I don't usually blog while crying. This isn't my diary; it's a public forum, even if my public is somewhat limited. People don't want to read about whatever spat the husband and I just had, at least not until the point when I gain some perspective and see a little bit of humor. Today, I am making an exception. If I waited till I stopped crying, it might be a very long time indeed before I posted.
You may remember that we're selling our condo. On Sunday, we had an open house. Only two or three people came, but that's not why I'm crying. We found out that our buzzer is broken, but that's not why I'm crying either. That evening, while I was finishing dinner and the husband was talking on the phone to a friend, he started noticing little bugs with big wings. They were all in the vicinity of the south wall of our living room. They looked a bit like ants, so we were a bit worried, but we killed all the ones we saw, and didn't find any more. All was right with the world.
Until today. In the past hour, I have killed at least 15 of these little bugs with big wings. And now they are along the north wall of our office. I put some rubbing alcohol in a bowl and dropped a few in, and googled "ants big wings". And guess what? Our ants? Not ants at all. In fact, it looks very likely that our ants are termites. Termites, you see, have big wings when they go out to seek love and shelter. They will shed the wings after mating, and then settle down to lead a happy of life of destroying the lives of wood-owning humans. I have already found two with no wings, and am hopeful that they are genetic freaks and not freshly sated lovers. Yes, that's right, I am at a point where I am just hoping that the swarming insects in my house haven't gone all the way yet.
They may or may not have been brought in through the cocoa shell mulch that our slovenly neighbors purchased and left in the main entryway. They may or may not be the kind of termites that eat houses. (Apparently there are kinds that don't). Does it really matter? Would you buy a condo with termites crawling in it, if the owners promised that the termites were just visiting and totally didn't want to eat the beautiful vintage wooden hutch or the gorgeous hardwood floors? Oh, and by the way, your visitors will have to throw rocks at your windows to let you know they want to come in. But really, the place is cute!
I am trying to stay calm. The internet has led me astray before. The husband is still at work, and there is a chance he will come home and convince me that I'm loony. But I've killed five of these things while typing this, so I think we might have some kind of problem regardless. So I'm sorry to blog while crying, but you know what? It's my decaying condo, and I'll cry if I want to.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
Weirdest thing ever? You decide.
People, I just saw something so weird, I just learned how to embed YouTube videos so that I could share. Check this shit out.
So that's Mark Bittman (the ever so awesome food columnist from the New York Times), Mario Batali (the red-faced, Crocs-wearing, Iron Chef-competing TV chef), Claudia Bassols (the, well, I don't know what she is, but she's pretty and seems to be foreign), and Gwyneth freaking Paltrow (dude, if I need to tell you, you should probably not be wasting your time on my plebeian ass). On PBS. On a reality show. That takes place in Spain.
The preview (in case you don't watch the whole weird thing) features Michael Stipe and an architect who the husband would have recognized immediately but I didn't. Am I alone in wishing that this was on right now so that I could stare at it in joyous wonder? It's just so weird!
Full blog post in the works, by the way. I was out of commission with a really bad cold for the first part of my first week of freedom. When my sinuses get pissed off, they pin me to the couch.
So that's Mark Bittman (the ever so awesome food columnist from the New York Times), Mario Batali (the red-faced, Crocs-wearing, Iron Chef-competing TV chef), Claudia Bassols (the, well, I don't know what she is, but she's pretty and seems to be foreign), and Gwyneth freaking Paltrow (dude, if I need to tell you, you should probably not be wasting your time on my plebeian ass). On PBS. On a reality show. That takes place in Spain.
The preview (in case you don't watch the whole weird thing) features Michael Stipe and an architect who the husband would have recognized immediately but I didn't. Am I alone in wishing that this was on right now so that I could stare at it in joyous wonder? It's just so weird!
Full blog post in the works, by the way. I was out of commission with a really bad cold for the first part of my first week of freedom. When my sinuses get pissed off, they pin me to the couch.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
The Unemployment Chronicles, part 1
As of last Friday, I am officially unemployed. Yay? Yes, yay! Unemployment, when it is voluntary, is awesome.
My last days were great. Really, for the most part, I liked everyone I worked with. There was an exception, but why dwell? I got a very kind letter of reference from a co-worker who also brought her kids to storytime. I got three gift cards, two potted plants, a box of chocolates, several photos, and several cards, handmade and otherwise. I had a very nice party, at which I was given a duck puppet (a very nice, expensive Folkmanis puppet - hey, it's a professional resource, people) and a few other sundries. I won't even dwell on the fact that they made me take the balloon arrangement home, causing me a very stressful drive home, as I am inordinately afraid of the sound of balloons popping. It's a lovely balloon arrangement, and it is still decorating my car, because I was really hoping the balloons would die out there while I'm safe in here. (I don't know if it's happened yet. Unemployment means never having to use the car.)
Now I'm done, which has been great, except for the fact that my first three days of unemployment would have been sick days regardless. It's lucky for the husband that he's still working, because I am terrible to be around when I'm sick. (I know that it is not at all lucky for the husband that he's still working, but I am trying to Stay Positive.) I become obsessed with my symptoms, checking on their progress at disturbingly short intervals and updating anyone stupid enough to fake a small bit of interest. I looked at my throat with a flashlight about a thousand times last week. I even looked up my nose to see if I could figure out if my sinuses were swollen. (They were, I think.) I could write a dissertation on the progress of my mucus. Don't worry though; I won't. I feel better now, and my obsession with my vital signs dwindles with the symptoms of illness.
Anyway, I had a week of blissful unemployment. This week is the beginning of more industrious unemployment. If we want to continue eating when we move to CollegeTown, I'll need to find employment. And if we want to have shelter from the elements, we'll need to start exploring housing options. So that's my job now. But I still get to do it in pajamas.
My last days were great. Really, for the most part, I liked everyone I worked with. There was an exception, but why dwell? I got a very kind letter of reference from a co-worker who also brought her kids to storytime. I got three gift cards, two potted plants, a box of chocolates, several photos, and several cards, handmade and otherwise. I had a very nice party, at which I was given a duck puppet (a very nice, expensive Folkmanis puppet - hey, it's a professional resource, people) and a few other sundries. I won't even dwell on the fact that they made me take the balloon arrangement home, causing me a very stressful drive home, as I am inordinately afraid of the sound of balloons popping. It's a lovely balloon arrangement, and it is still decorating my car, because I was really hoping the balloons would die out there while I'm safe in here. (I don't know if it's happened yet. Unemployment means never having to use the car.)
Now I'm done, which has been great, except for the fact that my first three days of unemployment would have been sick days regardless. It's lucky for the husband that he's still working, because I am terrible to be around when I'm sick. (I know that it is not at all lucky for the husband that he's still working, but I am trying to Stay Positive.) I become obsessed with my symptoms, checking on their progress at disturbingly short intervals and updating anyone stupid enough to fake a small bit of interest. I looked at my throat with a flashlight about a thousand times last week. I even looked up my nose to see if I could figure out if my sinuses were swollen. (They were, I think.) I could write a dissertation on the progress of my mucus. Don't worry though; I won't. I feel better now, and my obsession with my vital signs dwindles with the symptoms of illness.
Anyway, I had a week of blissful unemployment. This week is the beginning of more industrious unemployment. If we want to continue eating when we move to CollegeTown, I'll need to find employment. And if we want to have shelter from the elements, we'll need to start exploring housing options. So that's my job now. But I still get to do it in pajamas.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
One Condo For Sale! (Do I hear a dollar? A nickel? A penny?)
All right, people. Just so you don't think I have both neglected and forgotten this blog, here is a list of post ideas I began writing in my head, but never got around to typing:
- The plumber seems confident that our bathroom fix-up will be super quick! Maybe we won't need a hole in the wall!
- There is a hole in our wall, and the kitchen cabinets are on the floor.
- How hot is it that the husband knows how to use dry-wall, and did so, rather than heeding my suggestion to call a hole-fixer-person?
- Please buy our condo!
- No, really, please buy our condo! There are no holes in its walls any more, I promise.
So you see, I have only neglected the blog, not forgotten it.
To bring you all up to speed, the condo is on the market, my last day of work is next Friday, and we don't know anything about where we will live or where I will work in the summer or beyond.
The thing that is stressing us out and taking over our lives is the condo. We have re-caulked the tub, re-grouted the kitchen tiles, re-dry-walled the giant hole in the wall left by the plumber, and re-painted the kitchen to be less salmon and more limey-lemon. We have learned that selling your home is a process designed to make you feel that everything about your day-to-day life is abject and worth hiding. "You hang your clean laundry to dry in your bathroom? Gross!" You leave your dishes in a plastic rack to air-dry? Ew!" "You own a knife block? Don't let anyone see!" And, best of all, "Half of your windows are exposed to the outdoors? Oh my god, you guys, what's wrong with you?"
Before this, the concept of cleaning windows was an abstract one. I thought of it a bit like I think of bikini waxes - I understand that there are people who do that type of thing, and I have nothing but respect for their desire to keep a tidy appearance, but I never thought I would be someone who would spend my time in that particular manner. Our realtor had other plans. The windows were pretty much the first thing she mentioned. (My bikini area has yet to be commented on, but I wouldn't be too surprised if it was on her list somewhere.) And since the husband did all of the kitchen-painting, I got to clean windows.
We are lucky to have windows that you can pull forward out of the frame to clean the outside, so it really wasn't that bad. In fact, the worst part is that since there is no screen on the top half of the window, when you pull that top half into the room, there is nothing between you and the outdoors. I spent my cleaning time humming loudly, talking to myself and occasionally yelling to try to scare off any birds who might be contemplating a visit to our condo. In the process, I think I managed to scare off any neighbors who might be contemplating a polite greeting the next time I walk by their home, but really, I didn't want to talk to them anyway.
So that's where we stand. Now that we are leaving it, our home is cleaner than it has ever been before. Every day before we leave, we hide anything that might cause a potential buyer to think we are dirty people. We also hide the knife block, which, in fairness to the realtor, I will admit is done so that weirdos can't use its knives as weapons. I would say that that's a sad commentary on our times, but let's face it, there were probably people in the '50s who would jump at the chance to attack a realtor. It's probably better that it's hidden anyway. If the realtor asks us to clean or fix one more thing, I might be tempted to do some (non-fatal) attacking - of myself, if nothing else.
- The plumber seems confident that our bathroom fix-up will be super quick! Maybe we won't need a hole in the wall!
- There is a hole in our wall, and the kitchen cabinets are on the floor.
- How hot is it that the husband knows how to use dry-wall, and did so, rather than heeding my suggestion to call a hole-fixer-person?
- Please buy our condo!
- No, really, please buy our condo! There are no holes in its walls any more, I promise.
So you see, I have only neglected the blog, not forgotten it.
To bring you all up to speed, the condo is on the market, my last day of work is next Friday, and we don't know anything about where we will live or where I will work in the summer or beyond.
The thing that is stressing us out and taking over our lives is the condo. We have re-caulked the tub, re-grouted the kitchen tiles, re-dry-walled the giant hole in the wall left by the plumber, and re-painted the kitchen to be less salmon and more limey-lemon. We have learned that selling your home is a process designed to make you feel that everything about your day-to-day life is abject and worth hiding. "You hang your clean laundry to dry in your bathroom? Gross!" You leave your dishes in a plastic rack to air-dry? Ew!" "You own a knife block? Don't let anyone see!" And, best of all, "Half of your windows are exposed to the outdoors? Oh my god, you guys, what's wrong with you?"
Before this, the concept of cleaning windows was an abstract one. I thought of it a bit like I think of bikini waxes - I understand that there are people who do that type of thing, and I have nothing but respect for their desire to keep a tidy appearance, but I never thought I would be someone who would spend my time in that particular manner. Our realtor had other plans. The windows were pretty much the first thing she mentioned. (My bikini area has yet to be commented on, but I wouldn't be too surprised if it was on her list somewhere.) And since the husband did all of the kitchen-painting, I got to clean windows.
We are lucky to have windows that you can pull forward out of the frame to clean the outside, so it really wasn't that bad. In fact, the worst part is that since there is no screen on the top half of the window, when you pull that top half into the room, there is nothing between you and the outdoors. I spent my cleaning time humming loudly, talking to myself and occasionally yelling to try to scare off any birds who might be contemplating a visit to our condo. In the process, I think I managed to scare off any neighbors who might be contemplating a polite greeting the next time I walk by their home, but really, I didn't want to talk to them anyway.
So that's where we stand. Now that we are leaving it, our home is cleaner than it has ever been before. Every day before we leave, we hide anything that might cause a potential buyer to think we are dirty people. We also hide the knife block, which, in fairness to the realtor, I will admit is done so that weirdos can't use its knives as weapons. I would say that that's a sad commentary on our times, but let's face it, there were probably people in the '50s who would jump at the chance to attack a realtor. It's probably better that it's hidden anyway. If the realtor asks us to clean or fix one more thing, I might be tempted to do some (non-fatal) attacking - of myself, if nothing else.
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