The Surest Sign of Spring

March 28, 2011

{Photo: www.greenindustrypros.com}

I totally missed the memo in my town, but they have collectively decided that Spring is here. 

No matter that it’s 39 degrees outside.  The weather is not the deciding factor.  Nor is the calendar.

Here’s what drives the edict:  The mass release of the landscaping trucks.  It’s like a well-choreographed invasion.

This week actually marks a year since we took up life in the suburbs.  And I remember last year at this time, sitting in our new home, unpacking box #48,876.  I remember, one morning, the distinct sound of lawn machinery coming from four different directions at once.  In total precision.  I looked outside and what quickly followed was my realization that *everyone* on the block has a landscaping guy army. 

Over the next few days, as I unpacked more boxes, I saw the pattern.  The armies pulled up to the homes at 9:00 sharp, every day.  They pruned.  They plucked.  They manicured.  They planted.  They mulched.  Then they disappeared into the quiet suburban wind.  Sort of like Keyser Soze with a leaf blower.

I peered from my undressed windows — more than a little freaked out.  In the city, we had a few house plants.  Some lasted longer than others by virtue of sheer sun position and luck, but we clearly weren’t ready for prime-time suburban landscaping.

So, suffice it to say we had not secured a beautification crew for our yard.  We saw and bought the house in the dead of winter, under a foot or two of snow.  And we probably should have wondered what, exactly, would emerge as the landscaping vision upon first thaw. 

Let me tell you, it wasn’t pretty.  There was a certain overgrown, tumbleweed, Wild, Wild West quality that didn’t seem to quite fit in.

Realizing our precarious footing, we scrambled to right the wrong of our yard before we were driven out of the neighborhood by a unanimous vote of the Town Council.

Then the landscaping solicitation began, as if on cue.  It was like the Town gave them a copy of our closing documents and a photo of the lawn.  They smelled blood in the water and knew it was only a matter of time before we caved in to abject peer pressure in the form of weed wackers and wood chips. 

And they were right.  Soon, we found our guy.  He was just waiting for our call — I picture him leaning up against his truck, smoking a cigar and buffing his nails while thinking of ways to set our money on fire.  

Our guy made good and quick progress.  This was rewarded with third-party endorsements in the form of a not-so-occasional comment from a neighbor about what an improvement we’d made to the property. 

{Translation:  “We were waiting for you to fix this shit up.  If you hadn’t, we’d consider reporting you to the Town for the public beating that occurs on the second Tuesday of the month, or — worse — excluding you from our block’s Christmas Eve Luminary Spectacular.”}

Alrighty then.  Bullet dodged.  We were allowed to stay.  Just in time for winter.

I’ll tell you, it was nice to have the winter off from the Landscaping Olympics.  Sure, there were epic snow blower competitions and plenty of occasions to mock our lack of de-icing salts, but that seemed like small potatoes. 

But now it’s abundantly clear to me that I made a classic rookie mistake.  I was stupid to assume, under the heavy cloak of winter, that nobody was planning their 2011 landscape design concepts over Christmas Dinner and envisioning their thematic topiaries during the fireside chats of multiple housebound snow days.

As for us, we had used our time poorly.  We were asleep at the wheel, fat and happy in our naive view that it was still winter. 

Of course, I missed the note that Opening Day was today. It must be optimal crocus primping time.  Or mulch preparation week.  Without warning, the trucks and lawn equipment besieged the neighborhood at 9:00 this morning — as I leisurely went off to pre-school drop-off.  It was like being caught with my pants down.

And there was our guy — cigar in hand, leaning against his truck with a menacing “Come to Papa” grin at the end of our driveway, basically asking for direct access to our checking account or a vein.

Spring has sprung.  Let the invasion begin.

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Filed Under: New to Town, Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy 9 Comments

The House That Al Gore Furnished

March 16, 2011

{Photo: www.smbceo.com}

“We need another chair in the living room — it still looks kind of bare,” my husband says.

“Hand me the laptop.”

He knows better by now than to suggest we go furniture shopping in person, an exercise in futility that I have pretty much abandoned. 

God Bless the Internet, I say.

Not just because I can log on to Facebook and Twitter, buy cute clothes and all of my groceries do research and get up to speed on hard-pressing issues, but because my family now has places to sit and to eat.  Pretty things on the walls to look at.  Storage solutions galore.  Without Al Gore’s modern invention, it’s very likely that we would still be using boxes or milk crates as furniture, and our son’s pre-school craft projects as decor, a year after buying our  house.

It all started innocently enough after we moved in.  Some decorative accents from Pottery Barn or someplace  similar.  A coffee table.  Pretty bedding, some rugs.  You know, normal Internet buying activity. Nothing crazy.

The turning point for me came when I decided to replace every single light fixture in the house — no small undertaking.  But let’s be honest — I didn’t have the time nor the insurance liability policy to drag a one and three year-old into lighting stores.  There’s a special place in Hell for that kind of torture. Can you hear the sound of glass (and my nerves) shattering to pieces?

So, my keyboard and I conspired with my monitor and some URLs to find a light for every room in the house without seeing a single fixture in person.  And I had a great success rate (except for the sconces that haunt me). 

It was fabulous.  So I kept going. 

A new bedroom set for my son:  Check.  Window treatments:  Check.  The outdoor swing set: Done.

The week before Christmas, I realized we had nowhere to store all of our china that had lived in boxes for years.  And so a new hutch arrived on our doorstep.  What to do about that empty space in the living room begging for a sofa table?  Twenty minutes later, ordered and ready to ship.

I was on a roll, so I moved on to things that I had previously reserved exclusively for in-person shopping visits — items I wanted to sit on, touch, see, ensure comfort in, etc.  A couch, a chair — done and done.  My new opinion:  Sitting on furniture before you buy it is so very 1990s.  If 16 out of 18 online reviewers told me the couch was comfortable, their asses are a fine proxy for mine.  Ship it here, please.

It got a little ridiculous. 

Boxes upon boxes on the front porch.  A familiar exchange with the UPS guy.  An arched eyebrow from my husband.  My new neighbors probably thought I was running an upholstery cartel.  But, hey — it was no different than spending the money in person (yeah, I got some great shipping deals, don’t you worry).  

Hi, Frank. Want to spend Thanksgiving with us?

It was better this way.  Because let me give you a brief list of why I can’t shop with my kids effectively:

  • Something will break.
  • Somebody will cry. 
  • Somebody will be hungry or thirsty.
  • The window of opportunity to make a decision is about 17 minutes.
  • No adult can complete a thought or a sentence.

All of this leads to either giving in to a crappy purchase or leaving empty-handed.  Again.

At home, I type away.  Kids are fed, happy, entertained.  I can even have a glass of wine while spending money.  Everyone wins.

I’m considering how to take this to the next level.  With spring here, who has time to visit those pesky nurseries to pick out plants and flowers?  Google, let’s make a date and get me some landscaping.  And that basement renovation staring me down?  I might need a better monitor for that one.

Maybe you are one of those “I must see it in person” shoppers.  I respect that.  If you have small children, I am in awe of you.  I am particularly in awe of you if your house doesn’t look like this.

My fate without my keyboard

But for me, it’s a losing proposition.  So, I’d say, 95% of our new house was furnished and decorated online.  And most of it happened to work out swimmingly. 

I don’t care to discuss the other 5% right now, because my “must return” pile is an ongoing thorn in my side.

That’s for another day, and a small price to pay in the name of progress.  So, thank you, Al Gore, thank you.

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Filed Under: New to Town, Project Colonial, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 11 Comments

Sheer Value

February 21, 2011

There are certain things you expect to cost a small fortune in life.  Rare jewels.  NYC pre-schools.  Prosthetic limbs.  Eradicating polio.

But window treatments?  Now, that was a rude awakening.

Maybe the guy could smell my desperation.  We’re coming up on a year living in our house, and the main living areas on the first floor have nothing on the windows.  I’m completely tired of the fishbowl effect, and I’m sure my neighbors are sick of seeing me chase two toddlers around in full view.  I mean, we’re not nudists (well, the kids are, at times), so I don’t think we’re offending anyone, but — still — it’s just odd to have no privacy filter.

And why haven’t I just gone out and bought some cheap, makeshift temporary blinds?  The short answer is I don’t know.  The point is that now I’m ready for the real deal.

Or so I thought.

The window guy wants to charge me the equivalent of one child’s future orthodontic work.  He tells me about my 100 year-old windows and how their sizes and shapes are no longer standard.  He tells me how they are also, due to the age of the house, all just more than a little askew.  This, of course, translates to the word you never want to hear.

Custom-Made

I decided to tell P about the quote while we were trapped in endless crosstown traffic in Manhattan on Saturday.  I figured he was a captive audience.  But we were going on 45 minutes to cross two city blocks, so in retrospect, maybe he wasn’t in the best frame of mind.

I remember the look on his face when I told him the quote.  I can only describe it as blinking audibly.  He’s a calm and collected guy and so he had a few questions, which were not dissimilar to my own.  They went kind of like this:

  • Are you sure that’s the number?
  • Seriously?
  • We’re talking about fabric, right? 
  • Fabric?
  • Not replacement windows for the entire house?
  • Is said fabric spun from gold?
  • What else will these insanely priced, custom window treatments do for us?

The last question is a good one.  At that price, we both felt we should get more than some white fabric that drew up and down and rotated to angles to block the sun.  I mean, that was the original intention, but, upon further reflection, here’s what we’d like to see the window treatments do for us at the proposed price point:

–Of course, self clean the fabric.  Also, clean the window panes themselves, and possibly, by extension, the living room in its entirety.

–Rotate on their own to accommodate the position of the sun, and adjust their own height based on the time of day and year.

–Serve as a motion detector and house alarm as necessary.

–Babysit the children when we want to grab a quick dinner in town.

–Produce matching clothes for my kids, spun from the same gold (I’ve always had a soft spot for the VonTrapp kids).

–Write a blog post for me from time to time.

All things being equal, P and I think that these features would help us feel like we are getting sufficient value for our money.  So now I have to circle back to the window guy and discuss these customizations.  Surely he’ll understand.  I mean, everything is open to negotiation, right?

What do you think — am I missing anything we should add to the list?

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Filed Under: Project Colonial, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 14 Comments

Ensconced in Crazy

February 4, 2011

{photo courtesy: http://petelaburn.files.wordpress.com}

When you have things on your mind, do you sometimes choose to focus, or even fixate, on much smaller, less important issues?  I’m sure there’s some sort of official term for it — redirecting, maybe? 

Do you do this?  I think I do.  Here’s why.

I have some things on my mind.  Don’t worry — nothing disastrous or horrible, but enough to keep my brain more than occupied.  Regular life stuff.  But you know what I have decided to focus on instead? 

These.

My hideous entryway sconces.

So, in the category of “highly frivolous but slowly driving me insane,” can we just talk about these for a minute?  That would make me feel better. 

Thanks.  I knew you guys would be there for me.

OK, not to be dramatic, but these sconces haunt me.  I have been trying to replace them for the better part of a year, with no luck. 

Maybe you don’t think they are hideous (in which case, I will ship them to you, or I’ll pay for your eye exam — your choice).  Let’s have a closer look.

Are you with me yet?  Can you see your own reflection in their shiny awfulness?  Do you see how they cast a gold glow that reaches far and wide?

And, no, they are not tucked away.  They are in our front entryway, where I had immediately noticed them the first time we walked into our house as prospective buyers.  I think the morning sunlight bounced off of them and nearly cost me a retina.  But I  dismissed them and figured they could be easily replaced — because I’m not one of those dipshits on House Hunters, who walks away from a home purchase over the wall color or light fixtures.  A quick fix, I thought.

Ah, not so.  Because it turns out that the “easy to replace” approach didn’t factor in some very specific and restrictive measurements — meaning, I can’t install any sconces that are more than exactly six inches deep in this space, or we can’t open the basement door.  And we can’t have that. 

Trust me, I have combed through lighting websites and searched every variable of sconces online until my head throbbed. 

And here’s the conclusion that my research has produced.  Anything under six inches in depth either:

  • looks exactly like what I already have
  • costs a fortune or
  • is even more hideous 

By “even more hideous,” I mean something  like this.

My eyes.  They burn.

It seems we’re at a crossroads, me and my sconces.  So, maybe a more pragmatic approach would  help — like applying the Five Stages of Grief to my dilemma:

  • Denial:  This can’t be hard.  They are just sconces.  Surely I’ll find an easy and quick replacement.
  • Anger/Resentment:  How can this be so hard?  I’m an intelligent person, looking for a damn light on a wall.  And where is the address of the former-former-former owner who shopped at a 1970s Light-o-Rama showroom?  What the hell was she thinking, and why has she done this to me?   I think I hate her.
  • Bargaining:  If I find the right sconces for the right price, I swear I’ll never complain about another fixture in the house.  Or maybe if we spend less on the basement renovation and sacrifice the wet bar, we could spring for the proper sconce solution. 
  • Depression:  I just don’t think there’s a viable answer except to live with the sconces under their far-reaching golden glow.  The members of Fordeville are destined to look jaundiced forever.  Or we could find a new house.  Maybe we should just move.  I hate moving.
  • Acceptance:  I can begin to move on — gradually — to other home projects and overlook the eye sores that greet me in plated faux gold every damn day.  I will start small.  I will frame a print for the kitchen.  Mantra:  My happiness does not come from lighting fixtures.

[Just FYI, I’m still firmly in the Bargaining phase and not ready to move on to Depression or Acceptance yet.]

Alrighty, I think you just got a very generous peek into my crazy Type A mind.  It’s a fun (and well-lit) place to live — there’s really never a dull moment.   

I do realize that my fixation is not really about the sconces themselves (I’m quick like that).  Like I said, sometimes it’s easier to focus on the unimportant.  Not the three year-old with the croup, or the 18 month-old with the ear infection.  Or the distinct possibility that our temporary fill-in nanny stole beer from us last week — and drank it — while caring for our kids.  More on that another time.  Or the pile of other pretty important things I really should be doing right now. 

Nah, I’ll stick with the sconces.  Because crazy lives on a sliding scale.

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Filed Under: Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 18 Comments

Outsourcing Life

January 24, 2011

{Photo courtesy: www.greenandcleanmom.org}

Imagine what you could get done with a personal assistant. 

Just indulge me for a minute.  It has been a long week.  (Wait, it’s Monday?)

It takes very little for the wheels to fall off the wagon around here.  I know it’s because I’m maxed out and trying to do two things equally well — working and parenting.  Ditto for my husband.  The good news is that we have not failed miserably at either of those tasks (yet), but who is doing all of the household stuff in between?  Who will make Operation Fordeville hum if we don’t have the time? 

{Surely you can make the time.  Many working moms do just that.}

OK, correction:  We technically have some time, somewhere.  I guess.  But, who would you rather hang out with in your time away from the office — your kids or your to-do list? 

So, here it is — my fantasy ad to make things run more smoothly.

* * *

WANTED:  Personal Assistant for a working mom on the edge of insanity.  Must be anal rententive, list-oriented and anticipatory.  Mind reading helpful. 

Daily responsibililties will include: 

  • Serve as point person for daily interaction with contractors, repairmen and prospective vendors on various improvement and renovation projects for 100 year-old house.  Conduct related due diligence and present findings/recommendations to employer.
  • Pay household bills in timely fashion and assemble report of spending trends as they relate to family budget.  Liaise with financial planner to ensure ongoing alignment on long-term retirement goals.
  • Handle all incoming mail management, including purging of family name from unwanted lists and physical removal of junk mail to avoid recycling pile the size of small tree.
  • Run various errands, including but not limited to: dry cleaning, grocery shopping, filling prescriptions, various returns of clothing items that don’t look as good in person as they did online, purchasing seasonal items that are consistently overlooked until it’s too late (shovels, sidewalk salt, sunscreen, rakes, family holiday cards, general Christmas preparation, etc.), and, importantly, the identification and purchase of all gifts for children’s friends’ birthday parties.
  • Retrieval and management of all pre-school documenation — permission slips, medical records, monthly tuition and endless RSVPs to birthday parties (see related item on gifts above).
  • Schedule, cancel and reschedule various family medical appointments as needed.
  • Undertake all outstanding home furnishing needs, including outdoor siding color options, replacing hideous ceiling fans and tacky gold entryway sconces that came with the house and finding the right end table for living room. Take initiative to find out what window treatments are all about and which ones employer requires to stop Family Fishbowl lifestyle in full view of neighborhood.
  • Serve as face of Fordeville to neighbors Monday through Friday, baking as necessary.  Participate, appropriately, in any neighborhood gossip sessions and report back full list of names with corresponding house numbers to employer, who still knows nobody on street eight months later.  
  • Present various family vacation options to employer after thorough research and site visits.
  • Ensure that the red and white wine household reserves are kept at an appropriately stocked level at all times.
  • Maintain employer’s real-life (non-Facebook, blog or Twitter) friendships by scheduling monthly girls’ night out or related activity to preserve employer’s sanity.  Also, coordination of babysitters now and then so employer and employer’s spouse may have a civilized meal out of the house and away from all sippy cups.
  • Conduct any and all household interaction with the New Jersey DMV.  No exceptions.

Necessary Qualifications:

Must have experience dealing with very well meaning Type A-yet-coming-undone employer who clocks little to no face time at home Monday through Friday; interaction with two children under age four, even when they wipe their noses on you; total respect for full time nanny; and utter love for a middle-aged snoring pug who begs for people food (please don’t give him any, unless he makes that really sad face when he twists his head to the side).  Ability to type 180 wpm on mobile devices a must.  Knowledge of crock pots and blog design a plus.

* * *

That should do it.  OK guys — now you’ve seen my Domestic Outsourcing Wish List.  What’s on yours?

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Filed Under: Family, Friends, New to Town, Project Colonial, Work Stuff 6 Comments

Pimp My Basement

January 18, 2011

Project Basement Overhaul is forging ahead.  Slowly.  And I am trying to keep my impatience in check — not my strong suit.

But there has been good progress to report.

There has been the ongoing Purging of the Stuff, and I am proud of my hoarding husband for parting ways with many of his treasured items.  I am still not brave enough to post the “before” photo with all of our boxes downstairs, but I will post one of the actual basement condition and (lack of) decor before we officially get the renovation underway.

We just had some work done to create more storage in our attic so that we can move a bunch of the remaining stuff up there, which is nice.  Truth be told, a lot of it is maternity and baby-related.  And I’m not ready to definitively close the door on an additional resident of Fordeville, even though, by all logic, I should be.  (Cue parents of three or more children laughing with an evil snort, while screaming “Sucker!  Don’t do it!” — which is pretty much the, uh, feedback we continue to receive.)  Anyway, so there’s a lot of baby stuff.  Which may or may not get purged soon.  I just don’t know — and I hate to tie life decisions to renovations.  It’s too hard.  So we will put it all out of sight and, at least for now, out of mind. 

I think I just way overshared.  Sorry.

Moving on.

I thought, when we moved from the city into our house, that having an actual family room would be enough in terms of a playspace and all-purpose area.  Because let me paint a mental picture of the city apartment for you:  700 square feet.  Two adults.  Two children.  All of their crap.  Snoring pug.  Smallest bathroom in America.  Sweaters being stored in the oven (because, honestly, I wasn’t using it for much else and it was the most viable drawer space we had).  So the notion of a family room seemed downright luxurious, spacious and totally sustainable. 

Yeah, not so much.  Our kids’ crap has taken over.  Exhibit A:

We can go ahead and file the Thomas Tunnel under “Things that seemed like a good idea at Christmastime but have now taken over my life and may, in fact, mysteriously disappear.”  Just kidding, Mom (she bought this for the kids).  My children would tear me to shreds if the tunnel went missing.  And where else would I hide with a Sunday afternoon cocktail?

Well, funny, I may now have a place just for this. 

We met with our architect over the weekend and he had the close-to-final plans to share.  It was sort of exciting because it brings everything to life — the storage space, the new laundry room, the full bathroom we’re adding.  (Incidentally, if you had told my 25 year-old self that I would ever be this excited about a new laundry room, I would have told you to just shoot me.)

And then, our architect casually points out The. Wet. Bar.

This was totally his suggestion, without us even thinking of it.  Which begs two questions:  1)  *Why* were we not thinking of this?  and 2)  Could I love our architect any more?

So I may or may not have a tendency to get carried away at times.  As I stared at the words “wet bar,” represented by no more than a small box on a piece of paper, I envisioned something like this.  Maybe with Norm (or a neighborhood equivalent) sitting at the end.

I’m kidding.  A little.  I don’t like neon — unless I’m in a casino.

Back to reality.  The box that our architect drew was a much better representation.   The basement is not very big.  We are already squeezing every inch out of it for more practical purposes, so the wet bar will be far more modest.  Think countertop with mini fridge, a sink, some wine storage, maybe a microwave. 

And that totally works for me.  It feels like a reward at the long end of the renovation tunnel. 

Happy hour at my place, guys.  Bring your laundry.

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On the 8th Day of Christmas

December 21, 2010

I’m not a horrible procrastinator but I do cut things pretty close (yes, there’s a difference) — there just isn’t much room for error or regrouping.  I have lists upon lists, divided into sub-lists, and that keep me on track.  If something unexpected goes awry, though, the wheels can quickly fall off the wagon.

And so comes the tale of  how a certain home furnishings company almost pushed me over the edge of holiday sanity yesterday.

We’re hosting 20 people for Christmas dinner.  I’ve never done this before — we always lived in an apartment in Manhattan and simply didn’t have the space.  So while I was excited to have my hostessing debut this year, I hadn’t planned on a massive work deadline basically killing any and all Christmas productivity last week.  I’m behind, let’s say.  But that’s OK — I keep adjusting my lists to put us back on track.

So it was yesterday morning when I said to P that our new area rug for the dining room should be arriving any day/minute.  After months of back-order waiting, it was to have shipped on December 13.  P raised a suspicious eyebrow and thought maybe it was a good idea to check on the shipping status of said rug.   I was sure it was just on the slower end of arrivals due to holiday shipping volumes.  We still had four business days to receive it.  That’s an eternity in Fordeville Productivity Time (as the race to purge the basement continues, almost approaching reality show levels of entertainment).

You can see where this is going.

Let me back up a minute.  You know when you find the *perfect* item for your home and you’re just dying to get it in place?  That’s how I felt about this rug.  I loved it.  I knew it was going to look fabulous.  Silly but true.  And we needed it, not only for acoustic purposes (hardwood floors + 2 toddlers = hearing loss) but also to finish off the dining room where 20 people will be sitting on Saturday for Christmas Dinner. 

Again, you can see where this is going.

I called the company around lunch time yesterday, order number in hand.  A very nice, if not overly mellow, woman named Marilyn typed it in.  Awkward pause.  Then, a far too casual and sort of disbelieving:  “Oh, wow, look at this.  Nobody called you?”

Blood pressure rising.

I assured Marilyn, whom I was quickly starting to dislike, that nobody had called me.  It was at that point that she said this:  “Looks like that rug won’t be shipping until May 30.”

Excuse me? 

I was pretty good, I must say — maybe because I was experiencing denial, as I saw no room in my sub-lists for “purchase new area rug for dining room that you will like just as much and have it arrive by Christmas.”  No dice.  Surely Marilyn was wrong.

Nope.  May 2011 it is.  She felt a little bad, but not at all approaching the level of “let me do something to make this up to you” that I needed in that moment.  Marilyn, you sort of suck.  And I think you are on too many meds because you have a dulled sense of compassion and urgency.  You are also oblivious and  numb to my impending freak out session — which I will try very hard not to take out on you.  But I think I hate you because I have nowhere else to direct my anger right now.

Now I am thinking irrationally.  I know nothing about rug-making but, let me assure you, this was not some custom-loomed Persian magnificence that I ordered.  It was a nice area rug from a large American home furnishings company that sends a catalog to each of you on a regular basis.  I also know nothing of the production chain process in retail.  But somehow my line of questioning toward Marilyn took this turn:

“Well, I’m confused.  Why May?  How can it take that long?” (Mentally,  I added: “Is someone flying to the Far East and hand weaving these — a person who won’t start doing so until, say, mid-March?”) 

Crickets.  Sorry, Marilyn, I know you can’t answer these questions.  It’s not your job to trace my almost-rug’s origins and production path.

I try begging.  Maybe there is just one rug left somewhere they could send to me?  Just because I can’t find time to buy another.  Come on.

Uh, no.  May 2011.

Fine.  At this point I muttered something about  her company ruining Christmas.  She said, distantly, “Oh.  I’m sorry.”

Look, I know I’m being dramatic.  I don’t *need* the rug.  This is not what Christmas is about.  I get it.  Before you tell me to have some perspective and think about, say, Rwanda, I assure you, I am well-aware of how stupid my disappointment is.  I’m pretty sure that my 20 guests won’t walk in and demand to know why I don’t have a dining room rug.  But I’m Type A and I like things how I like them.  And I don’t like adding to my well-crafted lists unexpectedly — especially on December 21.

And clearly Marilyn’s place of employment became the cathartic outlet for my holiday stress.  We all have one.

I gently suggest the following to my nemesis Marilyn:  “How about this?  How about if I find another rug of yours that I like, in stock, you send it to me overnight with no shipping charge.”

Marilyn thought that was a fine idea.  How novel.  Maybe she can use that sometime in the future, being in customer service and all.

In the end, it wasn’t about the rug.  I get that.  We all have our holiday breaking points and anything can set them off.  And I know if left myself just a little more breathing room, a little more leeway for things to not go smoothly all the time, this stuff wouldn’t get to me.

Anyway, I resolved not to spend too much time fixing the whole situation.  It just wasn’t an option if I wanted to have food on the table Saturday and stocking stuffers for my kids.  I took 30 minutes, scoured the Internet and found an almost-identical rug — in stock at a location near our house (read: no crazy overnight shipping).  And, at half price (thanks, Santa — or karma)! 

P is picking it up today, and I will think of Marilyn not-so-fondly as I walk over it and inevitably spill all kinds of things on it this Christmas.

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Filed Under: Holidays, Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy 4 Comments

Look What Santa Brought

November 29, 2010

Did I mention that one of my less glamorous holiday season tasks is to really tackle the basement purge?  We made some headway with our ill-prepared garage sale in October, but we are going to bring in contractors to properly finish the basement after Christmas and that means it has to be cleared out. 

I thought this might be motivating.

Isn't it pretty?

The name really says it all.

I’ve given P a choice — move his stuff into this lovely pod or take up residence in there.  I know the latter choice sounds mean, but in reality, it’s probably not much smaller than our first NYC apartment — he would really be just fine.  Yes, I do joke with him that he’s a borderline hoarder, but let’s just clarify now — he’s not — well, at least not reality show-worthy by any stretch.  And, yes, I’m becoming increasingly Type A  — so the ever-present boxes of old stuff aren’t so funny anymore.  Time to throw. the. shit. out.

Obviously I’m in the holiday spirit — threatening my husband and obsessing over a clean basement.  I’m great at parties. 

While visions of a clean basement dance in my head, I know it will take a while — I’ll keep you posted, if for no other reason than to keep us accountable.  In the meantime, maybe I should go back to more traditional merriment like making pie, drinking wine and Cyber Monday purchasing now.  Ho, ho, ho.

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Filed Under: Holidays, Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 3 Comments

Tales From a Garage Sale Virgin

October 11, 2010

I’m a huge nerd for being so happy about the success of our garage sale this weekend.  I hate clutter, so the purger in me was thrilled by the cleansing aspect of the whole thing.  Plus it’s just fabulous people watching, right in your own driveway.  I didn’t have the nerve to take photos of people as they were shopping (and risk losing the sale), but let me tell you, there are images distinctly embossed in my mind, for better or worse.  Hello, cross-section of America — welcome to the side of my house.

Let me first say that we never made any progress on the prep front.  I mean, none.  My neighbor Donna was in her garage and basement for a couple of nights leading up to the big event, sorting through her stuff and getting it all ready.  She made all the signs to hang up around town (which were fabulous).  My meager contribution was a posting on Craigslist.

P and I vowed Friday night, right in line with our last-minute ways, to get into that basement and at least mentally sort through what was staying vs going.  Didn’t happen — I fell asleep on the couch at 9:00.  We rolled ourselves outside at 6:45 Saturday morning (for a 9am start time, now advertised all over town) and found Donna had practically set up a retail establishment in her driveway.  Apparently, while we foolishly slept, she had been outside until midnight and back out there at 5am getting ready.  She had so much stuff, all organized and merchandized.  Racks of clothing hanging up.  Rows of shoes.  Major furniture.  And a bunch of items in between.  She had a nice little home base table with a calculator and a fanny pack full of small bills and change.  Donna was a garage sale rock star.

We were humbled novices.

We were dragging our stuff up from the basement and realizing that this garage sale was forcing life decisions.

“Aren’t we putting all the baby stuff out for sale?”

“I don’t know, are we?  What if we need it again?”

Family planning conversations in the driveway at sunrise before coffee — yes, we were sorely underprepared.

But I will tell you that it all went unbelievably well.  Donna’s signs brought us tons of foot traffic, despite the early birds (What is with these people?   You have to show up for first dibs 30 minutes before start time?).  And we had a perfect weather day.  I’m sort of convinced Donna arranged that as well. 

For me and my Type A-ness, I really just wanted the stuff gone.  Yes, I was happy to get money for it but the value of purging it far outweighed its retail value in my mind. 

And because we have a little history of keep vs purge debates in our marriage, there were a few items that we each were keeping a watchful eye on during the sale. 

Item #1:  P’s rollerblades.  I have known him since 1999 and have never witnessed him on rollerblades, though he insists on moving them from home to home with us over the years.  (Sold!)

Item #2:  Rolling dice glassware set.  This is a very kitschy set that was gifted to us.  P wanted to get rid of it.  I don’t love it but it has some sentimental value to me.  (Not sold — though plenty of folks considered it, or maybe just pointed at it.)

Item #3:  Bucket of noisy children’s books.  I’m all for cute kids’ books, but you know that feeling of wishing for a particularly noise-making book to break?  I was done with some of the key offenders in this category and felt other families may not be annoyed as easily by them.  Many noisy books sold, except for the one I hate most — because I was dumb enough to keep it in plain sight where my son could notice and promptly reclaim it.  (Epic fail.)

Overall, I’d say we sold 90% of what we put out there — and managed to make some good money too.  So it was ok to be underprepared.  I think my sales associates were also helpful and quite charming.

My daughter handled the rug and pillows department.

And my son was the general greeter/sales manager.

So why is there still so much stuff in my basement?  We may have to do this again, come springtime.

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, New to Town, Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy, To-Do Lists Extraordinaire 5 Comments

Operation Basement Purge

October 1, 2010

Six months in, I still don’t know my neighbors very well.  They are all very nice people, but the reality is that I’m not home much during the week and we just haven’t made it much beyond quick hellos in passing. 

But in one of these passing conversations in our adjancent driveways over the summer, my neighbor Donna and I got to talking somehow about junk in our houses and how it multiplies over time, etc.  She suggested a joint garage sale and, at the time, I thought it was great.  Yes, we said, let’s do that in the fall before it gets too cold out.

So Donna called me yesterday and, apparently, the time is now.  As in, next weekend.  I admire her ambition because, I think — at least from what she described — she is as ill-prepared as I am to get this together in a week.  But it’s now or never (well, now or springtime) and next weekend is the only time we could get our schedules to align in October. 

This seems like a bit more than I can deal with right now.  If you saw my basement, you might cry for me.  But I hate, HATE the clutter and we are hoping to refinish the basement before Christmas, so this seems to be the best motivating force we could have.  Go Donna.

Donna and I agreed to see how much respective progress we could make this weekend in getting our stuff organized enough to hit the Go button.  It’s going to be an interesting weekend. 

I’ll fill you in after the Official Assessment of Plausibility.  And with that, I’m fairly confident I’ll have an opportunity to cover one of the core yin and yang debates in my marriage:  Keep vs Toss.  More to come.

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, New to Town, Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy Leave a Comment
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