Peaches come from a can...

Getting ready to move does funny things to your mind. We haven't even got to the point where we're deep in the throes of packing (which are less sexy than the throes of passion, but feature just as many noises), and we're already starting to think of things in terms of boxes. As in, that dictionary is like a third of a box; why don't we sell it?

Selling books is something we haven't done before, but this move, we were determined to cull the collection a bit. We have made over $200 selling books. This is really cool and exciting until you stop to think about how much we paid for them initially. We have decided not to do that, and so we're still excited. We are down to two bookshelves, the books in our built-in cabinets, and our cookbook collection, which for us is downright paltry.

The alternative to selling is, of course, donating, and we've done an awful lot of that lately too. Everything is up for grabs. The bigger an item is and the closer it gets to go time, the more tempting it is to get rid of. The ice cream maker was even considered. It's got to be about a quarter of a box, especially since it's an awkward shape and nothing can be put inside of it. In the end, it got to stay because it provides sweet, delicious, homemade ice cream, and what other appliance does anything that cool? (Immersion blender, I'm looking at you.)

Ultimately it doesn't matter. We have so much stuff, and we are people who try to keep our lives as simple as possible. We don't have knick knacks. But we do have a couch, and three chairs, and a loveseat, and two desk chairs, and two bookshelves, and a bed, and a mattress, and box springs, and a dresser, and a night stand, and, well you get the idea. The husband was telling me about a guy at Columbia College who was doing some sort of project documenting his efforts to only have 100 things. Food didn't count, I don't think, nor did things built into his home (the toilet, for example). But just think of all the things you need just to eat a meal: silverware, plate, clothing. If you count each thing as a single item, it adds up fast. I'm sure it must be a freeing way to live. I know we've been trying to move in that direction, but I don't think we'll ever get that far. Although I might change my tune on moving day. I bet you fit all 100 things in, like, 5 boxes.

By the way, do any of you remember the band The Presidents of the United States of America? Their big hit was "Lump" but they also had a minor hit in "Peaches". Every time the husband and I talk about moving to the country, in my head I have to add "Gonna eat me a lot of peaches." This isn't doing good things to my psyche. Just thought I'd share.

Things I Have Been Doing Instead of Blogging

1.) Making peace with the overwhelming presence of termites. They are confined to our back stairway, completely external to the actual unit. Thanks to them, we might get a nicer, less moldy and horrifying back stairway. So yay termites? Well, maybe not, but at least they're not eating the floor beneath me. (Knock on non-termitey wood.)

2.) Revising my novel. Back when the husband and I were not getting lucky in Kentucky (we had sex, mind you, but that was about the only positive thing we had), we did this thing called National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo to the cool kids). We did not do it in the official month of November, but we did it, and both produced a novel. The husband hated his, said it wasn't cohesive, and used certain plot elements in the jottings that he does when he is in a writing mood. Mine was pretty cohesive, actually. And not altogether bad.

The thing about NaNoWriMo, though, is that you have to write a certain number of words (1,500, I believe) every day for a month. Every. Single. Day. So towards the end, I started to get a little bit punchy and just throw in elements of my own life. I have been meaning to go back to it for a while now, and this period of intentional unemployment seemed as good a time as any. Honestly, it's not awful. If all goes according to plan, I'll finish revising it in the next few weeks, and maybe, possibly, hopefully send query letters to agents. I hesitated to share this one, but a little peer pressure wouldn't hurt here, so don't be afraid to nag me.

3.) Knitting far overdue socks.

I'm pretty pleased with how they turned out, but they took absolutely forever. I went for weeks without working on them because they pissed me off so much. But now they're done, and they're pretty, so yay. Onto the next pair. These are starting off late, so we'll see when they actually get done.

4.) Losing all sense of time management. When I started, I had lists every day, and I got shit done. Somehow I lost that in the past two weeks or so. I am much like the children whom I used to lead in storytime. I need structure. I need someone to say, "Hey, just a few more minutes of cover letter time, and then we'll do a story!"

5.) Not getting employed or selling a condo. I am trying to stay upbeat and positive, so I'll say no more there.

Why I Can't Stop Crying

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.

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.

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.

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.

A Heartfelt Plea

I hate to use my public forum to take care of a personal problem, but I need to take a minute to straighten something out with Johnny Depp. Allow me to explain. Last week, the husband and I were on vacation to celebrate our anniversary. I use the terms 'vacation' and 'celebrate' lightly - we spent most of the time doing things to ready the condo for sale, looking for houses in CollegeTown, and hanging out with family. These things had left us more stressed out than we were before the vacation. So when Melinda emailed to see if I could come watch Sweeney Todd, I declined. The husband and I were going to be all couple-y. In the email, I uttered (typed, really) the following ominous sentence, or something like it: "Perhaps Johnny and I are not meant to be." That was a mistake, and I realize it now.

Before I get too far ahead of myself, I should explain what I had in mind for the remainder of the vacation. I thought perhaps we would find a beach and walk along it hand-in-hand. (Yes, this is the Midwest in early April, but dream with me, people.) I thought we would find a coffeehouse and engage in spirited but intellectual debate before lapsing into silence and staring lovingly into each other's eyes. I did not think we would get a lesson in plumbing, Murphy's Law, and why you shouldn't live in a building from 1911.

On Friday, while I was in the shower, the husband noticed that our desk lamp was acting weird. When he examined further, the bulb exploded, and popped the circuit breaker. The husband went downstairs to fix it. And thus our adventure began. Rather than finishing my shower in peace and sitting down to a relaxing evening, I watched as the bathroom light went off and on and off and on again. (Our breakers aren't labelled.) Then I heard an "oh crap." While the husband was downstairs he had seen water dripping. After a lengthy series of tests involving taping over drains and turning on and off various configurations of faucets, we determined that it's the shower. The shower pipes are ensconced behind the wall. To fix this problem, we will either have to remove the bathroom tile and put a hole in the shower wall or take down the kitchen cabinets and put a hole in that wall. Bear in mind that we figured this out over the course of our last two days of vacation, and that solving this problem will require either the spending of $1,000+ dollars or an entire day of the husband working closely with his father. Neither appeals to anyone involved.

Now, Johnny, I haven't forgotten about you. We need to talk. My husband says that the paint being worn away near the drip probably means it's been happening for a while, but I know that you are behind this. You were, after all, in Crown Point, IN shooting a movie recently. That is right over the state line, and very near to where my parents and siblings live (parents and siblings who could tell you my address, I might add). And your exposure to movie set design and special effects would make it relatively easy to fake some eroded paint.

Look, I know that it must have hurt when I said we weren't meant for each other. But Johnny, here's the thing. I'm married now. And you've got a little thing going with that nice woman from France, right? You just can't spend your free time shimmying up my shower pipes and committing vandalism any more. Plus, Johnny, you were never really mine, were you? You belong to all of the people of the world who like men (and especially the aforementioned French woman). I belong to the husband, and that's for the best, since he also belongs to me. We've got the papers and everything.

Johnny, you'll always have a special place in my heart. I'm sorry to have hurt your feelings, and I forgive you for causing us a giant headache. But you need to leave the husband and me in peace. It's really what's best for everyone.

Actually, Johnny, wait a moment. If you want to make it up to us - and I'm sure that you do - I know of a beautiful 2-bedroom condo for sale. It's in need of some small repairs, but what's a little plumbing between former soulmates? Call me; we'll work it out.