Revisionist history
My children are partners in crime to the Nth degree. The flip side of the times when they pick and nudge at each other until I’m shrieking “NO! ONE! TOUCH! ANYONE! ELSE!” is that occasionally they manage to figure out that they can band together. Against the other people in the house.
Oh, that’s right. I’m the only other people (okay, person) in the house.
And as is not at all uncommon amongst this age set, their very favorite time to go running around all giggly with each other is when I am trying, for the love of all that is holy, to usher them along in getting ready for bed. read more…
I swear not to do this monthly
Dear Otto,
Tomorrow we have been married for one whole month! I can hardly believe it. So far our marriage is progressing amazingly; we’ve not had a single argument and finally living together hasn’t brought any big changes or unexpected surprises.
Oh. Wait. That’s because we haven’t actually lived together, yet. My bad.
We spend several hours every day on the phone, and several hours instant messaging online, just like we used to do before we got hitched. This is totally easy! Why didn’t we do this earlier? read more…
Progress via taskmaster bearing candy
I can now say I’ve started packing. Hi! I’ve started packing!
Dude. Should you ever need to pack up a whole house in a couple of weeks, you should totally lure Chris to your house. She is brutal but effective. Had my children been home this weekend I feel certain that she may have talked me into giving them to Goodwill. She takes no prisoners, and she is vehemently opposed to packing anything extraneous.
Which—according to her—pretty much covers everything I own.
But it’s hard to argue with someone who volunteered to come help you wade through and box up all your crap, you know? read more…
This is not a test
The following all-points bulletin has been issued for the New England states:
Earlier today a beloved mother of seven disappeared from her home after a series of instant messaging exchanges. Police have been able to recover only small pieces of this communication, and can’t make heads nor tails of the messages within or determine with whom the vanished woman was speaking. The only clues they’ve extracted include these snippets:
enough family time
TWO WEEKS!
packing
heeeeeeeeelp
liquor?
Concerned citizens should be on the lookout for a petite woman in a minivan who appears somewhat robotic. She is believed to be headed north and is easily lured by the promise of margaritas.
Her family is praying for her safe return.
More ironic than colonial
After agonizing over water in plastic bottles to top off our “authentic” colonial lunch, I arrived at the picnic to observe something interesting.
Many of the children were clad head to toe in elaborate costume. Girls in bonnets and petticoats; the whole nine yards. But Chickadee and I ate our eggs and biscuits and apples surrounded by kids toting lunch in wicker baskets… although those lunches contained juice boxes, ziploc bags, and all manner of modern food.
I think my daughter may have fibbed a little when she told me we had to eat colonial food. Maybe that was my penance for not making that damn bonnet. (On the other hand: mmmmm, biscuits.)
The things I do for my kids
Today is Colonial Day at school, otherwise known as the day after the day when I realize I’m supposed to buy full colonial garb for my child and settle for something with a long flowy skirt and maybe stay up until midnight attempting to make a bonnet out of a napkin and some lace.
Hooray!
One of the perks of today is that parents are invited to join the children for a picnic lunch. At breakfast (while I was braiding her hair, Laura Ingalls-style) Chickadee casually mentioned that lunch needs to be authentic.
“Authentic?”
“Yeah! No processed foods, no plastic… pack it in a basket!” read more…
And now, the minutiae
I may have sort of kind of forgotten what a colossal pain in the ass it is to move. Perhaps I blocked it out, much like labor. (“See, I have a beautiful child here! I know nothing of this searing pain and ruined anatomy of which you speak!”) Like that.
The phone has become my constant companion. I need to talk to lots of people. They are not interested in my pool or my gazebo, but they would very much like to make sure that their bills follow me wherever I may go, so we’re spending a lot of time making sure that that can happen.
Also Otto and I need to talk approximately twenty times a day to go over important matters such as WHOSE SILVERWARE SHALL REIGN SUPREME (mine) and SHOULD WE GET NEW DINING ROOM FURNITURE RATHER THAN MOVE MINE (yes) and WHAT COLOR IS THE PAINT IN THERE (beige). Already our marriage is all about timeless romance. read more…
We plan to raise peaches and cardsharks
Let’s review, shall we? Last week we made an offer on our first choice house and were turned down, and then made an offer on a second house. (Second Choice House is conveniently located next door to First Choice House.) And after a bit of kerfuffle—not to mention the entire weekend—we were also turned down for Second Choice House.
At this point, Otto and I hit the real estate listings and we hit them hard. We found ONE more house that we thought might meet our needs. Otto called his realtor and arranged to see it on Monday afternoon (that’s yesterday).
My phone rang yesterday afternoon. I saw Otto’s number on the caller ID and picked up, full of hope. read more…
Real estate: great way to meet crazies
Oh, my pretties. The stories I will tell you. The things I’ll be able to spill, once this is all over and done. The tales with which I’ll be able to regale anyone who might be thinking about trying to sell a couple of houses and buy a new one… well, it’ll make you go home and kiss the floor in gratitude, I’m sure.
But right now, a good portion of it will have to wait. Fingers are crossed and prayers are being said and once we are all settled in and I am no longer waiting for the sky to fall—assuming that point ever comes, that is—I will say more.
For right now, I can tell you two things: First, We are not buying Second Choice House. Second, I think the lady who owns it should seek professional help. read more…
Drowning my angst in the words
Hey! Know what would be funny? If the “I need a night to sleep on it” from the homeowner turned into a full 24 hours that ended with “Gee, I need another day.” That would be HYSTERICAL. Oh. Wait. Actually, THAT wouldn’t be hysterical so much as that it would cause ME to be hysterical. Small matter of nuance, I suppose.
To offset the sheer joy of being me right now, you may have noticed I’ve been working a lot. Well, there’s another place to find me up and running, now, and I swear not to talk houses over there at all. Well, not unless they’re dollhouses.