Look What Santa Brought

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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One Track Mind

I would love to know what causes a song to get stuck in your head.  We’ve all had it happen and sometimes it’s a couple of hours, maybe a day or two.

Well, I’m now going on five days since I watched the last episode of Glee, and in that time, Gwyneth Paltrow has basically moved in with me.

I didn’t even know the damn song (though it appears I’m the last one on Earth to have heard it), but I liked it right away.  The sort of old school R&B sound — some hybrid between maybe Al Green and a tamer Sly Stone — sucked me in, though it was pulled off by an Oscar-winning blonde, who, apparently,  has zero flaws.  (By the way, am I the only one who wanted Gwyneth not to be a great singer, to make the rest of us feel just a little better?  If she sucks at something, just one thing, that would be great.)

So there was the catchy song, over and over in my head, but not knowing the words was making it worse — or so I thought. I downloaded it and figured if I played it a few times I’d get it out of my system.  If I could sing along, instead of mumbling like a lunatic, maybe I’d be able to purge it from my memory.

Epic fail.  Now I know all of the words and it’s like an eternal repeat loop in my head.  My kids were dancing to it yesterday at breakfast.  P likes it too.  We need a family intervention for someone to come and take Gwynnie away.

I had some time alone in the car yesterday and blasted the radio in the hopes of deleting Gwyneth & Co from my head.  No.  I even resorted to Christmas songs.  Ugh, no.  I watched Thomas the Tank Engine with my son and figured I’d at least get the annoying Sodor tunes to take over for a while inside my mind.  No.  Nothing is working.  And I like the song (somehow, still) but please — somebody, make it stop. 

I may have to be hit in the head, hard.

In the meantime, I figure maybe I shouldn’t suffer alone.  So, here — welcome to my personal hell.  Enjoy. 

YouTube Preview Image

Who’s on Glee next week?  I should prepare myself now.

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A Constant Ringing

Dear Former Owner of 908-xxx-xxxx (also known as my recently acquired iPhone number):

Maybe you didn’t mean to skip out on what seems to be all of the bills you ever had.  I’m not judging.  But can you do me a huge favor and tell the six collectors who phone me (formerly you) regularly that we are not the same person?  Can you tell them that a phone number is not a Social Security number — that it actually can have multiple owners in a lifetime?  They seem to be mystified by this.  They think I have created an elaborate ruse to get out of my (your) payment obligations. 

It started out as annoying.  Now it’s really getting under my skin.

You don’t know me but maybe you can make it stop and just call these guys back.  I don’t care if you pay them or not — just tell them that you are you and I am me, and that a common phone number over time does not bind us by blood or finances.

Thanks so much.  Now I’m going back to my 917 area code life.

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Boardroom Bingo

It’s one of those days at work where those empty corporate phrases are flying around without mercy.  You know, when people talk like a Power Point deck.

In the elevator this morning, I heard two self-important guys discussing “the opportunities to realize our synergies and gain greater efficiencies.”  Seriously.

Uh, you mean, get your teams together? 

Then, at a meeting, someone asked me if I would “own the construct of the phraseology.” 

So you want me to write the memo? 

Or shall we brainstorm it first and then do a deep dive?  Then I could identify all of the key watch-outs and put the learnings into buckets before I circle back.  That would allow me to level set so that we’ll all be able to hit the ground running and optimize our resources.

Then we can all go back to BAU (business as usual).

What corporate lingo drives you bananas?

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There’s Trouble Brewing

Here’s the thing, Starbucks.  You can’t go implementing ridiculous policies that put the words “slow down” and “making coffee” in the same sentence.  Not when it means the line is 20+ people deep during the morning rush. 

Exhibit A:  This morning’s line (worth noting that I took this photo from an identically long line at the other cash register).  It’s a bad picture, I know — it’s from my Blackberry, and it’s blurred probably because my uncaffeinated hands were trembling.  But you get the idea.  This is clearly not a photography blog.

Read about the Starbucks nonsense here.

Yeah, it’s my own fault that I let you sucker me into waiting 10 minutes every morning for the privilege of paying you $4 for a coffee — we all have our vices.  And I need the caffeine in ways you probably spell out in your core business model, so I keep coming back.  I come back even though you wrap lines around like an amusement park ride every morning.  I come back even when you screw up my $4 drink. 

But now, this.  It won’t do.  Please work it out.  I don’t know how, but I do know that it involves water and milk and steam and coffee beans — not aerodyanmics or Middle Eastern politics.  Surely you can find a way to keep the caffeine flowing.  Quickly.

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Tales From a Garage Sale Virgin

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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Operation Basement Purge

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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Foiled, For Now

Our home computer has been taken over by some nasty virus.  It is totally and completely blank, empty, out of commission.  Also, my company revoked access to personal email last week.  And now, today, for some reason, I can’t access all of blogland’s glory on WordPress while at work either — they are blocking the site.  I’m feeling very disconnected (as I beg, borrow and steal 5 minutes on P’s work laptop that he brought home).  So, I’m on a blog siesta for a while, I guess, until P outwits the Trojan virus dudes or we (gulp) agree to voluntarily wipe out the contents of the computer and rebuild it.  I’m a digital hoarder — that option kills me.  But I’m also a (mostly) good backer-upper, so it should be (mostly) ok.  I think. 

In the meantime, bear with me and say a little prayer for hacker justice.  Oh and if weird shit starts coming through the blog, you’ll know the virus crooks got my WordPress password and decided to have some fun.  Jerks.

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