Despair, Denial and No Ketchup

October 21, 2011

The strangest thing happened yesterday.

A truck pulled up to the house.  Filled with construction guys.  To work on my basement.  The basement that is almost complete.  But only in an alternate universe where “almost complete” means total lack of progress for four consecutive weeks.

Potato, potahto.

So it turns out I can cancel that APB  I was about to put out on my General Contractor (clearly I watch too many crime/forensics shows).  And the handmade “Missing” flyer that I considered posting on my local utility poles.   You know, complete with little fringy tabs with my phone number across the bottom — and a photo of me giving the finger.

But it seems, after the strange appearance of the truck, we can call off the dogs.  At least for now.

How did we get here?  I get this question a lot.  Actually, the question I get more often is “What the hell is going on with your basement? ”

And the honest answer is that I’ve lost track how we got here (which is nowhere, for the record) at this point.  I know this much is true:

–We made a decision to drop the basement floor down to give us more headroom.

–This decision exposed parts of the foundation on our 100 year-old house that needed to be reinforced.  As in, there were piles of rocks in their original 1909 formation, a la Blair Witch Project.  These piles may or may not continue to hold up the house over the long term now that we have dropped the floor down.

–As a result, new plans and inspections were required in terms of how the foundation work would be accomplished.

–As best as I can recall, it was right about here that weeks of finger pointing between the architect, the town’s building inspectors, the mason and the contractors ensued.  Just when you thought one person was holding us up, that person would tell us it was someone else.  And so on.

–Four weeks passed like this.  With an insufficiently secure foundation.  Which has resulted in floors buckling, door frames shifting and walls cracking.  While we waited for the Finger Pointing Tournament to reach the next round.  Or for the house to fall.

I recently broke down and begged my husband to go batshit crazy on have a reasonable discussion with our General Contractor.

Because, remember, while fingers were being pointed and floors buckled, our heat was also not restored to some rooms, and the work has left an exposed hole from the house to the elements.  (For the calendar and weather-challenged folks out there:  It’s almost November in New Jersey, aka we’re screwed).  And I continue to forbid my kids from using any condiments on their food because we have no laundry machines.  They’ve been eating very bland meals since August 22.

And they miss ketchup, my kids.  A lot.  Also, I’m kind of weirded out by the fact that I’m considering adding the laundromat manager to my Christmas card list at this point.

So.  At my urging, my husband tried to go batshit crazy have a reasonable conversation with our GC.  But.  His voice mail box was full.

Every day.

Where does one go from here?

Well, I got some good suggestions from people about next steps.  Like call one of those Consumer Action reporters.  Or even the HGTV Holmes on Homes dude (who I may or may not have a renovation crush on).  Or get meds to keep my frail remnants of sanity intact.  Oh, and I got some great leads on space heaters.

It was right about then that our GC returned from the missing and got back on his game.  It seems.

So the work has resumed and our five-week summer/early fall project may wrap up before 2012.

In related news, I no longer give a shit.  That’s the sad truth.  I’ve gone from rage and frustration to total detachment and apathy.  I am ignoring it.  I’m burying my head in my pile of outsourced laundry and pretending the whole damn basement no longer exists.  I don’t care anymore.

As you can imagine, this is a problematic approach for several reasons.  The biggest of which is the fact that some major decisions still have to be made.

My husband knows I’m at my limit.  Tonight, he suggested, as a joke, that we can roll with my whole denial approach and then I can have the Big Reveal Moment at the end.  A la HGTV.  I then suggested we take it up a notch.  Let’s take the pressure off of him with the remaining decisions — we could have the blog readers vote on options and make the final choices.

On my second glass of wine at the end of another long week without condiments, the Big Reveal/Let the Blogosphere Decide option seems pretty compelling.  Maybe I should pitch this somewhere.

Or.  You guys could just do me a favor:  Adopt a vigilante/mob mentality and break my GC’s knees.  Or at least restore his voice mail box.

—–

 

Separately, a huge thanks to all of you who have commented on the post about my Aunt Debbie to help raise $100 for the Susan G Komen Foundation.  You guys rock.  If you haven’t commented, it’s not too late — October 31 is the deadline.  And I will nag you all until the bitter end.

I’m about 30% there.  Spread the word!

 

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Money in Flames: Parking Edition

October 3, 2011

 

I’m thinking of starting a series here called How to Set Money On Fire.  Maybe I will. Because, sometimes — regrettably — my husband and I are better at this than we should be.

Don’t get me wrong.  We don’t look to waste money.  Nor are we sitting on a gold mine where these things go unnoticed.  It’s just that, at times, it would probably be faster to light money on fire than to go through the headache of how it was put to waste.  Like taking a three year-old to Disney World who only wants to ride the {free} monorail around the perimeter of the property — after we’ve already paid in limbs for park admission.

That kind of stuff.

And we have today’s example:  Commuter Parking.

You may remember past references I’ve made to the absurd wait lists here in my town.  Namely, for the town pool and for commuter parking at the train station.

We’ve conquered the pool wait list, thanks to my craftiness.  Now, the parking.

This issue directly impacts my husband, not me.  And I would be more passionate about it if I still commuted.  But, six months out, that morning routine is still fresh enough in my memory that I can offer full empathetic rage to P about where he can park his car for the privilege of boarding NJ Transit.

Here are the facts:

1)  We have been on the wait list for 18 months to get a permit for the commuter lot.  A resident permit.  In the town where we live and pay taxes.

2)  Without said permit, there are several equally unattractive options:

–Walk the mile each way from our home to the station.  Which sounds all noble/peaceful/eco-friendly/pick your adjective here.  But the truth is that we are not people who allow enough time for this in the morning.  We know our limits.  It would be a disaster.

–Arrive at the station early enough to purchase a $5 non-permit spot from a police officer who sits there every morning for this purpose.  Sounds easy enough, right?

No. Here’s why.

It’s a secret as to exactly how many spots the officer will sell each day — depending, he says, on factors like snow or construction.  Or, it seems, the mood of his sergeant — based on whether or not he had chicken pot pie the night before.  It’s that random.  One morning, 50 spots for sale.  The next, 15.  You have to factor in other variables like rain (fewer people walk, spots go quickly), day of the week (easier on Fridays, crazy on Mondays) and time of year (winter is harder than summer).  And the only way to know if the officer has anything left is if his lights are flashing (that means sold out).  Of course, you can’t see this until you’ve already sped at an illegally fast pace pulled into the lot and passed up your next option, which is the following.

–Pay $5 to park at the gas station up the street.  The one that’s between home and the train station — and to which P must backtrack after seeing the unfortunate Sold Out lights on the officer’s car.  Then you basically leave your keys with a random gas attendant, throw him $5 and sprint for the train, while waving nicely at the officer with the Sold Out lights so that he might cut you a break someday when you forget to feed the meter at Starbucks.  Hypothetically, of course.

It’s an awesome way to start the day.  Totally not stressful.

So you can imagine my husband’s joy when he received a call last week that the town had a spot available for him.

At the secondary lot.

The secondary lot?

Yeah.

You have to go through Parking Purgatory to get to Parking Heaven in our town.  And we’re told we should expect to spend another four to five years waiting in purgatory.

Here’s the best part:  The secondary lot is way further away than the gas station option.  And obviously further away than paying the parking cop at the train station.

There is absolutely nothing beneficial about this.  So we’ll just pass on this lot and wait for our name to come up for the main lot.  OK?

NO.  Not OK.  Presumably, the same municipal maniacs who preside over the town pool nonsense have also stated that we must take the purgatory spot to stay on the list for the main lot.

And herein lies the setting of the money on fire.

Because, again — knowing how we are and how close we cut things — the likelihood is pretty slim that my husband is going to get to the purgatory lot in time to walk over and make his train.  Especially once winter comes.  He will very likely just pull into the train station, pray that the Sold Out lights aren’t flashing on the cop car and make it easy on himself.  And I can’t blame him.  Even with that shiny new purgatory lot permit sticker in the window.

So.  We’ll be paying for the purgatory lot, which we now view as a Waiting Fee, while P also spends $5/day either with the cop or the random gas station dude.

Money.  On fire.

We’re not proud of it, but it’s the ugly truth.

Maybe he should reconsider walking.

And if you guys have any tales of Money in Flames, now would be a good time to throw them out there — just so I feel a little better.

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The Untold Terror of Halloween

October 2, 2011

Last year was our first year living in the suburbs for Halloween.  And we totally underestimated what a big deal it was.  On several levels.

Not this year.  We’ll be ready.  Bring it, I say.

But before I can join my neighbors in Christmas-level outdoor decorations and buying enough candy to feed a small country, I have to get the basics done.

That means costumes for my kids.  Which, it turns out, is the real terror behind Halloween.

Because, at ages four and two, they have definite opinions about their costumes.  Which would be fine if said opinions did not change, on average, every 7-9 minutes.  And were not accompanied by numerous public tantrums.

I’ve tried several strategies to take the pain out of this process.  For example, I don’t ask open-endedly anymore “So, what do you want to be for Halloween?”  Because that’s just signing up for pain, coated in confusion and sprinkled with disappointment.  When given this free-wheeling positioning, my kids will either choose obscure characters or overly specific creatures {e.g., not just a dinosaur, but a purple Brachiosaurus} whose likenesses are impossible to purchase.  They are even more impossible to recreate, particularly if you have my distinct lack of artistic vision coupled with zero crafting execution.  Or desire.

We’ve got to keep the economy running, people.  I’m buying costumes.  There will be plenty of years to make them.

I also try to steer their choices, so that we are dealing with something that 1) I can easily purchase {see above} and 2) is not totally inappropriate {nothing trampy for my daughter or violent for my son}.

See, I’m all reasonable and practical.  Let them choose, but help manage their choices so it’s not overwhelming.  Or annoying.

Let me tell you how well my strategies worked today during a few stops at costume stores: Epic fail.

They were driving me crazy.  One minute, they each had four costume choices in their hands.  The next, they wanted nothing.

The feigned excitement in my voice became absurd with each new suggestion:

“What about The Backyardigans, you guys?  What do you mean you don’t like them?  You begged for four episodes at breakfast.”

“Oh look, a cowboy and cowgirl!  No, it doesn’t have a horse but we can pretend, and — Guys?  Where are you?”

“Pirates are awesome!  How about pirates?  Yes, there are girl pirates, but their skirts should be longer.”

“The Cookie Monster!  You’ll love this. Remember, you love cookies.  It’s blue and furry — and probably comes with cookies in the sleeves.  Come on!”

Then I got it in my head that it would be fun to have them in some sort of pairing.  You know, Mickey and Minnie.  Red Riding Hood and The Wolf.  A baker and a cupcake.

Nobody was biting.  So to speak.

Then, my kids just got lame with their suggestions.  Or maybe they were hungry.

“Oh, you found one?!  A banana??  Really?  Well, no.  No, because, that’s just, well, not very fun and you’ll thank me later, quite honestly.”

I mean, come on, kids.  We have to represent here.

But, hey — they are children.  They should absolutely enjoy Halloween and feel some ownership/excitement about their choices.  So I just want them to pick something that they will still like 28 days from now.

Time is ticking.  I’m looking at the costume websites with their SOLD OUT red letters becoming more and more prominent.  Because the catalogs started coming in July.  Right before the Christmas stuff started showing up in August.

So we’ll regroup and try again in a few days.  But I have a few threats ideas in the meantime.

Threat Idea 1:  Garden Gnomes

They are creepy as Hell.  They totally scream Halloween.  Or The Full Monty, depending on your frame of reference.  They also scream “My mom chose this for her own entertainment and I had no say.”  Which is what it may come to if they don’t pull through with something soon.

Threat Idea 2:  Seed of Chucky and {not pictured} Bride of Chucky

Yeah, I know — totally and entirely inappropriate.  But let this be a warning about my Halloween sanity meter.

* * *

But.  Guess what?  We did make one key purchase and I’m so excited about it.

The dog’s costume.

It’s true.  I dress up Señor most years.  He was pretty pissed the time I got him a sombrero and cape and dressed him as, well, a señor.  Sort of.

And he’s still getting over last year’s hot dog gig.  But he was totally the hit of the neighborhood, even if we didn’t speak for a while afterwards.  He was all blah, blah, blah, animal cruelty, blah, blah, I want bacon, blah, blah.

 

But, today, amidst my kids’ indecisive insanity, my husband spotted a great dog costume.  We tried it on Señor this afternoon and he seemed pretty OK with it.  I can’t wait to show you.

But not until the I dress the small humans here for trick-or-treating.  Even if they end up with banana costumes.

 

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Remember: Laundry is a Privilege

September 19, 2011

Do you hate doing laundry?  Please don’t.

I’m here to ask you to re-think your position on this.

Why?  Because, my friends, you have the privilege of doing laundry.  Yes, that’s right, the privilege.  You are able to do the following while laundry is cleaned:  Stay in the comfort of your home.  Wear pajamas.  Drink wine.  Watch really bad TV.  Multi-task.

Here, in the Land of the Endless Basement Renovation, there is no in-home laundry nirvana.  I’m clearly not alone in the world, or there would be no laundromats.  But, I’m sorry, I would rather pull out my eyelashes, one by one, than entertain my two children in a laundromat for several hours.  Call me weak — it’s just not in me.  So I’ve explored my other options.

1)  Become the Kato Kaelin of Laundry.  In this model, I turn up at the homes of friends and relatives with pounds and pounds of my family’s dirty clothes.  This requires that I stay for an extended period of time and impose upon them.

I tested this approach in my post-Irene-I-don’t-want-to-be-Amish-anymore escape to my in-laws’ place last month.  It worked out well.  So I took it up a notch.  Which meant we may or may not have shown up at my mother’s recent family BBQ with no fewer than six loads of laundry.  It was like coming home from college.  With a husband and two kids.  Except now I buy the good detergent.  {And of course I brought her an appetizer for the party, if that at all makes up for our classy arrival.}

I’ve had multiple friends in town offer to have my laundry and me come over, which is so nice.  And though I’ve politely declined, I can’t swear I will continue to turn them down much longer.  It will be a feat of strength.

Especially after my recent experience with Laundry Option #2.

2)  Use the Drop-Off Wash & Fold. I assumed I could totally do this.  After all, I did it for years when I lived in the city.  Because, even when you live in a building with laundry “facilities,” they are often housed in a makeshift boiler room that surely doubles as the NYC Serial Killer Headquarters.

So, somewhere between another basement “development,” the loss of water in the house {again} and the decision to go forth with Operation Presto Chango To Hold Up the House, I needed to get out of the belly of the beast and go clean a ton of clothes.  One dollar per pound?  I’m in.  I’ll give you two.

What relief I felt dropping off my clothes.  If memory served from my NYC wash & fold life, I would get to come back in a few hours and my 30 pounds of laundry — which took me three trips to haul inside — would miraculously come back to me folded like origami in one small sandwich-sized bag.

I picked the wrong place.

When I arrived for pick-up, all happy and looking forward to reuniting with pieces of clothing I hadn’t worn in weeks, I was instead greeted by this:

“Oooooh, it’s you.  Uh, hi.”

“Hi.  What’s wrong?  Where’s my sandwich bag?”

“Wellllll.  Your laundry accidentally got combined with someone else’s.”

{Blinking audibly}

“So, if you could just take a few minutes to go through this basket and pick out your stuff, that would be great.”

{Internal screaming}

And that’s what we did.  My two kids and me.  We picked through about 50 pounds of laundry to pull out everything that belonged to us.  Along the way, I was lucky enough to say the following things:

“Oh God, that pair of very European men’s underwear does not belong to us.  And it’s lying on top of my daughter’s pajamas.”

“Ugh, these briefs are not ours.  And you might want to use extra bleach next time.”

Remember:  I have a Purel addiction.  So you can imagine how well I took to this turn of events.  Yeah, it has all been cleaned, I know.  But.  Still.

And so ended my affair with this particular wash & fold establishment.

With no upcoming family gatherings or cocktail parties to which I can haul my laundry, where does this leave me?  Clearly things need to change so that I can minimize the mountain of dirty clothes.  I could insist my kids eat in the nude.  Or color while wearing Hazmat suits.  Or get an overnight catheter for my four year-old.  These are just ideas I’m throwing around.

In the meantime, remember:  Your laundry is a privilege.

And, yes, that’s me in your driveway with two big baskets of dirty clothes, my naked kids and a bottle of fabric softener.  Can I come in for a while?

 

 

 

 

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A User’s Guide to Welcoming Fall

September 15, 2011

 

“Hiii!  How was your summer?”

I hear this everywhere.  It’s the standard back-to-school or I-haven’t-seen-you-in-a-while greeting.

Mine sucked.  Can I tell people that?  Too much, right?

Yeah, so I’ve been using this euphemism, with a smile: “Oh, you know, it was crazy…”  Because, otherwise, I become that weirdo who overshares in the pre-school parking lot.

{Not to be confused with the weirdo who overshares online several times a week.}

So, as my Summer of Discontent officially winds down, I should be happy to welcome a new season.  And I am.  I love fall the most.  The crisp air.  The foliage.  It’s nice not to have to worry 24/7 about acquiring an ER-level sunburn or wearing a bathing suit.

It will be a nice little reset button for me.  Just a few little transition bumps to work out first, like these:

  • Dressing the kids for school when we often have a 30+ degree temperature swing in a single day.  I found myself putting long sleeves and pants on my son the other morning — with sunscreen on his face.  He asked me if it was going to be hot or cold outside and I said, “Yes.  And don’t forget your umbrella.”
  • Surviving Parent Volunteer Season.  I feel like I am dodging people in parking lots and grocery stores all over town.  There was even a narrow escape on the treadmill at the gym, where I may or may not have faked a leg cramp.  Come, sign up to be class parent!  Or chaperone a field trip!  Or just give us some money to absolve yourself from any list. {OK by me on that last one  — I’ll buy my way out, thankyouverymuch.}
  • The return of skinny jeans.  Which, I’m sorry, get smaller each year.  And now, to add insult to injury, I am seeing — gasp — high-waisted skinny jeans.  I believe these are also known as tights.
  • The reality of how much I underestimated the in-town space/time continuum when putting our fall schedule together.  For example, that ten minute gap between drop-offs at the different pre-schools (don’t ask — long story) — no problem, I thought.  Not only was I beyond wrong, but as a result, I am now the face of Suburban Road Rage.  I will likely be arrested by Columbus Day.
  • Making substantial concessions to allow for what I call the Off-Season Fruit Budget.  When your kids like a total of five foods, and most of them happen to be summer fruits like berries or melons, now is the time when one begins to dig deep into one’s pockets for uninterrupted access to these items.  Probably because they have to be imported from Papua New Guinea or somewhere equally convenient.
  • Easing into the required adjustment period for seasonal drink allegiances.  For example, transitioning from iced to hot coffee (and perhaps thinking about those pumpkin spiced lattes, chai, etc).  And, in my case, from white wine to red.  As you may know, I have strong feelings for both my caffeine and wine, so this is not to be taken lightly.  I find it’s best not to go cold turkey on these things — sort of like a methadone approach.
  • The onset of Halloween Mania.  Things are already selling out.  It’s also time when all pre-schoolers change their minds four times a week about this year’s costume preference.  Choices will invariably include the impossible, obscure character.  This week, it’s Finn McMissile from the Cars 2 movie.  Oh, but not the standard version — that won’t do — it has to be the submarine configuration from that one scene in the movie that a certain four year-old still remembers from June.
  • Giving up the sandals and other open-toed shoes.  Boo.  Hiss.  This means socks must be located for each member of the family.  Preferably in pairs.  {Related:  Finding a good toenail polish color for autumn that no longer screams “I’m going to the town pool with my pina colada” — I mean, if we were allowed to smuggle booze in.  Because I never would if it were forbidden, you know.}

That should do it.  Once I get through these minor adjustments, I’m ready to officially let go of The Worst Summer Ever and enjoy a new season.

Did I miss anything?  Are you guys ready for fall, or are you mourning the end of summertime?

Or — worse — are you running around in high-waisted skinny jeans, chasing down parents in the grocery store to volunteer at school?

 

 

 

 

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Grilled Cheese and Politics

September 5, 2011

My dad’s annual visit from the wilds of Montana is winding down, and we’ve had a great week.

First, there was the much-anticipated trip to Northlandz, the world’s largest model railway.  My two small train junkies love this place.

 

Second, there has been plenty of food — mostly revolving around hitting up some of my dad’s old favorites from his days as a NJ dweller.  Before he embraced his River Runs Through It lifestyle.

Third, we’ve had lots of family time — with my sisters, my aunts and uncles.  It’s always nice to get everyone together.

And, in between, there was the ongoing and unintentional “Could I handle a third child?” test.  I’m  not saying my dad acts like or is as needy as a child.  But there have been times when he has contributed to the household chaos.  And it surfaced mainly in three categories:  Technical Assistance, Time Checks and Political Banter (where our views are 180 degrees apart — sort of like a father/daughter Carville and Matalin).

These comments and questions were often layered over the already-screeching Toddlerspeak within the house.  Like this:

—–

Child 1:  “I neeeeed juuuice.”

Dad:  “What time is it?”

Child 2:  “Can weeeeee watch Doooooora?”

Dad:  “Is it time for The O’Reilly Factor?”

—–

Child 1:  “Where are the cooookiiieees?”

Dad:  “Any idea what the time is?”

Child 2:  “I waaaant to go to the plaaaaaayground.”

Dad:  “Nancy Pelosi is the most hated woman in America.  She is ruining our lives.”

—–

Child 1:  “Nooooo naaaaaap.”

Dad:  “You got the time?”

Child 2:  “Diiiiegggggo.”

Dad:  “If Obama can’t truly support tort reform, this country can never be fixed.  What channel is Fox News again?  How do you turn off Dora so I can catch O’Reilly?”

—–

Child 1:  “Grillllllled cheeeeese.”

Dad:  “What’s the time?”

Child 2:  “Noooo grillllled cheeese.  Macaroniiiiii.”

Dad:  “I think I just wiped out all of your bookmarks on the computer.  Did you need them?”

—–

Child 1:  “Nooooo carrotttts.”

Dad:  “What time do you have?”

Child 2:  “Noooo, noooo, NOOOOOO.”

Dad:  “I think I deleted your DVR shows.  How do I record Fox?”

—–

 

To be clear:  I love my dad.  I see him once a year, so I really look forward to his visit.  And I have so enjoyed having him here.

But.

I can’t talk policy with a level head and make grilled cheese at the same time.

I don’t know where Fox News is because it has never been shown in this house.

My ears can only process so much at once when both of my kids are whining.

And.

The time?  I don’t have an internal time chip — and I don’t use the position of the sun.  I am, in fact, looking at the same clocks that are available for your reference while staying here, Dad.  You’ll find one in each room.  Or check the cable box while watching O’Reilly.

So.  For Christmas — I’m’ thinking this.

And this.

That being said, I’ll definitely be sad when he and his right-wing agenda go home for another year.

But — oh God — next year is an election year.  I don’t know what we’re going to do.

 

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Where the Ground Shook All Day

August 23, 2011

I feel the Earth.  Move.  Under my feet…

But not from the earthquake.  I missed it.  You know why?

Because I was having my own personal, all-day earthquake at home as part of Renovation, Day Two.  Yes, the ccccoonnnstttant jackhammmmmmering in the bbbbbbasssemmmennnnt today rendered me useless in recognizing an East Coast seismic event.

They say pets are often the first to pick up on these types of things.  I saw all kinds of quirky animal videos on the news today, with dogs barking fiercely, ears up in the air — at the ready to alert their owners to potential danger.

Here? Not so much.

My dog’s only source for concern was whether the earthquake was going to force him to move off of his comfortable perch.  Atop the mound of clean laundry I completed just before the machines were ripped out of the basement.  So much for that effort.

So.  How’s Project Pimp My Basement going?

Let’s just say I’m leery when one has the following “development” on Day Two.

See this?

This is the interior door to my basement from our front hallway.  All taped up like a crime scene so that dust is contained and all the magic happens behind the curtain.  Like Oz.

Now.  See this?

Why, that’s not my basement.  It’s my kitchen.  With a square sawed into it.

Just for fun.

To make a very long story short, three guys stood in my house today with looks of surprise.  It seems that what was believed to be a proper plumbing vent in the basement is not actually functional for the purposes of our renovation.  So they need to access one that is up on the main floor of the house.

You can imagine my reaction to them standing in my kitchen, gesturing with a saw — “Just to take a look in there.”

After being pleased with what they found in my kitchen, I was told that, sometime Wednesday, that little sawed-out hole will expand greatly to expose the plumbing guts of this area.  You know, where I cook meals.  Where my kids pass through to get around the first floor.  Where we were not supposed to feel any impact  of the basement renovation.

Day Two.  I think we’re off to a smashing start.  Say it with me:  Domino Effect.

I know I should expect hiccups.  Especially with a house that is 100 years old.  I know.  I also know my nerves aressshotttttt from the jaccckkkkhammmmer.  So never mind that our water is brown and not warming up beyond tepid.  When it’s not cut off altogether.

It’s like camping, but at home.  See — my Purell addiction is not without merit at times like these.

But, hey, good news.  My kids don’t seem quite so loud anymore compared to the jaccckkkhammmmer.

As for the weekend Battle of Keep vs Purge to empty said basement?  Don’t you worry, I have a proper recap brewing in my head, complete with photographic artifacts.  Some fantastic finds — more on that soon.  But I will say, for now, that having that dumpster in the driveway is so freeing.  I love it.  Everyone should have one.  If they were prettier, I mean.

Now, back to wondering if I should just rip out the entire kitchen back splash.  You know, since they’re cutting into it anyway, and I never really liked it.  Then I’d need new matching granite.  And cabinets, of course.  Maybe even some upgraded appliances…

 

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Filed Under: Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy 8 Comments

The Renovation Sanity Meter

August 20, 2011

On Monday — at long last — Project Pimp My Basement gets underway.  It’s a big job.  Total demolition.  Re-zoning heat, moving the furnace, upgrading electricity.

It’s a total and complete overhaul.  Right now, it’s an unfinished space, filled with boxes and old toys and, well, everything (more on this below).  If I had a few drinks in me, I might have the guts to post some “before” photos.  Sorry.

Anyway, the end goal is to create some great additional living space, both for us and for the kids’ stuff.  Everything will be new.  Like my laundry room, complete with machines that were made in this century.  And the wet bar.  Because I clearly need a place to sit and stare at the pretty new front-loaders.

The sad reality is that, when this is all done, our basement is going to be the nicest part of our house.  By far.

The general contractor said the job should take five weeks.  So I’m mentally banking on six to eight weeks.  Let’s see where we land.  I think we all know that you’ll be along for the ride.

But first.

Important business.

Uh, we have to empty the basement.  This weekend.  Top to bottom.

Have I mentioned that my husband and I have an ongoing difference in world views on keeping versus purging?  He’s a hoarder keeper and I’m a purger.  Mostly.  Unless it’s stuff that I like, and then it stays regardless.

So, in what could be the premise for a bad reality show, he and I will basically lock ourselves in the basement all weekend and duke it out over what stays and what gets tossed into this eyesore in my driveway.  I’ll think of it as inspiration.

Today’s marital showdown will really be just be the tip of the iceberg in testing my Renovation Sanity Meter.  Because, come Monday morning, the crew arrives and the following things will begin to transpire.  All of which are not on my list of That Which I Tolerate Well:

–Noise

–Dust

–Strangers walking around

–People asking me to make decisions on the spot

–A Port-a-Potty in my driveway (not for us, for the crew)

–Revoked access to do laundry

–Did I mention noise and dust?

 

Don’t you worry, I’ll keep you guys posted.  But if you don’t hear from me by, say, Tuesday, you might send someone to check on my sanity.

But there is one bright spot in this weekend’s project.  In our spare basement fridge — the one we use for entertaining — we have a generous supply of wine and beer.  Without anywhere else to put it, things could get interesting in the Battle of Keep Vs. Purge.

And now I’m off to do my Farewell Laundry Loads in these antiques.

 

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Filed Under: Family, Food & Drink, Project Colonial, That Which Drives Me Crazy 8 Comments

A Week of Freaky

July 28, 2011

Yikes — a week without a blog post went by.  That’s what happens when you run away with Bono after last Wednesday’s epic U2 show.  Oh wait — that was only in my head.

Speaking of things I may or may not exaggerate in my head, let me tell you about a few recent oddities.

1)  Blackout Flashbacks/Panic

If you were in one of the 40-something states under extreme heat advisories last week, you know that it was the ugly side of summer.  Here in New Jersey, we had a brutal stretch of 100+ degree temperatures. 

I hate the heat.  It makes me cranky.  Because, at the end of the day, there is only so much clothing you can remove.  You know, without getting arrested. 

You know what else I hate?  A power outage during a heat wave.  Which is what happened last Friday afternoon.

At first I thought it would be quick.  Don’t ask me why.  Mainly because, I figured, it just had to be.  Because my house heating up to 93 degrees was totally unacceptable.  But there we were, an hour later, at 93 degrees inside.  And climbing. 

I started to have flashbacks to the massive blackout of August 2003.  The one when I had the good fortune of living in the last neighborhood in NYC to have power restored a day later.  The one when my block started to look like downtown Baghdad with looting and limited food.  When my sister and I sat in my sweltering fourth-story walk-up apartment with a transistor radio on our ears, just to understand what was going on. 

That one.

But the truth is that last Friday was nothing like the 2003 episode.  Because only eight houses on my block lost power (there’s that geographic luck again) and because I could load my family up in my air-conditioned car to drive around, go out to dinner and get ice cream.  It’s an SUV, so I figured we could live there for a while if need be. 

Blackouts make me dramatic, I guess.  And, as you may have guessed, it never became necessary to move into our SUV.  Five hours later, the AC was cranking inside again.

2)  The Bear

In the camp of more legitimate drama, I have this.  Last week, a bear cub made his way through the neighborhood before being captured.  We don’t live in a rural area and, frankly, I didn’t sign up for a town that comes with menacing animals.  So I was freaked out.  And promptly considered moving back to Manhattan, where the wildlife mainly consists of insane humans.

With the cub in captivity, everyone was relieved.  Except me.  Because all I could do in my paranoid head was wonder: “Where is the pissed off mother bear, looking for her cub?”

This was met with collective eye rolling. 

Until.

Last Sunday, we had my daughter’s birthday party with about 30 people in our back yard.  You know, because it was down to a chilly 92 degrees, and that was refreshing.  I’m on the lawn and I notice something out of the corner of my eye.

No, not a bear.

It looked like a massive black mushroom in the grass.  And I don’t want to get overly detailed here but the important information is that it was a giant pile of, uh, waste.  That did not come from a dog.  No way.

My husband also raised an eyebrow at this.  But we decided it wasn’t really backyard BBQ conversation, so we enjoyed the chill in the 92-degree air.

The next night, after a few cocktails with one of my dearest friends and her husband — who were visiting from out of town — we decided to re-open the mysterious case of the Unidentified Yard Poop.

At the risk of stating the obvious, Google really is magnificent.  How else do you go about identifying random piles of poop in your yard? I’ll spare you the images. 

You’re welcome.

And according to Google, it came from a bear. 

Holy shit.  {No pun intended}

A bear.  In. My. Yard.  Where my kids play.  Where my small dog, who can easily resemble an oversized kielbasa, hangs out. 

Why did we leave the city?  Oh, how I suddenly missed those oversized mutant urban rats.

So I called the local Animal Control office.  It went something like this.

“Hi, I had a bear in my yard.”

“You saw a bear?”

“No, but I have, uh, evidence of a bear in my  yard.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“A pile of waste.”

“How do you know it was from a bear?”

“Because Google said so.”

“Oh.  Right.  OK.  Well, thanks for calling and we’ll, uh, patrol that area a little more closely.  Let us know if you actually see a bear.”

They were clearly thankful for my research and diligence.

So now I’m holed up inside, in fear.  So the power better not go out again.

3)  Bride of Chucky Doll

It’s not nice to say bad things about gifts.  I know.  So call me mean.

I’m sure it was expensive and collectible and came from a place of love. It really is a thoughtful gift.

But this doll that my daughter received for her birthday.  It freaks me the hell out.

Is it just me?

She’s judging me, isn’t she?  She’s watching me.  I swear, she moves when I turn away for a moment.

And we’re stuck inside together.

Avoiding the bear. 

And hoping the power doesn’t go out again.

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Filed Under: Borderline Neuroses, That Which Drives Me Crazy 2 Comments

On the Eighth Day

June 28, 2011

This is our eighth day without a functioning home computer. Or, in social media years, that’s about 20 weeks, as far as I can tell. You know, from the twitching and withdrawal shakes and all.

I have an iPhone and an iPad, and both serve their purposes. I can browse, tweet, text and Facebook with enough functionality. But I can’t write well on either of those devices. As you can perhaps already tell. See, I broke down today and decided, one way or another, I was getting a blog post up.

So it’s me, the iPad, and my two pointer fingers on this godforsaken keyboard. Bear with me.

Here, I would like to insert a photo of my laptop’s death screen. But I can’t. Because the iPad won’t let me. See. This is annoying.

But hey. It’s time to let the old laptop go. In addition to the ominous black screen that says something cryptic about Hard Drive Armageddon, I really have missed the use of the letter N. My daughter stole and hid the N key about two months ago, and I have nearly sprained my wrist pounding on the bare N receptacle ever since. Then I began avoiding words with the letter N. Or at least I tried. I mean, it’s not U or V. It’s N. You try it.

Then the space bar fell off last week, like a Hard Drive Armageddon Screen warning sign. That made things considerably harder. Still, I persevered. Why, after all, would a six year-old laptop be on its way out?

Then it started rattling. That’s the only word I can use to describe it. Like a bad transmission problem. Or when I tried to drive stick.

Today, in an act of desperation, I tried to boot it up again. And it seemed to be working! No black screen. I got to the desktop, where it remains frozen and has resumed rattling.

At least now I can take a photo of whatever files are at risk of being lost forever. Before, we were just guessing what we lost. I’m not sure which way is better.

I love my iPhone, and now we are closer than ever. It has even fed my new addiction to Instagram. But my eyes. They’re killing me. And it’s hard to be precise when typing. I really didn’t mean to order 11 of the same shirt from J Crew. It’s clear to me that one cannot live on the iPhone alone.

So. If you’ve gotten some half-assed email or blog comment from me in the last eight days, now you know why. Sorry about the mis-spellings, the unfortunate auto correct nonsense and general lack of sentence structure. But at least you got the inclusion of the letter N.

(As for any similar complaints that go back more than eight days, I have no viable excuse. But I’m working on one.)

The upside? I’m getting a new laptop. I’m totally open to suggestions. I have traditionally been a PC girl, and I may just stay that way. But clearly I have a newfound respect for (dependence on) the kingdom that is Apple. So hit me up with your recommendations please.

And can I get a round of applause — or at least polite golf claps — for typing 544 words with two fingers?

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Filed Under: Tech Bits, That Which Drives Me Crazy 15 Comments
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