November 28, 2006
Turns out? Not so much with affording that.
So we bought this house instead. It looked like a cozy place to stay while we saved up for the real house and a great investement.
The years turned it into our home.
Yet it has never truly fit. The neighborhood was outstanding - big park, walk to trains and shopping and the library.
But the house itself?
Shudder.
There are no closets. Really. Instead, we've got a 1920's kitchen that literally can not be made clean. Tiny bedrooms, 1 small bathroom, and arthritic electricity that goes to sleep during rainstorms. And let's not ever forget the unnatural squirrel-raccoon love affair playing out nightly in the attic.
We have sunk thousands of dollars and hundreds upon hundreds of hours improving the best we can. You just can't force this house to be another house, if you pick up what I'm laying down here.
So two years ago, we started looking *seriously* for the next place. Colorado. Canada. Minneapolis. Portland.
Traveled to other states, looked around, applied for jobs, and skimmed online real estate ads.
Nothing came together.
We didn't feel any urgency about it until last Easter, when a reporter showed up on the sidewalk looking for a quote.
Turns out that across the street, our co-chairs in the Block Party? One of them is defrocked Catholic Priest who has had over $2 Millions paid out to the half-dozen former prepubescent boys who had come forward and won suit.
CD and I spent that whole weekend with a thick ball of dread resting between us. If we'd been waiting for a signpost in bold letters, with a siren on top, that was it. The loud SMACK of the trigger being pulled. We jumped at the sound, startled in our lives.
And since then, we've known in our bones that we would be selling this spring, once 'real estate season' begins.
But to get there, we had a real estate angent help us build a list of to-do's that would help the house sell, and for what it is really worth. Since I, silly rabbitt, decideed to play teh part of a stay at home mom this year.. guess who got all the lovely assignments?
Well, hey, I was a high-powered corporate muck. I can get it all done AND learn to make my own paper. Right?
Except you know what I realized today?
Holy Shit, it's already December.
Seriously. I need a nail gun, a couple gallons of latex paint, a garbage skip, about two million storage boxes, some bathroom tile, and a tall, ripped handyman named Sven.
Yeah, the last one is just for fun.
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November 26, 2006
OK, no one tell my brother - but we're getting him an iPod for Christmas. We were bartering for one and then CD picked up this Christmas job at the electronics store and he gets dibs on the insane clearance stuff. This is a secret so besides everyone on the internet, let's just keep it under our hats....
We're going to preload it with a few of songs.
I happen to have an, err, bizarrely huge MP3 collection. I was one of those early Napster anarchists (But all legal now! I swear!). NO idea what kind of crack I used to smoke, but I got stuff like Peaches and Herb.
Shudder.
Kalisah inspired the idea pick songs from the late 8o's and early 90's. You know, stuff from when my *younger* brother was in high school.
Here's the list so far .... thoughts?
1. "Hungry Like a Wolf" Duran Duran
2. "Vogue" Madonna
3. "Vacation" The Go-Go's
4. "Smells Like Teen Spirit" Nirvana
5. "Can't Touch This" MC Hammer
6. "Under the Bridge" Red Hot Chili Peppers
7. "Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)" Green Day
8. "Everybody Wants to Rule the World" Tears for Fears
9. "Ice Ice Baby" Vanilla Ice
10. "One" U2
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November 24, 2006
Services will be held tomorrow, followed by a burial under the old apple tree in the backyard.
Namaste, Zazz. Namaste.
Zazz is at rest now; Bear placed fluffy cattails and berries with him and CD found a nice big stone to protect his sleep. Thank you, so much, for all the generous comments. It's helped.
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November 21, 2006
Once upon a time, I got a kitten. I was impossibly young, and living with my first love.
I wanted, he indulged, and we ended up with this tiny bit of fluff who lived on my shoulder and pushed her cold nose in my ear with small purrs.
I called her Maggie.
This isn't a story about Maggie.
When Maggie was about 5 years old, there was tragedy. We'd had another cat and he died. Maggie, from loss, tried to join him. I didn't know cats could care so much. Could be so lonely that they would sit in a corner, uneating, ungroomed. Breaking my heart with her broken spirit.
My ex and I decided to get her another partner. Somehow, we ended up with this big, fat, silvery thing with more names than I can remember. He didn't like people much. He liked food. He didn't care for being held, although he'd suffer a pat if you bent down to bestow it.
And? He adored Maggie.
Somewhere along the way, he became Zazzoo. My ex left them both with me when we finally parted - almost a decade of water under our bridge. You have to take them both. They're a set, he said.
So I suffered Zazzoo for love of Maggie.
It was the three of us for a long while, and I grew more accustomed to his face. We declared peace and stayed out of each other's way.
Then, CD. He was spending a weekend, some months into this fling of ours, I remember him yelping. A manly yelp, sure.
"You have another....cat?"
"Didn't I mention that?" 600 square feet of apartment, I'd been certain he'd noticed before.
It was when Bear was born that Zazzoo became real. Like the Velveteen Rabbit, Zazzoo melted for love of our baby. He was boneless, clawless, completely dear to our own baby boy.
We were all, the four of us, suprised how that worked out.
No longer just Maggie's bitch, he truly liked being around Bear. Would skulk over and keep an eye on him. Offer his thick fur for a touch.
We always figured that we'd be stuck with this strange little beast of a cat until the end of time. He seemed sturdy and endless. I'd tease him, that when Maggie went - hey, he could consider his own clock punched.
He'd give me a swish of his tail and march away.
I'm clearly not that frightening.
It's taken a day to notice, since we came home. Because he'd hidden himself away in the cellar. But when he didn't come up for food tonight, we knew. Found him curled up in an old rag pile, listless and breathing slowly with effort.
Oh, I thought. Oh, I think he's dying.
And Bear, seeing it on my face, began to cry.
CD and I locked eyes, and the sadness came in waves. How easy to forget the math, but he must be 19 or 20, now. He was middle-aged, they said, when we adopted him and that was 13 years ago.
A lifetime, really.
We carried him upstairs, to a bed of towels. Bear and CD and I talked about our years with him. And how sad it is when we ask animals to be our companions that we do it knowing that their walk will be shorter than ours, and we'll be left behind when they float away.
Now they two have gone to bed while I keep vigil with my old companion, Zazzoo. He's resting, comfortably. Maggie is nearby, licking him ever so often.
I've told him I will stay up with him as long as he wants. And that if it's time for him to leave he knows I will take good care of his beloveds, of his little Maggie and of his bouncy copper boy.
And I told him, too, that if he'd like to stay with us awhile longer, that would be fine.
He looks at me, and huffs a bit. And knows that he was always welcome here. That he still is.
And I look at him, and sigh a bit. And think, how I will miss him. And try not to get him too wet with my tears.
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Then had to wait an HOUR for our luggage to appear.
No, I am not stretching the truth.
60 frigging minutes of watching that silver belt spin and spin with that one frigging green flowered suitcase.
By the time Dee pulled into the driveway, we sprang out of her car like Jack in the Boxes. (Um, I don't think we even thanked her for the ride.)
Bear ran up the front stairs and started banging on the door like the cats could let him in.
The house? Smelled pretty yucky. But I was too tired to care. It was 1AM and I stripped and dove under the covers.
When I woke up this morning, it was like coming to in a horror movie.
I'd left a couple of days before CD and Bear, with a to-do list for them.
One they had clearly made into a paper airplane.
There are week-old dirty dishes in my kitchen.
The margerine was left out on the counter.
I will not even describe what has happened inside my fridge, except to say - it's gonna take a hazmat suit, a bottle of bleach, and a Tiawanese acrobat to get it clean.
Speaking of clean, they did the laundry! Loads and loads of it!
Then DUMPED it on every free surface of the living room.
(I can only assume this was to facilitate the subsequent rummaging for the 5 ratty t-shirts and single pair of too-small underwear they each packed for themselves.)
The cats, of course, carefully plotted their days so that EACH and EVERY pile has been slept in and shed on in our absence.
There is no clean place for my eyes to rest.
Two years ago, I would have been furious. Back then, I had a divorce lawyer on speed-dial and hidden Tylenol stashes in each room.
Two years ago, I was juggling a multi-million dollar global IT project with an executive who liked to get me on a teleconference with my team and see how badly he could humiliate me in front of them. I would spend 5 hours prepping for those calls, and he would always find the one thing, the one single small thing, that he could stab me with.
"What's that, Elizabeth? A decimal in the wrong place on your daily spending report from France? Oh, only a dollar you say? I'm curious, when does our company's money matter to you? When it's a thousand? A million?..."
And then CD would walk through the door, just as I would start responding, and shout 'What's for dinner?'
Ah, the good old days.
That was then.
Look, I know that you're probably saying "Hey, Elizabeth is blowing sunshine up her OWN ASS again! What flexibility!"
But here's the thing.
2 years ago, see, I'd bought into this lie. That somehow, there was something called perfect-town and I was on a military style march to there. That "if-only", you know? If only CD was well. If only he would have some kind of epiphany. If only my boss would take a Paxil. If only.
Not to crack any cosmic eggs, but turns out? Not so much.
My husband, bless him, is working 2 jobs to keep us going. He is swallowing his pride for one of those jobs. He got like 5 hours of sleep last night, and then went off to 13 hour-day while I sat on the sofa sipping coffee and thinking about a nap.
Yes, he sucks at organizing anything that can't be plugged in.
He's a clutter-monger.
He packs like an over-caffeinated squirrel.
And I love him.
God doesn't give anyone everything.
I look around at this mess, and realize that we have too much crap and clutter as a family. That there are ways to make things easier. That I hate cleaning, absolutely. And I HATE cleaning up after my husband.
But at least I can make the 6-year-old help. And, you know, I'm with him. Not some egomaniacal 50-year-old with a need to overcompensate for what I can only assume is a deficiency in another area.
I am firmly determined to change my outlook on life in these 100 days.
*sigh*
Did I mention?
It's good to be home.
Although... I could have used a few more days in paradise.
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November 17, 2006
Well, it's been a week of our 10-day break. We've been to the beach, and Disney World's Animal Kingdom, spent eleventy jillion hours in the pool, and jauntily bounced the Intracoastal on a Jet Ski.
Weather? 80 degrees, blue skies, and warm breezes. (Yes, damn you, Florida! Damn your tropical warmth!)
Health-wise I am, finally, well.
Seriously? I can not begin to decribe what a blessing this week has been. I feel like a new person. Even the moments I have spent dancing with my Grandmother's ghost have been healing.
My mom once told me that there is no such thing as a "geographical cure".
No offense meant to my mom, but she's wrong.
If what ails you has chilled your world into shades of gray? Then get thee to paradise.
'Cuz... yeah.
Yeah.
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November 15, 2006
She had the chairs reupholstered to match the new sofa when I was in college. Soft Florida colors to match the palm trees and the waterview. The card taped by the thermostat tells me in her handwriting to set the dial to "auto".
Her stapler is lined up with her tape dispenser on her desk. Liitle address stickers with her name.
The embroidery she was always working tucked, unfinished, with the crossword puzzle books on the shelf.
In the morning, the sun blasts onto the balcony.
I stir my coffee, and pad across the room. It's a shadow, I know. But my heart leaps before I can tell it no.
No.
It's been 5 years, heart.
You should know by now.
She's not here.
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November 08, 2006
This is Wemouth Cemetery. The end of that row is where they laid my grandmother's body to rest.
Of course, she isn't really there.
Grandma was, well, my Grandma. She didn't back cookies, couldn't cook worth a damn, argued politics with a keen passion, played Gin like a cardshark, and was the first person to argue my viewpoints with me.
When Bush was finally declared the winner of the Florida election and thus, President, she called me up chuckling - "Your guy never had a chance down here."
She called me 'sister' towards the end, as a form of endearment. Shaking her keys at me when she was impatient for us to be off, as I would pack up my purse and tell her to 'shh'. Her silver curls and grinning eyes trying to look all bossy and imperious.
Ha.
Of all the relatives around my childhood, she's the one I stayed in a conversation with throughout my life. The one I got to know, and the one I let know me.
We hardly agreed on much - politics, decorating, even marriage. But we got each other. And we liked to spend our Sunday nights arguing on the phone about foreign policy and CSI plots.
When my cat fell out the window of the apratment back in my poor, poor days. He had a really broken leg. A few days later, I got a check from her for $500 - completely unasked for. I called her up, in confusion.
"For the vet bills, dear."
When my cat died a few days later, I called her again. I was unable to say anything, I was so sad.
"Elizabeth, is that you?" she guessed. "Oh, he died, didn't he...?"
Some years back, I went on a hunt for her gravestone. I had to see it.
I thought I was fine, you know. As we strolled up and down the rows looking for her name - my name.
And then we found it.
I almost broke into a million pieces. Like I'd decided she wasn't really dead until then. Until I traced her name, my name, in the stone.
Bear and CD and I held each other for a long time as I cried.
Then Bear found 3 beautiful stones. We placed them on the grave she shares with my grandfather, and remembered her. We prayed for her. We missed her.
Since she died, I've been trying to get to Florida, to her condo.
From there from the time I was a kid, I would visit her (and Grandfather, while he lived) each winter. She and I that would hang out at Denny's (Grandma loved her some Early Bird Special on a Senior Discount) and chatter away the late afternoon. Then we'd walk the beach at sunset. Watch the night sky for stars.
My father and his brother kept the condo. Got a dumpster and cleared it out. Now they rent it out for 6 months each year - Dec to May.
Since she passed, it became something of a compulsion, to walk that stretch of beach again. To listen to those waves.
This year, my father relented to a time when we could go down to the condo. The week of November 13. Yes, my birthday. Even sent us the keys.
Our bookkeeper could be heard shouting all the way from Canada. That we'd have to use a credit card. That we can't really afford this. Really.
The last 2 weeks, I've been so sick. Coughing for air. And hanging on for this day.
On Friday, I have to be well enough to go, I would tell myself. Even if I have to pack dirty clothes, and travel with bed head. Even if I cough my way across country.
Last year? Paris.
This year? Florida.
Warmth. And salty breezes. Palm trees, with their long giraffe-like trunks. Pastels and long sunsets. And the memory of my grandmother's laugh on the sea.
I've shed tears into the ground of her death. Her 'no more'.
Today I fly to where her life was.
To be warm, to smile, maybe to cry. To relax, unwind, and be open. Maybe, to find a little healing.
In more ways than one.
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November 06, 2006
I'm still sick.
I'm still SICK.
grumble.
Flashes of wellness taunt me. Tease me. Like a 3rd grader on the playground hogging the hopscotch squares.
Oh, I hate being sick.
Yes, I understand the irony.
I've drank about eleventy gallons of Gatorade. I'm peeing green. My nose glows like you-know-who and let's be clear, I bark like a seal - not a dog.
Where's my Nyquil?
Yesterday I drove home from Indiana. Still don't remember much of the stay. The drive home was coughing and staring at the lights ahead of me.
"Dee," I said, gasped, on my Bluetooth. "I can't talk, everytime I try I end up hacking up a lung. But I'm zoned, with 50 miles to home. Say something. Say anything. Don't stop."
If she'd had 'In Your Eyes' at the ready, she'd've blasted it into the phone. Instead, she hummed it at me.
This? Is why I love that woman.
Meanwhile, she's reading recipes at me while I putter through construction. Bear's out like a light in back and it's all I can do not to pull into a McDonald's parking lot and climb back there with him for a nap.
Hack. Wheeze.
Arrive home and beg CD for Nyquil. Need Nyquil. And a brandy chaser. With honey and hot lemon juice. It all goes down fine and I feel alive for about 30 minutes, mellow and myself again.
Then I get a blessed 5 hours sleep before I cough myself out of my dreams, off the bed, and land face-down on the floor. Mano y mano with a dust bunny named Ralph who was looking a little frisky about having me in his territory.
Holy shit, do I need to clean.
Hack. Hack. Shiver.
It's been a long few days. Blurry, with moments of jello. And sanity. Aha, all better. An hour later? Not so much.
CD stayed home today so I could rest. Turned a corner, hurray. I can see the light at the end of the tunnel.
Or maybe that's an oncoming train?
My tongue raw from sucking on drops. But the coughing attacks linger. With a vengeance. Like the everlasting John McLane, they still hammer me long after they should be dead. Without warning, they shake me so bad that I have to press my breasts back into place; I'm a Ruben before, and a Picasso after.
Now it is night, and time for Nyquil. I need another 5 hours. Maybe 6.
But someone has put away my Nyquil. I need my Nyquil.
Give me back my Nyquil.
Please.
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November 05, 2006
My son was asleep in his car seat behind me. Around his wrist, a bright yellow hospital bracelet. I looked back at him often, my heart swelling in gratitude at his peaceful expression, his feverless cheeks.
Down on the car floor, my phone lit up and I ignored it. Despite being on Emergency Leave, my phone had logged over 30 incoming calls. 13 messages. My deputy had been let go due to budget concerns and my manager was attempting to fill in. I had told him a dozen times that I was not in a sitaution where I could deal with work. He kept calling (...)
All at once, the leaves have dropped down from the trees. Raining, floating, diving into the still-green grass.
There's a breeze that is something cool but not yet cold.
It's been 13 months.
"When did you leave your job?" She asks on the phone, clickety-clacking her keyboard.
"March, uh the last day in March."
"Uh, huh - and you didn't call us then?"
"No, no... I wouldn't be now, except I need a little relief for a few months... I hate these things..."
"March, 2006," she repeats, cutting me short.
Bear comes into the kitchen, clings to my leg a moment. I ruffle his hair and help him stand on the chair. And together, we build him a snack. Of fruit and milk and crackers.
"No peanut butter," he whispers. "It has a loud taste."
"Well, I'm going to put in your deferrment. Effective..."
"But I can still pay the interest, right? I don't want these things to grow... I haven't been in college since - "
"Let me finish," she says sharply. "Yes. Effective to May. That's previous. And expiring in January. The interest is $15 a month, pay that if you wish. Then we won't capitalize it. Which means, to add it to the balance of your remaining loan amount. Otherwise, your loan amount will be larger at the end of the year than it was at the begining. Do you understand?"
13 months ago, I was managing a project funded based on speculation of the return on investement on $40 million worth of capital assets.
I think I can understand what happens if I don't pay the $15.
Not that I say so.
"I have to ask, were you fired for cause?"
I chuckled as I helped Bear down and sent him off to the table with his snack.
He told me I wasn't being a team player. He fashioned an inconvenience into an emergency. Exhausted, angry, I finally hung up on him.
"No," I answered finally.
No, each of my annual reviews said that I used to be really good at the job I used to resent so much. That I exceeded expectations, even as I was ripped in two. No, lady, I used to be 'advancement tracked'. Ain't that a laugh?
"Is there anything else?"
"Uh, yes..." I nibble my lip. Finally, I say it out loud. "I think I want to teach. I mean, I want to write, but so far that just isn't paying the bills. And I used to teach, high school and college. It was years and years ago but I think I want to do it again. I would need to take some classes. Theology and half a masters in Project Management won't... I mean, I think I want to teach writing. Like that."
She waits for the actual question.
"I know I still have an outstanding balance from my first go-around but..."
"You want to know if you can take out another loan?" she asks, a little too snarky for my tastes.
Not that I say so.
My crisp assumption of power began drifting away from me when I left my career. When the world begain blinking its tepid eye at my Stay-at-home-mothering. When I stopped having a tally of how many I manage and how important my responsibilities were.
Now I wipe the counter, and wait.
"Yes," she says.
"Uh, yes?"
"Yes, you did not exhaust your maximums. You are in good standing. But we are not a lending institution...."
"I understand," I say hurriedly, hanging up. I want to whoop for joy, but instead I just smile at the plant hanging over the kitchen sink.
13 months ago, it was a thunderstorm. It was a yellow hospital band around my son's wrist and my husband's strength against my fears. It was the fog, and the clearing.
It was finding myself successfully climbing up a mountain, and then looking around to realize - it was the wrong one.
"More milk," he says, showing me an empty cup. His smile makes me forget the autumn night, the long road ahead, the lady on the other end of the line.
"Of course," I agree, reaching for the jug.
Of course.
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November 02, 2006
This afternoon, finally, I called CD in surrender.
"Come home," I begged. I was dozing in and out while Bear hopped around me. Sniffly himself, but full of mischief, too. Me asleep, child awake - this was the most dangerous combination known to man.
"I can't," he told me - his team already fallen to similar microbic beasts, he couldn't leave his company unsupported. Much like my breasts.
But I digress.
I gave him no choice; "Bear is making himself popcorn! In the microwave! Also? Haggis! There are wildebeasts roaming the hall. Or livestock-shaped laundry that has been willed into life, into playmates for our child. Plus I think he's cruising the internet, looking for Dora's home number."
He groaned and told me he'd do what he could. But that I should have backup plan.
He reminded me that we had a Very Important Call with our bookkeeper today. About the gap between what is due and what is coming. About the little things we needed in the meantime. Like microwave popcorn. And insurance premiums.
I flaked, completely irresponsibly.
For weeks now, I have blown off the weekly finances meeting on the flimsy pretext that the bookkeeper and CD have it at the very moment I drive Bear to Kindergarten and walk him to class. This week, they finally rescheduled it.
And me, with my silly little fever and bone-crushing exhaustion.
In fact, I called CD in the midst of it, croaked at him (because there was a frog hanging from my tonsils) to get his skinny fanny homeward. "I am drowning in bedclothes! And your son has a cup of ice, some Halloween candy, and he's headed for the blender. The blender, dammit!"
At some point, an hour or so later, I heard my husband's dulcet tones, snarling from the front room; "I'm home!"
And from there, it all went downhill. CD turned a blind eye to Bear's incomplete homework, the dishes in the sink. He kicked the laundry monster into the hall corner, and told me to sleep.
When I woke up, disoriented, hours later, a foamy dread tugged at me.
As the pressure dials up, we break down. We slip into old, bad habits. Old, bad feelings. Old, bad ... old. Bad.
He knows it is not my fault that I am sick, on a day when it is impossible for him to take care of us. He knows that the money strains will eventually sort themselves out, and until then we are each doing our best.
But my husband, he was depressed for many years. Someone once said that depression is angry turned inward, and I think that is at least partially true. I remember that chip on his shoulder, it waves at me in recognition. I remember that sullen gleam in his eye.
I can't stand feeling all victim-like. As I don't remind him when he comes home with some fast food for us that he forgot to pick up tissues. I grab a wad of toilet paper, and pretend not to see how he didn't help. Try to keep the narrow laser beam on what he did do.
He came home. He watched our son. So I could sleep.
Forget how it used to be. Forget swallowing my own emotions and needs and wants. Forget how I used to tiptoe on the eggshells that kept the peace.
As I tiptoe, one more time.
Angry. And sick. And tired.
This too shall pass.
And hopefully, soon enough.
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The part about bear cruising the internet looking for doras home number is about the funniest thing I have heard in awhile lol75 queries taking 0.0639 seconds, 285 records returned.
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