, with extension dated by or before next Friday, and my gut dropped a little.  While he’s been gearing up, getting all kinds of manic-energetic, “what’d-you-do- today, let’s-paint-some-more, hey-I-brought-you-more-boxes,-honey”  I’m getting outright tired.  Insomnia is becoming my new middle name.  I am sick of boxes piled four high and six deep.  I’m sick of forearm cramps on my painting arm (swear to God, by the end of this month my right forearm is going to look like that of a teenaged boy who just Discovered Himself.) I’m sick of wandering around-the-town in paint clothes with holes (today I sported a lovely pair of sweats with a butt-pocket hole.  Cute.)  I am sick of telling The Kid, “I Don’t Know” when she asks when we’ll be in “The Cat-pee Smelling House” and I amd just… well, Hell.  It’s all the same song, seventeenth verse, by now.

But here’s a new refrain: I think it’s all wearing on the puppies now, too.  Tank’s been carrying around his wubbie Winnie-the-Pook puppet that Bill chewed the eyes out of a year ago, (Bill was sad not to find stuffing and let it go, and Tank discovered it) and following me more closely than usual.  He has a worried look in his eyes.  Bill tries to play it off, and be all “yeah, well, whatever –oh, hey! Look! It’s my private holy bits!  MMMMMM, nom, nom, slurp.” –but I can tell he’s getting a bit weirded out, too — he’s slept with The Kid every night (tonight they’re in crates so as not to become grey-green dogs from The Kid’s freshly painted walls)

I can hear their conversations, though they think I can’t understand them.

Tank: “So, you think they’re gonna leave us?  What’s happening? Why are they taking all the stuff and putting it away?  Are they going camping again? WHAT’S HAPPENING????”

Bill: “Dude.  Chill.  I dunno, it’s like, well, whatever Nommmnommslurpmmmmmm, oh yeah.”

“But, well, why did they pack my ear wash?  And remember the kid wanted to brush me because I had dirt and they packed my brush, and you’re kinda’ rank, dude, don’t mean to offend, but…ya know… –And She didn’t even bathe you yet.”

slurping briefly stops, Bill looks at Tank, a moment of pain, worry, and fear in his eyes. “Dude.  Just shut the fuck up, okay?  Whatever.  It’ll all be fine.” Bill walks away, to find Her. 

Even Flash the sequel/Fluffy the gerbil is aware something is up (and the reason for tonight’s insomnia, actually ) –I moved him/her and his/her shelf-y stand thing, into the hallway, so I could paint, and he/she was in his/her high-tower ball and he/she just kept looking at me.  All day. His/her beady little eyes followed me, I swear.  And then tonight, I heard him/her muttering to him/herself, “those bastards, think they can do this to me, well….” digdigdigdig, scratch scratch.  Scuffle scuffle.  Thunk, dig, scratch, thunk. “…I’ll show them, bust outta’ here, get some buddies…” thunk, scratch, digdigdigdig…

 

why yes, I am going stark raving barmy.  Sleep *will* come soon for me, and then tomorrow night I will have a much needed evening with the girls and then on Saturday I will take a mental health day at the ocean, to hang with a different group of girls.  because I need me some estrogen time, some un-painty, un-holey-clothes-y giggles and laughs where the conversation is not kitchens and boxes and delays and the wine is flowing.

oh, yes.

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Co-Operation… Makes it happen…

July 10, 2009 at 4:56 pm (Jon and Kate (minus seven), mommying, moving!, Musically musing)
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cooperation

My friend Alyssa shared a Sesame Street gem on her facebook page and it was like I was reunited with a long-lost friend.  I used to sing this song when I’d nanny and the kids would get …well, kid-like, and I often sing this song to myself when I’m trying to work with others. Remind me to sing this/watch this more often…

I am a bizarre mix of personality traits.  I am uber-social, but sometimes I don’t play well with others.  Some days I am as “What, Me Worry?” as Alfred E. Neuman (remember Mad Magazine?) and others I resemble a cross between Leona Helmsley and Mommy Dearest in sheer bitch-factor.I can be anal-retentive and obsessive-compulsive about some tasks, while I go Attention Deficit, “I don’t give a shit” on others.  This is not, I suppose, the best resume fodder, and it can certainly make things  really interesting when one is undergoing a major project, like, say, house-buying and moving.

Let’s observe a me in captivity (also my natural habitat) and see what these behaviors look like:

Scenario One, two nights ago: The Man comes home from work.  I’m finishing ceiling painting, with screaming hands and shoulders.  He asks, “do you want me to help?” and I roll my eyes (behind his back, of course) and say, “no, no I’ve got it.”  He starts taking down a bed, asks me where spackle is, starts to sand a windowsill destroyed by our docile, mailman-loving dogs (insert your own sarcasm there) and I get all thin-lipped and freakish, fairly oozing bitchy-feelings out of my pores.  It’s not pretty, nor does it smell good.  He advises me to “lighten up Francis” and turns up the Sirius First Wave channel and I pretty much vibrate angry bitchy feelings, as he’s killing my “I am a control freak and want to do everything my way, all by myself”-mojo.  Later, I’m on the computer, either on facebook or getting sucked into my Bejeweled addiction (it’s not an addiction if it’s part of my social networking, I tell myself, and if I only play it as a one-minute game from a facebook link.) –He comes to talk (in a non-threatening way) and I suggest that it’s probably best for us *not* to remodel the upstairs kitchen, at least not yet.  Cabinetry is all functional, if filthy, and aside from broken cooktop and dishwasher, and missing refrigerator, it’s okay.  Were we to remodel, we’d have used IKEA casework, since a number of years in my Interior Designer Life were spent “specifying” (a fancy designer word meaning “selling”) said cabinetry.  It works well, it’s easy to do, and it’s cheap (inexpensive, too!).  –At any rate, The issues were, 1. existing casework included an oven high-cabinet, with 30″ deep soffit above and a dimension not IKEA-like.  2. Existing tilework, on counter, is scary but not heinous.  Backsplash is remarkably decent.  To rip full-tile backsplash off a wall means gouging up a wall, in the best of circumstances, and new sheetrock, in the worst.  We want to get into this house soon, remember?  –Fitting stock casework into existing backsplash footprint is a disaster movie waiting to happen, says the nay-saying designer in me.

SO, we have a decision to get minimal new appliances, flooring, and fixtures, not including a sink (existing one is stainless, painless) and oven (the existing brown-to-black version with mod interlocking circle design on the glass has a particularly groovy Delorian-like opening feature where the door opens up on a sort of floating hinge-y thing.) (will it bake accurately?  Fuck knows.  Will remain optimistic, and if all else fails, use the oven yet to be purchased that’ll be in the basement kitchen.)

ALL THAT ASIDE, we were talking about co-operation, me & the  man, my bitchy-pissy mood, etc., right?  Right.  So there we were, “shopping” for appliances online (we’ll buy ’em local, even though by “local” we mean, potentially Lowes, Home de-Pot, or Best Buy, since the mom and pop we bought this kitchen’s appliances at is no longer) and it’s determined. 1. white won’t, won’t work.  2. Stainless might.  3. Black would be best.  It’s determined, holy sheepshit, Batman– appliances are expensive (well duh!).  I tell him he’s lucky I’m not a Gaggenau, Bosch, and Fischer and Paykel girl, and he shoots back, I’m lucky I don’t have to have  a Jay Oh Bee.  He stubbornly looks on, and says he likes the coil-top cooktop, and I start getting the hyper-bitchy, high-pitch-y, hyperventilating-y “Oh No You Did NOT Just Say That” Syndrome that means a tirade is coming on. He recognizes this, and my tirade lasts only about 47 seconds, and then he says, hmm, I guess the radiant one is okay; you’re kind of a slob about forgetting stuff and burning it, and it’s probably better to get one that’s easier to clean.”  (witness me, internally pumping my fists with a “YAAAAAH!” Victory shout.)

Yeah, that was a long, drawn-out, and painfully detailed scenario, but it kind of demonstrated some things–didn’t it?  But wait, there’s more.

Scenario two, yesterday: The Kid asks to help paint.  I say, okay, and get things ready, advising her to get into her painting shirt and pants.  She emerges in her painting shirt, barely covering her butt, “It’s like it’s long enough to be a dress!” she explains.  And what street corner will you be working?  wonders The Kid’s corner-working (as a school-employed traffic flagger!!) mother. –Even still, the project is begun, and The Kid does a pretty good job.  But I have to nit-pick, because I am me.  “Do the whole wall, not just one spot.” “No, no, let *me* put paint on your roller!!” “AAAAAAAAK!!  Don’t paint the floor!” When she asks, “can I work on the other wall now?” I say, no, finish what you’ve started (this deliciously ironic admonishment comes back to haunt me, later,) and then she grouses, shoulders slumped, “ugh,  I have to paint the whooooole wa-a-a-a-all?” –uh, yeah, that’s kinda’ how it works.

 Scenario 3, yesterday, later: Painting is done. The Man is home, and he and The Kid have returned from The Kid’s haircut (more like a trim) and I am taking off acres and acres of tape from masking all the yellow; I have 14 boxes waiting to be filled, I had a crap night of sleep that’s starting to wear me down, I could really use more wine, but I am buoyed by Sisters of Mercy “This Corrosion” (First Wave is turning into a saving grace).  Mid tape-removal, The Man says The Kid needs food.  I have paint on the stove (flat-top radiant stoves are great hoizontal work surfaces when all other horizontals are covered  art-stuff, fire-crackers, bug-eating-plant-growing-kits, catterpilar-to-butterfly-houses, random acts of electronica, sewing machines, books, magazines, files, Very Important Papers, plates, cups, water bottles, and cooking pots, paint swatches and other design detritus, a curtain rod or two removed for painting convenience, a couple of boxes and notes-to-self- to send crap, some assorted bags (empty and full) and a huge dry-erase whiteboard detailing “houseswap, 2009.”)  –So I ask him and The Kid to wait, tell them I have control here, I’ve got it, I’ll do it all… I take one last chunk of tape down, and realize there’s tape on a box-ish thing (doorbell housing?) and I need a stool.  Looking for my stool, I realize there’s still paint on the stove.  I move the paint outside, and realize the paintbrush is about to coagulate.  I go to rinse it and remember I need to put away dishes in the dishwasher, and empty the sink.  In the middle of that, I remove the frying pan for her grilled cheese, and set the heat on low.  I spot my stool and set it under the bell-thing, only realizing then how nasty-filthy the thing is; I need  to clean and dust anyway…  I finish the dishes, remember the sandwich, fill the basin with cleaning liquid, and spot a box… Oh yeah, I wanted to start packing the photo boxes from the big bookcases… I start that project realizing I forgot about more spackling on The Kid’s room, then remember as I nearly trip on the stool that I wanted to clean off the doorbell box thing, as I go to the sink, I remember the sandwich and spot more tape…   I forget about the sandwich as I pull tape and hunt for the screwdriver, and then I remember the doorbell box and go to the sink and…  (nope, the sandwich hasn’t burned…yet…)

…you get the picture.  I’m running from point A to point B, never getting anything cleared in the war zone, not really finishing the task(s) at hand… Even if The Man or The Kid had asked to help, I’d be control-freakish and tell them “no,”  Left to my own devices, I’m usually kind of like this.  I like to do things my way, whether I’m leaving heaps and mounds of laundry on the sofa or bed, or whether I’m IMMEDIATELY folding warm laundry neatly, half-half-thirds on towels, thirds-half on shirts, half-thirds on folded pants… I’m usually running around, multi-tasking, BUT I like to be at least moderately organized in my approach.  I will at least have some vague sense of to-do list.  When he’s around, when the kid’s around, when they need me, I feel like I’m supposed to be attentive to them (even while saying, “just a minute!”) and when I’m trying to ricochet between them and Too Many Things I want to, need to, do, it’s just… mayhem.  

Now, if I were thinking of that Sesame Street ditty yesterday, all three scenarios might have gone smoother.  I might have communicated clearly, stated my needs and desires and hopes, and I might have been able to work with both my kid and my mate in an efficient and organized manner.  The house might not, today, appear to be such an unholy vortex of Mess. 

But then again, at least this way I can add this to my repertoire of hummed ditties: my way

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hello, from paint-stained fingers.

July 9, 2009 at 3:46 am (Jon and Kate (minus seven), moving!, projects & products, T-Town Society)

I’m Jess.  I’m in Tacoma, WA. and have been here since 1974.  Like an evergreen tree, my roots like it here.  With my significant other, generally referred to as The Man for our intents and purposes, and our seven year-old, I have lived happily in our little architecturally-impaired tract house in a northwest-of-most-things neighborhood.  It’s been a great 11 years, but we’ve gradually accumulated more and more stuff. And even as we’ve accumulated, there have been subtle shifts in the nature of our ‘hood: loud kids screeching and howling like primates, annoying neighbors with mullet and mini-mullet offspring, and a dude across the alley who is, apparently, engaging in a very loud love affair with Assorted Items Possessing Bone-jarringly Reverberating Motors.  

We need a change, but have been reticent.  Change sucks, after all.  

On a whim, we began a house hunt.  S (The Man) considered the mere act of calling out sainted agent, Rita Edling of Coldwell-Banker Bain, to be signing on the dotted line to a bigger mortgage.  I said, nuh-uh, honey.  We’re just seeing what’s out there.

Two weeks later, I was in near-tears, hoping fervently that our offer would go through on a house that had fallen on tough times.  The rebound-house from The Perfect One (that we lost to a cash offer) ended up, I sniveled, More Perfect.  He wasn’t convinced: the mortgage will be triple the amount, the house can be euphemistically referred to as “a fixer” with the smell of cat pee pervading the downstairs and a  yard which is, at best, a forgotten element and, at worst, a hazard. The plumbing is sketchy, the furnace ancient, and the carpets and kitchens are best left to a dumpster (the former will be dumpstered, the latter will be salvaged.)

And still, the house?  It has a soul that glitters and gleams.  Built in 1962 as a gift from a banker to his wife, it carries the aura of its era like a fine (non cat-pee smelling) perfume.  Walking into the random ashlar slate entry, viewing the twenty-six foot slate-clad fireplace wall, standing on the deck overlooking Commencement Bay, you swear to God you can hear strains of Brazilian Jazz as cocktails shake.  You overlook the room spray-painted by some drug-addled “artist”, you overlook the cobwebs and stained carpet, you overlook the looming shadow of the Money Pit, and you fervently yearn for the house; you ache to make that house your home.  Alleviating your doubts: location, location, location.  The house is, after all, Up The Hill, in the neighborhood you’ve always longed to live in.  The price is right (as the show says) and it seems like a perfect marriage of logic and longing.

And so, with that magically romantic magnet guiding me –us– we forged onward, offering on the bank-owned house.  Our credit is good, and our VA loans should serve us well, saving us down-payment money which we can put into un-smelly carpet and a few appliances, plus paint and cleaning supplies.  Labor will be cheap –me (and him) — and everything should be cast in a warm, sunset gold and pink glow.

Screeeeeech.

Va Loans can be rough going.  Bank-owned home-buying can be a tricky process to maneuver around.  With us, Murphy rules.  Random things that shouldn’t go wrong, have, and a closing date that should have been early next week will most likely be postponed.  

Postponement isn’t the worst of all things, though.  We have to get this home ready for renters (to include painting and deep, deep, painfully deeeeeeeeep cleaning), we have to box all our crap and be at the ready for Moving Day (whenever that may be), and we –I– have to figure out how to juggle the other stuff, like parenting, cooking, keeping dogs happy, keeping the house (whichever one we might be in) livable and decent… and I suspect there’ll be more, too.

This blog will serve as my place to vent, to gush about tools/products/colors/stores I love,  to drop various and sundry bits of cultural reference, to jot down exercise and healthy food struggles, to post the odd picture, to share random before and after shots, to brainstorm project and to-do lists, and occasionally, to laugh at myself as I try to stay sane.

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