Tonight we have two choices for scintillating posts: Either the story of the Christmas cake or a self-pitying whinefest about how our planned trip was called off, Chickadee is only slightly better, I am now sick, and Monkey was looking pretty peaked in front of his dinner. (Which would---in and of itself---not be so bad, except that his demeanor didn't change when I removed the pasta and gave him ICE CREAM. Gee, do you think he's sick?) Yeah, I think the Christmas cake story is the obvious choice. When Otto and his siblings and his cousins were growing up, there was a special cake one of his...
Operation: Disembarrass Upstairs Master Bath (DUMB for short) has begun. I may not survive the week. My plan was to lounge around in my dressing gown, watching soap operas and eating bonbons all day, while my contractor made it all pretty up there. Hey, I already bought a ton of tile! My work should be done, now. Sheesh. Alas, the fact that I've never once lounged with bad daytime television and chocolate should've clued me in to the impossibility of my dream, even if I had conveniently managed to repress every past home repair I've ever had. (And! To add insult to injury! My contractor did...
So I've talked to a few realtors, and today I had the great big Measure Things And Sit Down And Talk About It meeting with the person who I'll probably have list the house next year. I like him. I get a friendly, honest, capable vibe off of him. And really, how many realtors can you say that about? (Now twenty people will be enraged in the comments. "I'm a realtor! My father is a realtor! We are good people!") Also: Vibe? Is that how I'm deciding these things? Well, I examined his aura and deemed him appropriate. That's true, if by aura I actually mean the various awards he's won. Bottom...
It seems wrong, somehow, to follow up the "I cannot take it anymore and I must vent or kill someone and venting seems less problematic" post with a story about my bathroom. But it's all I've got. [Except this: Thank you. Not even so much for the comments---though some of those were incredibly kind and I do appreciate all of you pretty people---but for just reading. I had no idea until I wrote about it just how badly I needed a bit of primal scream therapy or its blog equivalent.] And now let us turn to even more important matters, like why I am afraid of wallpaper. Once upon a time, many...
I wasn't going to talk about it, because I don't want to talk about it. I want to take the high road. I want to believe things will work out quickly. Here on the high road, I am having migraines every couple of days. I have some good meds for the migraines, stuff that's so expensive that my insurance will only let me have six pills each month, which I think is pretty ridiculous for non-narcotic medicine that doesn't even do me the courtesy of making me high. Hmph. And I'm working, and taking care of the kids, and doing the things I need to do. And I'm happy, most of the time. But my head...
Because I married for the first time when I was a toddler, I don't much remember how it all went down. Sure, that's the result of a combination of things, really---the fact that it was a rilly rilly rilly long time ago, the fact that I was so young that my brain wasn't yet fully formed and therefore perhaps didn't store all of the relevant information, and (my favorite) good ol' repression. Regardless, there are a few things I know for sure. Last time around, here are some things which I/we did not need to consider in our immediate planning: Existing children, selling houses, buying a house,...
