You know how yesterday I was saying I was losing my mind?
Last night, I went and cleaned out the rotten spilled milk in the back of my van. I opened the sunroof and a window to let the stink out, as well as the back hatch.
Workaholic went outside to lock up his van and shut my back hatch. (we can't park in our garage right now because there is so much shit in it from the house that needs to go to storage)
He didn't notice the sunroof and window open. And I didn't think to go out to close them.
This morning, while I was in the shower, we got a thunderstorm. A wonderful, fabulous, windy, rainy thunderstorm.
My dead grass is happy.
My van? Not so much.
You know how I love Weather Tech floor mats? Yep, they work. They held about an inch of rainwater.
It really is too bad that my dashboard didn't have Weather Tech floor mats covering it.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Monday, July 23, 2012
Are You There Brain?
I'm losing my mind. Wait, scratch that, I lost it a while back.
Let me illustrate.
Before Memorial Day, as I was packing up a bunch of things to go to the lake, I put my jewelry in a "safe place" where I "wouldn't forget where it is." Yeah, it isn't in that safe place. Or anywhere else I have looked. I try really hard not to think about it and hope that it will just reappear. If I dwell too long on it, I get sick to my stomach.
Earlier in May, I backed into Workaholics van not once, but twice. I did like, $4000 worth of damage.
Around the 4th of July, I got too close to my friend's mailbox pulling up next to it. While she was leaning out the window towards it. So not only did I almost take off my friend's arm, I also broke my side mirror to the tune of $633. (yeah, it'll be a while before that gets replaced)
When I ordered Sam and Charlie's flower girl dresses for the wedding they are in this weekend, I ordered two different colors. They are not supposed to be wearing two different colors.
On Friday, I bought a bunch of snacks and a pint of milk to take on a weekend trip. And then proceeded to leave the milk in the back of my van. Where I discovered it today, Monday. After a weekend of 100 degree temperatures. Yes, it leaked.
Our house has been torn apart and has furniture and boxes stacked everywhere. This is enough to make me feel unstable, and I guess that Kale feels the same way. Last week he got diarrhea. On Thursday. I had just had the carpets cleaned 2 days before. He got it again this morning, but in a different room. So you know, instead of getting one room's carpet re-cleaned, I get to do two. (he also threw up on Saturday, but at least had the courtesy to do it on the tile)
I stopped at the vet's office to pick up medicine for Kale today, and walked into the building, leaving my car running.
After we got home from the vet's office, we went into the house. I left the door to the garage open. And didn't realize it for 15 minutes.
In June, I lost my camera. My awesome camera, the one where it is almost impossible to take a bad picture, and it is just a simple point-and-shoot camera. Workaholic found it on a shelf a few weeks later. A shelf that he had told me was putting electronics on, so they didn't get wet or destroyed by young children. I was so excited, I threw it in my purse so I would be sure to take it to a wedding we were going to last weekend. When I took it out, it is broken. Go figure.
I lost my cat. Different story for a different post. Workaholic is convinced he will return home soon, I have a deep feeling of dread in my soul.
The first and last ones are the most painful for me. I have this weird outlook on life, this little belief in my head, that bad things don't happen to me. (of course they do, they happen to everyone) But whenever something bad happens, it takes me a while to realize the gravity of the situation. My grandparents died when I was in my teens. I was well into my 20s before I really grieved and was aware of how acutely painful it was to not have them around. And grandparents are supposed to die before you.
I remember telling one of my best friends that if I had kids in this house, just shoot me. We'd been here about a year, and barely were engaged. We now have two kids in this house. I never thought that we would be here 8 years. It could easily be another one or two. I didn't think we would be the people who got stuck.
No matter how much I try to ignore it, the feeling of being overwhelmed isn't going away.
I know what I need to do. I need to focus on my job. Focus on what I can do. Focus on getting through this. And then I can say, I DID IT.
Everyone has challenges in life. Everyone has difficult times. How did you guys get through them? And be stronger for it??
Let me illustrate.
Before Memorial Day, as I was packing up a bunch of things to go to the lake, I put my jewelry in a "safe place" where I "wouldn't forget where it is." Yeah, it isn't in that safe place. Or anywhere else I have looked. I try really hard not to think about it and hope that it will just reappear. If I dwell too long on it, I get sick to my stomach.
Earlier in May, I backed into Workaholics van not once, but twice. I did like, $4000 worth of damage.
Around the 4th of July, I got too close to my friend's mailbox pulling up next to it. While she was leaning out the window towards it. So not only did I almost take off my friend's arm, I also broke my side mirror to the tune of $633. (yeah, it'll be a while before that gets replaced)
When I ordered Sam and Charlie's flower girl dresses for the wedding they are in this weekend, I ordered two different colors. They are not supposed to be wearing two different colors.
On Friday, I bought a bunch of snacks and a pint of milk to take on a weekend trip. And then proceeded to leave the milk in the back of my van. Where I discovered it today, Monday. After a weekend of 100 degree temperatures. Yes, it leaked.
Our house has been torn apart and has furniture and boxes stacked everywhere. This is enough to make me feel unstable, and I guess that Kale feels the same way. Last week he got diarrhea. On Thursday. I had just had the carpets cleaned 2 days before. He got it again this morning, but in a different room. So you know, instead of getting one room's carpet re-cleaned, I get to do two. (he also threw up on Saturday, but at least had the courtesy to do it on the tile)
I stopped at the vet's office to pick up medicine for Kale today, and walked into the building, leaving my car running.
After we got home from the vet's office, we went into the house. I left the door to the garage open. And didn't realize it for 15 minutes.
In June, I lost my camera. My awesome camera, the one where it is almost impossible to take a bad picture, and it is just a simple point-and-shoot camera. Workaholic found it on a shelf a few weeks later. A shelf that he had told me was putting electronics on, so they didn't get wet or destroyed by young children. I was so excited, I threw it in my purse so I would be sure to take it to a wedding we were going to last weekend. When I took it out, it is broken. Go figure.
I lost my cat. Different story for a different post. Workaholic is convinced he will return home soon, I have a deep feeling of dread in my soul.
The first and last ones are the most painful for me. I have this weird outlook on life, this little belief in my head, that bad things don't happen to me. (of course they do, they happen to everyone) But whenever something bad happens, it takes me a while to realize the gravity of the situation. My grandparents died when I was in my teens. I was well into my 20s before I really grieved and was aware of how acutely painful it was to not have them around. And grandparents are supposed to die before you.
I remember telling one of my best friends that if I had kids in this house, just shoot me. We'd been here about a year, and barely were engaged. We now have two kids in this house. I never thought that we would be here 8 years. It could easily be another one or two. I didn't think we would be the people who got stuck.
No matter how much I try to ignore it, the feeling of being overwhelmed isn't going away.
I know what I need to do. I need to focus on my job. Focus on what I can do. Focus on getting through this. And then I can say, I DID IT.
Everyone has challenges in life. Everyone has difficult times. How did you guys get through them? And be stronger for it??
Thursday, July 19, 2012
Fresh Clean Diarrhea
Over the past month, I've had several people who know me in real life express concern that they thought I might be almost dead because I hasn't posted in so long. (Why do people always jump to DEATH?)
Anyway, I decided to make a commitment to post more often, even if the writing sucked and the stories were pointless. But really, that isn't much different than me in real life. I'm famous for telling a long intro to a story, and then being like..."Now where was I going with that?" And the person that I am talking to has to remember and remind me what it was we were talking about before I started rambling, and I usually don't actually remember the point of my story. In middle school, my friends called me Rose, like from the Golden Girls, and I actually chose that as my confirmation name because actually researching saints and figuring out which one would be a good Christian name for me seemed like too much work.
What was I talking about??
Oh yeah. Posting more often.
So on Tuesday, we got ALL the carpets in my house cleaned. Except for the closets. Mainly because I am too cheap to pay for cleaning that little bit of carpet and also because Workaholic stacked ALL of our furniture in bathrooms and closets in order to make it as easy for the workers as possible to clean as much of the carpet in each room as possible.
It looked beautiful. It looked fabulous. It was CLEAN.
On Tuesday night, I had Yoders mashed potatoes and fresh green beans, and I had pulled out a steak from our cow. Workaholic was busy going through boxes looking for things that I have lost, and I asked him, as the resident male in the house, to grill the steak. He obliged, and put the steak on the grill, with the grill probably set on HIGH. (you know where this is going, right?) A few minutes later, I asked him if he needed to flip the steak. He grunted, and I took this as a no. Whatever. Several minutes after that, I said, "Did you check on the steak?" And his response was, "Oh shit, it is probably burnt."
YA THINK????
Keep in mind that it was already 6:30, Charlie was absolutely STARVING, as was I. I decided it was hot dogs for dinner, and Workaholic pulled out another steak to defrost. Which about pushed me over the edge. (I won...we had that steak last night.)
You might be wondering where I am headed.
So when Workaholic went out the grill to check on the very much deceased cow he had put on there, the damn thing was on fire. FIRE! FIRE! So he grabbed it with a pair of tongs and flung it in the yard. Understandable, I suppose. But not very responsible with 5 dogs in a 2 house radius.
I went out later to grill the hot dogs and saw Kale polishing off the had-to-be-still-hot steak.
Fantastic.
Nothing I can do now except eat my dinner and get my kids in bed. And honestly, once we ate and were in bed, I was over it.
Until now.
I took the girls to daycare this morning and retreated to the basement to work. I hadn't been down there since the other night when I was drooling over the fact that the Stanley Steemer guys had gotten every. single. stain. out of my carpet.
And even though the lights weren't on, I could tell something was not right. I quickly prayed that a dead toy lay in the middle of my basement floor. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CLEAN FUCKING CARPET.
But no. Of course not. In the middle of my beautiful clean, wonderful smelling basement carpet lay not one, but two piles of oozy, fresh, dog diarrhea. And off to the side was also a lovely sized spot of pee. AND some other much smaller spots that were dropped while the offender walked, trying to get all the poop out.
FFUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKK!!!!!!!!
Even though I have owned a dog for more than 12 years now, I still am stumped when it comes to how to clean up diarrhea. I eventually figure it out, armed with a plastic bag and paper towels and carpet cleaner and several white towels used to scrub. But there is always a spot left. Always. And Stanley Steemer wants to charge me for 3 rooms since that is how much basement carpet I have instead of just one room to clean the area desecrated by one of my beloved pooches. So yeah, that is not happening.
However, all of that is not my point. My point is that while I was cleaning one spot, I sat back to observe my pathetic attempt and sat on a wet spot. A smaller spot that I had cleaned up the poo and sprayed with the carpet cleaner, but not yet scrubbed. And even though I changed my jeans, I am still sitting here, in my office, trying to work, and I smell diarrhea coming from my backside.
And that, my friends, is why I decided to blog today. Because my butt smells and it is driving me crazy. AND IT ISN'T MY FAULT.
OK, now I am off to change my underwear.
Anyway, I decided to make a commitment to post more often, even if the writing sucked and the stories were pointless. But really, that isn't much different than me in real life. I'm famous for telling a long intro to a story, and then being like..."Now where was I going with that?" And the person that I am talking to has to remember and remind me what it was we were talking about before I started rambling, and I usually don't actually remember the point of my story. In middle school, my friends called me Rose, like from the Golden Girls, and I actually chose that as my confirmation name because actually researching saints and figuring out which one would be a good Christian name for me seemed like too much work.
What was I talking about??
Oh yeah. Posting more often.
So on Tuesday, we got ALL the carpets in my house cleaned. Except for the closets. Mainly because I am too cheap to pay for cleaning that little bit of carpet and also because Workaholic stacked ALL of our furniture in bathrooms and closets in order to make it as easy for the workers as possible to clean as much of the carpet in each room as possible.
It looked beautiful. It looked fabulous. It was CLEAN.
On Tuesday night, I had Yoders mashed potatoes and fresh green beans, and I had pulled out a steak from our cow. Workaholic was busy going through boxes looking for things that I have lost, and I asked him, as the resident male in the house, to grill the steak. He obliged, and put the steak on the grill, with the grill probably set on HIGH. (you know where this is going, right?) A few minutes later, I asked him if he needed to flip the steak. He grunted, and I took this as a no. Whatever. Several minutes after that, I said, "Did you check on the steak?" And his response was, "Oh shit, it is probably burnt."
YA THINK????
Keep in mind that it was already 6:30, Charlie was absolutely STARVING, as was I. I decided it was hot dogs for dinner, and Workaholic pulled out another steak to defrost. Which about pushed me over the edge. (I won...we had that steak last night.)
You might be wondering where I am headed.
So when Workaholic went out the grill to check on the very much deceased cow he had put on there, the damn thing was on fire. FIRE! FIRE! So he grabbed it with a pair of tongs and flung it in the yard. Understandable, I suppose. But not very responsible with 5 dogs in a 2 house radius.
I went out later to grill the hot dogs and saw Kale polishing off the had-to-be-still-hot steak.
Fantastic.
Nothing I can do now except eat my dinner and get my kids in bed. And honestly, once we ate and were in bed, I was over it.
Until now.
I took the girls to daycare this morning and retreated to the basement to work. I hadn't been down there since the other night when I was drooling over the fact that the Stanley Steemer guys had gotten every. single. stain. out of my carpet.
And even though the lights weren't on, I could tell something was not right. I quickly prayed that a dead toy lay in the middle of my basement floor. IN THE MIDDLE OF THE CLEAN FUCKING CARPET.
But no. Of course not. In the middle of my beautiful clean, wonderful smelling basement carpet lay not one, but two piles of oozy, fresh, dog diarrhea. And off to the side was also a lovely sized spot of pee. AND some other much smaller spots that were dropped while the offender walked, trying to get all the poop out.
FFUUUUUUUCCCCCKKKK!!!!!!!!
Even though I have owned a dog for more than 12 years now, I still am stumped when it comes to how to clean up diarrhea. I eventually figure it out, armed with a plastic bag and paper towels and carpet cleaner and several white towels used to scrub. But there is always a spot left. Always. And Stanley Steemer wants to charge me for 3 rooms since that is how much basement carpet I have instead of just one room to clean the area desecrated by one of my beloved pooches. So yeah, that is not happening.
However, all of that is not my point. My point is that while I was cleaning one spot, I sat back to observe my pathetic attempt and sat on a wet spot. A smaller spot that I had cleaned up the poo and sprayed with the carpet cleaner, but not yet scrubbed. And even though I changed my jeans, I am still sitting here, in my office, trying to work, and I smell diarrhea coming from my backside.
And that, my friends, is why I decided to blog today. Because my butt smells and it is driving me crazy. AND IT ISN'T MY FAULT.
OK, now I am off to change my underwear.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
Comparisons
Last month my new therapist that I really liked "resigned" at the counseling center where I attend.
Fabulous. I get to tell my life story to yet another stranger who seems so nice and concerned.
I. Can't. Wait.
Actually, I had to wait about a month due to scheduling conflicts, and it really kinda sucked. Going to therapy is like having your own little cheerleader telling you that YOU CAN DO IT! (name that movie)
Plus, we've had a million and one things going on, and I've been a tad bit stressed. I don't handle stress well, I yell and cry, except my medication is generally not allowing me to cry, and yelling just takes up so much energy, so I allow it to fester and make me feel like crap.
While this beautiful (hot) summer weather has been happening, I have been feeling like crap.
While we have had many wonderful visitors since Memorial Day, and some great times were had, I have mostly been feeling like crap.
To those of you who saw me those times and think that I was just fine...I was either a) drunk or b) faking it.
(I did almost cry today! I was sitting at our bar eating lunch in the kitchen and I went to get more milk. I didn't move my knee enough and smacked it into the thingy under the countertop that holds it up. I almost passed out it hurt so bad. But I TEARED UP. Wow.)
I've been trying to think of things that my old therapist was telling me to do to make my life more manageable and generally make me a happier person. Things like giving myself a few minutes a day to take a deep breath, take a walk in the sun, relax for a second without feeling guilty. Let's just say that was a FAIL. What I also did do was a lot of thinking about why I am the way I am.
There is one constant thing I can remember doing since I was a little kid. Comparing myself to everything.
I can remember sitting on the floor at gym class stretching out before playing dodgeball or some appropriate game like that and looking at my friend Renee's legs. How come she didn't have the thing that looked like a fish gut hanging off of her thighs? I wish I could just take scissors and cut that right off.
I can remember seeing other kids (especially the boys) on the playgrounds running around. "Where do they get all that energy?" I would think to myself. Later, as I got older, I found myself saying that every time I went and visited my family in Southern Indiana. They would come home from a full day of work and start making dinner and just be talking and talking and laughing and be in this fantastic mood and I had no idea how they did it. How were they so chipper all the time??
In middle school and high school the physical comparisons got worse.
I envied other girls' clothes and hair and make-up and shoes. I ogled and dreamed about boys who were way out of my league, and pretty much anytime anyone of the opposite sex gave me attention I felt super duper special because he picked me and not some other girl to put his hormonal moves on.
I wanted to be a cheerleader, but wasn't skinny or coordinated enough and didn't know how to dance, and you had to know how to dance to be a cheerleader. I wanted to play basketball, but I was 5'1", and couldn't even make a free throw. Those two things were enough to keep me from trying out or even practicing.
I was jealous of how everyone had been friends forever, and decorated their lockers so cute, and how all the parents knew each other. I can actually remember being jealous of where other kids sat at lunch and when a food fight broke out, I yearned to be an integral part of it, instead of just an observer. (Except when they were getting into trouble.)
In college, I still envied other girls' boyfriends, and also apartments and taste in decorating their rooms and ability to handle their alcohol. I didn't dare rush a sorority because I didn't have the clothes for the rush process, much less the clothes for the actual sorority activities. I had friends in college who had really good "guy friends", and I wondered why I didn't have those.
I had all of these stupid horrible envious feelings because I noticed everything around me, and immediately and subconsciously compared myself to whatever it was I happened to be observing at the time.
Flat stomachs, skinny thighs, pretty lipstick, and cool streak of purple running through someone's hair. Cool older siblings, cute younger ones. A great taste in music and a CD collection to match.
Why couldn't I be all of those things?? Why didn't I have a purple streak in my hair??
And now, starting to think about venturing into my mid-30s, I am realizing that I should not have been comparing myself all those years. Old habits are hard to break, and I still do it to this day. Well-behaved animals or kids are always noticed. Houses with pretty and bright landscaping, houses with floor plans and decorations that I yearn for. Cute outfits, appropriately adorned with chunky jewelry and shoes that are probably way too uncomfortable for me to wear. Of course flat stomachs and thighs that don't touch, but those are just a given for just about any woman. Hair that has volume and is shiny, but simple looking. A white smile with no overbite. Even a confident walk is a mental note. "Why can't I walk like that?"
Thinking that way is so self-destructive.
I am me. For whatever reason, I am the way I am.
And I should start working on loving that girl. Because I am pretty cool.
I have adorable kids and really cute/sort of well behaved dogs.
I can totally pull off a pair of cowboy boots with shorts or a sundress.
Most importantly, I am none of those other people.
I am not the woman in Target whose kids AREN'T screaming at the top of their lungs. I am not the girl in high school who had had the same 4 friends since kindergarten. I am not the girl in college who loved to work out and had impeccable taste in clothes.
I am ME. And I need to learn to love me.
Fabulous. I get to tell my life story to yet another stranger who seems so nice and concerned.
I. Can't. Wait.
Actually, I had to wait about a month due to scheduling conflicts, and it really kinda sucked. Going to therapy is like having your own little cheerleader telling you that YOU CAN DO IT! (name that movie)
Plus, we've had a million and one things going on, and I've been a tad bit stressed. I don't handle stress well, I yell and cry, except my medication is generally not allowing me to cry, and yelling just takes up so much energy, so I allow it to fester and make me feel like crap.
While this beautiful (hot) summer weather has been happening, I have been feeling like crap.
While we have had many wonderful visitors since Memorial Day, and some great times were had, I have mostly been feeling like crap.
To those of you who saw me those times and think that I was just fine...I was either a) drunk or b) faking it.
(I did almost cry today! I was sitting at our bar eating lunch in the kitchen and I went to get more milk. I didn't move my knee enough and smacked it into the thingy under the countertop that holds it up. I almost passed out it hurt so bad. But I TEARED UP. Wow.)
I've been trying to think of things that my old therapist was telling me to do to make my life more manageable and generally make me a happier person. Things like giving myself a few minutes a day to take a deep breath, take a walk in the sun, relax for a second without feeling guilty. Let's just say that was a FAIL. What I also did do was a lot of thinking about why I am the way I am.
There is one constant thing I can remember doing since I was a little kid. Comparing myself to everything.
I can remember sitting on the floor at gym class stretching out before playing dodgeball or some appropriate game like that and looking at my friend Renee's legs. How come she didn't have the thing that looked like a fish gut hanging off of her thighs? I wish I could just take scissors and cut that right off.
I can remember seeing other kids (especially the boys) on the playgrounds running around. "Where do they get all that energy?" I would think to myself. Later, as I got older, I found myself saying that every time I went and visited my family in Southern Indiana. They would come home from a full day of work and start making dinner and just be talking and talking and laughing and be in this fantastic mood and I had no idea how they did it. How were they so chipper all the time??
In middle school and high school the physical comparisons got worse.
I envied other girls' clothes and hair and make-up and shoes. I ogled and dreamed about boys who were way out of my league, and pretty much anytime anyone of the opposite sex gave me attention I felt super duper special because he picked me and not some other girl to put his hormonal moves on.
I wanted to be a cheerleader, but wasn't skinny or coordinated enough and didn't know how to dance, and you had to know how to dance to be a cheerleader. I wanted to play basketball, but I was 5'1", and couldn't even make a free throw. Those two things were enough to keep me from trying out or even practicing.
I was jealous of how everyone had been friends forever, and decorated their lockers so cute, and how all the parents knew each other. I can actually remember being jealous of where other kids sat at lunch and when a food fight broke out, I yearned to be an integral part of it, instead of just an observer. (Except when they were getting into trouble.)
In college, I still envied other girls' boyfriends, and also apartments and taste in decorating their rooms and ability to handle their alcohol. I didn't dare rush a sorority because I didn't have the clothes for the rush process, much less the clothes for the actual sorority activities. I had friends in college who had really good "guy friends", and I wondered why I didn't have those.
I had all of these stupid horrible envious feelings because I noticed everything around me, and immediately and subconsciously compared myself to whatever it was I happened to be observing at the time.
Flat stomachs, skinny thighs, pretty lipstick, and cool streak of purple running through someone's hair. Cool older siblings, cute younger ones. A great taste in music and a CD collection to match.
Why couldn't I be all of those things?? Why didn't I have a purple streak in my hair??
And now, starting to think about venturing into my mid-30s, I am realizing that I should not have been comparing myself all those years. Old habits are hard to break, and I still do it to this day. Well-behaved animals or kids are always noticed. Houses with pretty and bright landscaping, houses with floor plans and decorations that I yearn for. Cute outfits, appropriately adorned with chunky jewelry and shoes that are probably way too uncomfortable for me to wear. Of course flat stomachs and thighs that don't touch, but those are just a given for just about any woman. Hair that has volume and is shiny, but simple looking. A white smile with no overbite. Even a confident walk is a mental note. "Why can't I walk like that?"
Thinking that way is so self-destructive.
I am me. For whatever reason, I am the way I am.
And I should start working on loving that girl. Because I am pretty cool.
I have adorable kids and really cute/sort of well behaved dogs.
I can totally pull off a pair of cowboy boots with shorts or a sundress.
Most importantly, I am none of those other people.
I am not the woman in Target whose kids AREN'T screaming at the top of their lungs. I am not the girl in high school who had had the same 4 friends since kindergarten. I am not the girl in college who loved to work out and had impeccable taste in clothes.
I am ME. And I need to learn to love me.
Wednesday, May 30, 2012
Depression Isn't Fair
Last week went fantastic.
Closets were cleaned, rooms were cleared, bookshelves emptied.
Dr. Nadene came up for one day and my mom stayed three. They were both incredible. We stopped to eat, but not much else. Now there are just boxes that need to be carried and a painter that needs to come and do his thing.
After three days of organizing, I spent the long weekend at the lake in the sunshine and happiness.
And now I am coming off of the feeling of being on vacation and I just want to hide.
Crawl in bed, snuggle my green frog pillow pet, and take a nap.
My body aches. It could have something to do with the sunburn I sustained on Sunday, but I don't think that is all.
I spent a lot of time with my girls, but I yelled at them and didn't play *enough*. Cue the mommy guilt.
I'm exhausted. I hate feeling this way.
I had hoped packing would take the weight off my shoulders. Instead, I feel heavier than ever.
I know this summer is going to fly by, I just hope that at some point I am able to stop and enjoy it.
Closets were cleaned, rooms were cleared, bookshelves emptied.
Dr. Nadene came up for one day and my mom stayed three. They were both incredible. We stopped to eat, but not much else. Now there are just boxes that need to be carried and a painter that needs to come and do his thing.
After three days of organizing, I spent the long weekend at the lake in the sunshine and happiness.
And now I am coming off of the feeling of being on vacation and I just want to hide.
Crawl in bed, snuggle my green frog pillow pet, and take a nap.
My body aches. It could have something to do with the sunburn I sustained on Sunday, but I don't think that is all.
I spent a lot of time with my girls, but I yelled at them and didn't play *enough*. Cue the mommy guilt.
I'm exhausted. I hate feeling this way.
I had hoped packing would take the weight off my shoulders. Instead, I feel heavier than ever.
I know this summer is going to fly by, I just hope that at some point I am able to stop and enjoy it.
Friday, May 18, 2012
Big Plans
My mind is spinning, and I'm getting that feeling of being overwhelmed. You know the one, where your shoulders feel heavy from the weight you have placed on them, your energy level saps, and you just want to run and hide. Preferably in your bed, with the covers over your head.
I have totally done this to myself. I made a decision, concocted a plan, and it is getting close to execution. I. Am. Terrified. I don't follow through on things. I don't make goals. I ride the wave of what life throws at me. Not very healthy, but I do what it takes to get through the day.
I am selling my house. At least, I am going to try my damn-dest to sell my house.
Little back story...
We live in a country club neighborhood, on a golf course. The intention when we built this house was to live in it for 2 years and then sell and build again. We put a nice For Sale sign in the front yard. Then the market crashed. And then the golf course got in trouble. And houses in my neighborhood either stood still with For Sale signs in the front yard or people gave up and took the signs down.
We meant to stay for two years...it will be eight next weekend.
I've been toying with the idea of trying harder to sell for a few months. Houses have began to sell again, others have put theirs back on the market, and the golf course isn't in trouble anymore. A few weeks ago, I visited an old friend of the family who just happens to be an interior designer and home staging expert. I invited her to see my house.
She had so many nice things to say. She loved the colors, she loved the layout. She loved the garage and the back porch and the bonus room. And then she said...de-clutter. Paint. Re-arrange every. single. room.
It was exactly what I had expected her to say.
I took next week off of work. Not for a vacation at the beach, or on the lake, or in the mountains.
I did it so I can de-clutter my house. Pack up all the crap we have accumulated after a wedding and two kids and a dog and a cat that we don't need every day and send it away. To storage. The majority of the girls' toys will be gone. Our office will be empty looking compared to how it has been for the past 6 years. Closets will be bare. Even our storage area in the basement will be pilfered.
The scope of the work scares me. Three floors and eight years of crap.
I am an accountant. I don't clean, or organize, or re-arrange. I play on a computer and an adding machine all day and shuffle papers. Workaholic tears things apart and puts them back together for a living. I have often watched him from afar, to be honest in amazement, at his energy level and his gusto. He does this every day. He gets a plan in his head and executes it.
I can't remember the last time I have done this.
The "de-cluttering" (isn't that word so insufficient??) is only the beginning. We have paint colors picked out and Workaholic has been instructed to call painters that he knows. After the painters the carpets have to be cleaned and repairs made to various things that kids and dogs have broken over the years. THEN, our friend returns and we re-arrange all the furniture and hang pictures and mirrors and buy fresh flower arrangements and clean some more.
And then, ONLY THEN, it will be listed with a reputable and successful real estate agent.
I want to get all of this done in the next month.
Wish me luck...I am scared shitless.
I have totally done this to myself. I made a decision, concocted a plan, and it is getting close to execution. I. Am. Terrified. I don't follow through on things. I don't make goals. I ride the wave of what life throws at me. Not very healthy, but I do what it takes to get through the day.
I am selling my house. At least, I am going to try my damn-dest to sell my house.
Little back story...
We live in a country club neighborhood, on a golf course. The intention when we built this house was to live in it for 2 years and then sell and build again. We put a nice For Sale sign in the front yard. Then the market crashed. And then the golf course got in trouble. And houses in my neighborhood either stood still with For Sale signs in the front yard or people gave up and took the signs down.
We meant to stay for two years...it will be eight next weekend.
I've been toying with the idea of trying harder to sell for a few months. Houses have began to sell again, others have put theirs back on the market, and the golf course isn't in trouble anymore. A few weeks ago, I visited an old friend of the family who just happens to be an interior designer and home staging expert. I invited her to see my house.
She had so many nice things to say. She loved the colors, she loved the layout. She loved the garage and the back porch and the bonus room. And then she said...de-clutter. Paint. Re-arrange every. single. room.
It was exactly what I had expected her to say.
I took next week off of work. Not for a vacation at the beach, or on the lake, or in the mountains.
I did it so I can de-clutter my house. Pack up all the crap we have accumulated after a wedding and two kids and a dog and a cat that we don't need every day and send it away. To storage. The majority of the girls' toys will be gone. Our office will be empty looking compared to how it has been for the past 6 years. Closets will be bare. Even our storage area in the basement will be pilfered.
The scope of the work scares me. Three floors and eight years of crap.
I am an accountant. I don't clean, or organize, or re-arrange. I play on a computer and an adding machine all day and shuffle papers. Workaholic tears things apart and puts them back together for a living. I have often watched him from afar, to be honest in amazement, at his energy level and his gusto. He does this every day. He gets a plan in his head and executes it.
I can't remember the last time I have done this.
The "de-cluttering" (isn't that word so insufficient??) is only the beginning. We have paint colors picked out and Workaholic has been instructed to call painters that he knows. After the painters the carpets have to be cleaned and repairs made to various things that kids and dogs have broken over the years. THEN, our friend returns and we re-arrange all the furniture and hang pictures and mirrors and buy fresh flower arrangements and clean some more.
And then, ONLY THEN, it will be listed with a reputable and successful real estate agent.
I want to get all of this done in the next month.
Wish me luck...I am scared shitless.
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Maybe He Isn't As Smart As We Thought
You know how all the time I brag on my kids and pets?
Like...Sam is soo smart, Charlie is sooo awesome, Fonz is the bestest dog the world ever saw, Kale is the cuddliest dog the world ever saw, and Sampson is the coolest cat there ever was?
Part of the reason why I love Sampson so much is because he is so easy. He goes outside so I pretty much never have to clean a litter box, only rarely fill up a food dish, and am not constantly barraged by a needy cat who wants attention. He goes outside a LOT, and when people ask me if I ever worry, I tell them that it is OK, he is smarter than both of my dogs put together, and possibly throw in one of my kids too. Plus he has all of his claws so he can fight his way out of a messy situation. Or at the very least, climb his way.
But every once in a while, OK...once every couple of weeks, I realize that I haven't seen Sampson in a few days. Usually it happens after we have come home from Michigan and he has to get out and go see all of his peeps in the 'hood that he's missed while we were gone. (Yes, we are THOSE people who take their cat in the car with them when they leave town. He loves it there, and my neighbors actually think he is pretty cool too. Now please neighbors, please don't shoot him.)
Yesterday morning, as I was rushing out the door to get everyone to daycare and me to work, I mentioned to Workaholic (*gasp* he was home!) that I hadn't seen Sampson since Monday morning. He shrugged and turned around and went into the bathroom. Because apparently that is what he does when we are all gone, hang out in the bathroom.
I got into my mommy minivan and oh-so-carefully backed out of the garage. Which is to say that I looked behind me in both the back-up camera and the rear view mirror, and to the left and right of where I was going using my side mirrors and turning around to make sure there were no random vehicles that were there that shouldn't be there that I would run into at an entirely too fast speed.
I actually back up in my own driveway so I can pull forward out of it. I don't like taking the chance that my neighbors' kids will decide that the opportune moment to ride their scooter across my driveway is the exact millisecond that I decide to floor it out into the street. Yes, I am cautious. Yes, I hit my husband's van twice.
And I just happened to look up at the roof of my house before I shifted into drive and went on my way, and lo-and-behold! There was Sampson! On the roof of my garage! Very high up! Looking like he was about to jump!
Yep, my super-duper-street-smart cat was about to take a dive from 12 feet up, plunging to the driveway below to an almost certain broken limb. I laughed at the irony of the situation and ran inside to tell Workaholic he needed to save our cat. Our genius cat. Who had somehow found his way onto our roof and could not figure out how to get down.
Workaholic came out of the bathroom, I think I was interrupting a nap, and pulled out his trusty yellow 4 foot ladder. He is not quite 6 feet tall, and simple math shows us that even standing on the top of the ladder which clearly is marked DO NOT STAND HERE, he was still unable to reach our beloved pet. So he is reaching, and I am coaching from the sidelines, "Grab him by the back of the neck, give him a treat, he isn't going to step onto your hands silly!" (except silly may have been replaced by dumbass)
Poor Sampson looked hungry and tired and desperate, and he finally did that cat thing where he puts one paw in front of the other, trying to scale down the side of our fascia, wiggling his butt in the tell-tale sign of "I'm going to go for it!" and Workaholic was able to grab him by the back of the neck and yank him off of the roof.
The girls cheered, I wanted to pet and love on him, but alas, now I was running really late for daycare and work. He was unceremoniouslythrown put in the house to sleep off his adventures and fill his belly.
Today, to thank us, Sampson brought home what looked like either a regurgitated or defecated duck (or something), although it honestly could have just been that mangled and...chewed? It is definitely the biggest and most hard-fought for prize that he has ever awarded us. So I guess he was OK being dragged from his perch and allowed to sleep on the couch.
I still think he is the awesomest cat ever.
Like...Sam is soo smart, Charlie is sooo awesome, Fonz is the bestest dog the world ever saw, Kale is the cuddliest dog the world ever saw, and Sampson is the coolest cat there ever was?
Part of the reason why I love Sampson so much is because he is so easy. He goes outside so I pretty much never have to clean a litter box, only rarely fill up a food dish, and am not constantly barraged by a needy cat who wants attention. He goes outside a LOT, and when people ask me if I ever worry, I tell them that it is OK, he is smarter than both of my dogs put together, and possibly throw in one of my kids too. Plus he has all of his claws so he can fight his way out of a messy situation. Or at the very least, climb his way.
But every once in a while, OK...once every couple of weeks, I realize that I haven't seen Sampson in a few days. Usually it happens after we have come home from Michigan and he has to get out and go see all of his peeps in the 'hood that he's missed while we were gone. (Yes, we are THOSE people who take their cat in the car with them when they leave town. He loves it there, and my neighbors actually think he is pretty cool too. Now please neighbors, please don't shoot him.)
Yesterday morning, as I was rushing out the door to get everyone to daycare and me to work, I mentioned to Workaholic (*gasp* he was home!) that I hadn't seen Sampson since Monday morning. He shrugged and turned around and went into the bathroom. Because apparently that is what he does when we are all gone, hang out in the bathroom.
I got into my mommy minivan and oh-so-carefully backed out of the garage. Which is to say that I looked behind me in both the back-up camera and the rear view mirror, and to the left and right of where I was going using my side mirrors and turning around to make sure there were no random vehicles that were there that shouldn't be there that I would run into at an entirely too fast speed.
I actually back up in my own driveway so I can pull forward out of it. I don't like taking the chance that my neighbors' kids will decide that the opportune moment to ride their scooter across my driveway is the exact millisecond that I decide to floor it out into the street. Yes, I am cautious. Yes, I hit my husband's van twice.
And I just happened to look up at the roof of my house before I shifted into drive and went on my way, and lo-and-behold! There was Sampson! On the roof of my garage! Very high up! Looking like he was about to jump!
Yep, my super-duper-street-smart cat was about to take a dive from 12 feet up, plunging to the driveway below to an almost certain broken limb. I laughed at the irony of the situation and ran inside to tell Workaholic he needed to save our cat. Our genius cat. Who had somehow found his way onto our roof and could not figure out how to get down.
Workaholic came out of the bathroom, I think I was interrupting a nap, and pulled out his trusty yellow 4 foot ladder. He is not quite 6 feet tall, and simple math shows us that even standing on the top of the ladder which clearly is marked DO NOT STAND HERE, he was still unable to reach our beloved pet. So he is reaching, and I am coaching from the sidelines, "Grab him by the back of the neck, give him a treat, he isn't going to step onto your hands silly!" (except silly may have been replaced by dumbass)
Poor Sampson looked hungry and tired and desperate, and he finally did that cat thing where he puts one paw in front of the other, trying to scale down the side of our fascia, wiggling his butt in the tell-tale sign of "I'm going to go for it!" and Workaholic was able to grab him by the back of the neck and yank him off of the roof.
The girls cheered, I wanted to pet and love on him, but alas, now I was running really late for daycare and work. He was unceremoniously
Today, to thank us, Sampson brought home what looked like either a regurgitated or defecated duck (or something), although it honestly could have just been that mangled and...chewed? It is definitely the biggest and most hard-fought for prize that he has ever awarded us. So I guess he was OK being dragged from his perch and allowed to sleep on the couch.
I still think he is the awesomest cat ever.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)