Grownup

The kid flushed a washcloth down the toilet.

Know what that does to a toilet? 

I didn't, either, but miraculously, it flushed all the way and nothing bad happened.  I consider this a miracle.

The kid, this boy, and I are doing fine.   We just got parts in another play (he finished with Drama Camp, so this makes his 5th).  I'm playing my dream part, with beautiful solos and an amazing cast, and I don't have to be a lesbian.  I can't freaking wait!

And the other kid?  He and his wife are having twins.  TWINS.

So between being the boss at my job (and doing a damn fine job at it, too), still continuing as the youth music leader at church (and doing a damn fine job at it, too), enjoying the company of an almost-nine-year-old, and expecting twin grandbabies, my life rocks.

Oh, and I'm teaching piano lessons, too.

And doing a damn fine job at everything.

I'm such a grownup all of the sudden.

Holy shit, I have a blog that I forgot about

Sorry.

So first things first. I quit that new job.  It was awful, y'all.  Humiliating.  Degrading. So on Monday, I went to work, handed the worst boss my key and my computer, and told him I don't want to work there anymore.  And I left.  And I went to the beach.  It was magical.

In other news, I did a show.  First show since 1992.  I played a big old crazy lady and a little lesbian girl, and I had a solo, and I fell completely in love with theater all over again.  There will be more.

By the way, I start my new job on Monday.

I guess what I'm saying is this.  If you are my boss, you don't get to yell at me about your personal life, about wifi I have no control over, or tell me to pick up trash on a New Orleans street corner.  I'm the boss at new job.

Pretty sure this is the best Easter ever.

Boom.

Gossiper, with my mother. As per usual. Only with more vulgar language.

This weekend, I was sitting at a pool with my mother, my brother, his wife and a friend.  We got to talking, as we do, about people, you know, the gossip.

We got to talking about somebody in particular, who recently got married.  Oddly enough, that same person has become 1,000 times nicer to everybody.  We are shocked, pleased, and feel like talking about such things.

"I always said she just needed some D," said my brother.

"What?"  Said my mother.

"D.  She just needed some D," repeated my brother.

"D?  I don't know what you are saying," said my mother.  "I could understand 'S,' for sex, but "B?  D? I don't understand."

"DICK, MOM," my brother said, pretty loudly.  "I SAID SHE JUST NEEDED SOME DICK."

As the families sitting nearby looked over, I was reminded that I live in Louisiana, now, and they did exactly as they ought.  They smiled or even chuckled a little bit.

Also, I'm glad that person got some D and is now pleasant to be around.

"Be blessed," she said.

What, what?  The baby is getting on the bus.  I KNOW.  I don't even know what to think about this.  He is a 7 (AND A HALF) and has never been on a school bus, well, except for field trips, in his life.  This morning, I think we were both a little anxious, standing on the corner.  The bus driver - and we'll circle back to this - was all cheerful and smiley as she showed him to his seat.  Then I went for a run.  Like a boss.  Because I can, and because, well, why not.  I wasn't late to work.  Four minutes is not late.

Let's talk about the bus driver.  This is the weirdest fucking thing ever.  When Sam was growing up - hell, when I was growing up, there was no telling who the bus driver was.  I'mma call her Mamie.  But seriously.  Our bus drivers were cranky old hags, some of whom chain smoked (I'm not 100% sure that last part is true, but it feels right).  For SURE Sam never knew a bus driver's name.

When I went to the school to fill out "we've moved!" paperwork and inquire about the school bus for the baby, they happily filled out paperwork for me, and handed me a yellow slip that said his bus number and where he catches the bus.  Then they told me to CALL THE BUS DRIVER to figure out details.  WHAT?

Let's recap:  they gave me the bus driver's personal cell phone number.  WHAT?

I called her.  She was sunshiney and rainbowy and adorable.  I want to hire her to be MY personal chauffer.  After we talked and she told me process, I was all, "well... thanks..." and she was all "OH MY GOODNESS YOU ARE SO WELCOME I'M HERE FOR YOU."  And then, when I said goodbye, she countered with "be blessed," I shit you not.

This morning she was heaping praise on my small child, and I went about my way to sweat off a couple of hundred calories and jump start my day.

It was totally fucking outstanding, except the part where the same garbage men were doing opposite circles and I had to pass them about three times, every time they gave me the sexy flirty eyes.  No thanks, bra.  I'm good.

So, to recap the weekend, we have the following:  first kids coming to play in the playroom with the baby, which is to say, kids that are not related- check.  first kids finding a snake in the backyard, but it "might have been a worm" - check.  Cable installed, taking a grand total of 8 hours and two technicians, one of whom I gave birth to over 20 years ago - check, except in the playroom, which has proven to be impossible to install cable into, for reasons I cannot explain.  Furniture purchased, assembled, sat upon - check.  The one remaining wall where I just didn't do a great job painting it the first time, touched up - check.  Bourbon and water drunk - check, except it smelled better than it tasted, and I bailed about 1/3 of the way through, but dayum, I felt like a grown up.  First night by myself in the house, as the baby spent the night with friends - check (likewise, first NO PANTS SATURDAY NIGHT- check.)

I skipped all the parades this weekend, but it was a great weekend, regardless.  I'm kind of loving my home.  Eventually I'll have the time to rake the front yard, but strides were made.  We have hand towels, people.  HAND TOWELS.

And I am pretty much being blessed.

In Support of Firemen Everywhere

I'd like to bitch about being alone for Valentine's Day, but I really can't make myself.  I'm fucking HAPPY, and that's maybe weird, because I swear, this is my favorite V-Day ever.  I'm getting cable today, y'all.  HAPPY DANCE MOMS TO ME.

I have (finally) had two days in a row where there has been nothing new broken in the house.  The last of the urgent paint needs has been addressed (this weekend, I'll touch up the few spots in my bathroom that are driving me crazy).  There's a range, and a dishwasher.  Cooking has been done.  Clothes have been laundered.  Boxes have been unpacked (though, let's don't get crazy, there are more awaiting me.)

I'm getting settled.  I know the house's noises.  The train is not too close, just close enough to sound cozy when it goes by.  There's a fire house at the entrance to the neighborhood, and we all know how I feel about firemen.

Oh.

Yes.  We do.


Oh, my God.

Anyway, what?  What were we talking about????

The house.  The neighborhood.  I think we might bake something to bring to the firehouse.  Those poor boys are fucking hot hungry.

We need to go to the library.

We need to go to the post office, too.

And the bank.

I have errands to run, but I also want to start raking the front yard this weekend, and stuff.

It's the weirdest thing.  Everybody told me things would feel different if it were my own house, and I didn't really believe them.  How could it feel so different?  I am a long-term renter.  I've been renting for YEARS, and I live in my houses a long time (for a renter).  You know what the difference is?  Paint.  You know what else?  Planning.  I can't stop my happy little brain from making plans for the future of this house.  I know what wall I will eventually tear down.  I know what window will become a door.

I also know that La Hacienda will be getting a beer fridge, and soon, and that, my friends?  THAT is awesomeness.

Also, the baby will start to ride the school bus on Monday (!) (MY BABY ON A BUS!) (!!!), which will buy me a half hour every single morning, in which I can run.  It's time to get back into running.  I'm missing it, and my body misses it, and January is not too far in the future, and there's that 2 mile race in March, too...  it's time.

So that's the plan for the weekend.  There are parades tomorrow and Sunday, but I'm feeling very ambivalent about them.  I'm not sure what's wrong with me, usually I can't wait to get to the route, but this year, I'm distracted.

You know why?

Because it is different when it's yours.

Super Bowl MVP Who Eats Vaseline For Breakfast.

My brother always liked the Seahawks, and I was ambivalent about today's game, so it's all good.  Besides, I RAN EIGHT MILES TODAY WITH VIRTUALLY NO TRAINING AND I ROCKED, so really, I won the Super Bowl.

The race was a ton of fun, a half marathon split into a relay, where I had the first 8 miles and my friend Carrie had the back 5 and change.  I do wish I had had time to train right, but it was a blast.  In my 8, I passed 5 different bands, 2 cheerleading groups, and about 100 excellent and hilarious signs.  I liked, "Run now, wine later," and "high five for power."  I LOVED "This is the worst parade, ever."  I was on St. Charles.  So appropriate.

At the after-party, when we stood in the Longest Line Ever to board a shuttle back to the starting line, before which we had to walk a mile, and after which, we had to walk another mile, after running our asses off, but anyway...  While standing in this line, I made eye contact with a dude that looked familiar.  He had a "do-I-know..." face, too, and suddenly, we both yelled "HEY!" And I went over and hugged him.  It was a guy my gay and I refer to as "Hot Zack," a guy who was a manager in my department for years at ING, in Atlanta.  And I haven't seen him in almost five years, and it was awesome.  But, I was sweaty and disgusting, and half brain-dead, and so I said, "Welcome to New Orleans!" Then went my way.  Great reunion.  Jesus.

Oh, and note:  on a race, if somebody hands you a Popsicle stick with a smear of crap on the end, that is NOT A GEL.  THAT IS VASELINE.  When I told my mom the story of how I got a mouth full of Vaseline on the course, she said, "haven't I taught you to at least smell something before you put it in your mouth?"  In New Orleans.  Honestly, the Vaseline was probably one of the healthiest things I've ingested in New Orleans.  

The dude running next to me watched me stick it my mouth, remove it, and hold it for a minute with a "what-the-fuck" face.  "Vaseline?" He asked.  Yeppers

I put in another bajillion hours on the house yesterday, resulting in Much White Trim, and a bathroom that looks like this:

I didn't do a goddamn thing for the house today.  Not one goddamn thing.  I feel both guilty and exhilarated, but mostly just fucking tired.  I got up at 4:45.  Took a good nap, but, y'all...  4:45.  That's crazy.

We move on Friday.  It's on, y'all.  And I'm going back to bed.

Happy GroundhogRaceSuperBowl Day!

Sarie Has a Dream House!

If I were to describe to you my dream house, this would not be it.  I'm not going to lie, I'm sitting here, right now, sighing as I look at my rental's fireplace, remembering how it would smell up the whole house with smoke and drive both children out of the family room...  oh, good times.

But in the end, my dream house actually would cost me, like, a half million dollars.  And I don't have that much money, and nobody is fool enough to lend me that much money, and I wouldn't be able to pay them back, anyway.  So what we have here is me, avoiding foreclosure.  Well in advance.

Barbie never had Chet the Repo Man, did she?  She so should have.  Although we all know that Day Barbie earned supplemental income from Night Barbie, if you get my drift.  Which is to say, Barbie was a whore.  I think I digress.

Here's the thing:  Dreams are stupid.  Reality fucking rocks.  My reality is that the house is mine, officially.  When I broke into it this evening, it was fine, because I was breaking into MY OWN HOUSE.  

Here are some pictures.  

This is Caleb's room:

Yeah, I have a shelf thingee all up in the corner in here, what-WHAT? 

Hall bathroom:

Floors are pretty.  Subway tile backsplash suits me fine, although it looks pretty nassssty.  The sink rocks, though.  And this room has a secret...

Behind the bathroom door, you find:

Oh my god, you guys, seriously.  This is my favorite thing in the whole house.  A built-in, in the bathroom, and see that panel?  You know what that is? A FUCKING BUILT-IN LAUNDRY HAMPER IS WHAT THAT IS.  Jealous?  YOU SHOULD BE.  IT'S AMAZING.

This here is my master bedroom.  Please note, the carpets are all being removed.  Tomorrow.  Not kidding, tomorrow.  Seriously.  Because they are horrifying.  My real estate agent looked into this room and said, "oh, here's where they did the murder."  I'm going to miss him:

Vanity in my bedroom, vanity in my bedroom, vanity in my bedroom!!!

You know who looks awesome in this room?  Or who would, if their seven year old kid was a wizard with an iphone camera?  Me.  That's who.  Whom.  Dammit, I can't even be cool without using correct grammar.

Booyah.

Sometimes, you look at something, and go, now why...  for example... why would someone put trim on the outside of a bathtub.  Yep.  My bathtub looks like a dining room wall.  The bottom half of a dining room wall.  On the other hand, that there's jets in that there tub!  God only knows if they work, but we gonna have a fine time finding out.  See the potty?  I can rest my wine glass on that.  Lord, I think I just overshared...

What you can't tell is that there is a small vanity light over a completely blank space between the toilet and the door, so over nothing, along with an arm-level plug.  Obvs, there used to be a "his" sink in this part of the bathroom, which is no longer there.  What WILL be in that space is either a cupboardy thingee or a big ol' basket o' towels.

What up, walk-in closet.  Not like the rental's "walk-ins," where you kind of have to shimmy in sideways to get to the back parts.  This one has rails on both sides, and guesswhatguesswhatguesswhat??!!

Shelving unit in the closet!  For my...  shelfy things.

This is a pretty room, and it has been decided that it will be the guest room.  The primary reason for this decision is that the window opens onto the screened-in-porch (hereafter known as "la hacienda"), and I figure, if I put the baby in there, I'll be out there knitting drinking wine and talking on the phone to my mom hosting posh fiestas with my loco friends, and we will be appropriately noisy (note:  I've already begun operation-friend-the-neighbor-chick), so I don't want to keep El Nino awake.  Also, I don't want this to be the playroom, because I don't want to hear all the kids making so much god damn noise.  Also, when my friends come visit, I expect them to be drinking on La Hacienda with me!

Your room is pretty close to ready for you to come visit.  Make it so!

Here we have the playroom.  "What the fuck is on the window," you asked?  It's a weird screen with bars built in.  I DO NOT KNOW WHY.  Bitch is coming down.  That's on the "short list."  This room is tiny but it will be awesome for playing Skylanders and acting out plays with finger puppets.  That's what he do, yo.

Or, we could leave the bars on, and make it hard for him to sneak out when he is a teenager!

On  to the family room.

 Note the door to La Hacienda out the back.  Also note, this light fixture is on the short list, too.  Also note, no fireplace (frowny face).  Also note, Vanna is doing a kick-ass job of selling this house!

I get to buy a rug!! YES INDEED.

La Hacienda!  Hola!  Ole!  Tengo Dos Ijos...

At first, I was like, gotta paint that green thing.  Now I'm like, gotta paint the concrete floor so it matches that green thing.  This is going to be the coolest porch ever- all Dia De La Muerta and shit.  

Vanna is just modeling La Hacienda for you:

Hola!

We have a little strip of back yard.  Right now, it's growing holly as ground cover.  I had no idea that was even an option.  There are also some weird, semi-scary fluffy plant thingees at the base of that tree that may or may not rise from the ground and attack after dark.  Too much Zelda?  Maybe yes.

We don't need a back yard, because I'm a kid who never goes outside!

This is the eating place.  The house has a formal room that can't decide if it wants to be a living room or a dining room, so we are going to call it a living room, so we can stop hearing it bitch and whine.  That leaves this space for the food consumption, a breakfast room that is remarkably like ours in the rental, only with real tile and no linoleum, and fewer dead spiders.  SO FAR.

It's not a boob light!  It's got leaves, but no birds.  WE ARE SATISFIED.

Our kitchen is sucky.  BUT, those holes will be filled with Brand New Appliances, and there is a tile backsplash (GETTING FANCY ALL IN HERE), and the sink is awesome, and the faucet is awesome, and who really gives a shit, anyway, because it's not like I cook, nearly ever.

He looks like a tap dancer.  Also, the cabinets are those french white stained things that are so trendy on HGTV right now, so obvs, I'm moving to Canada, only I'm NOT because it's fucking COLD in Canada.

100% of this picture was to brag to Janie that I get a pantry.  Note, it's pretty nasty, with the old floor, some reddish death dirt, and crappy shelving, but my dad is good at cutting boards to shapes, and I will buy a SECOND rug, if that's what it takes.  It's a pantry.  I am content.

Note to self:  Kitchen gets late afternoon sunlight.

So.  Funny thing about the doors.  First, note the pretty floors.  Try and pretend there isn't an attractive boob right above your head, and notice the doors.  The big door is leaded glass, and I LOVE IT with a big squee girly kind of "can we be best friends and I'll braid your hair" kind of love.  LOVE.  The other door looks awful, it's a storm door, and I don't live in Canada (see above), so this is probably unnecessary, so there's about a 70% chance I will take it down, but...  it's so freaking cool.  It's kitchy, it's orange plastic, and I know, I know, your mamaw had one just like it in 1979, but dang...  It's mod, you know?  I just can't decide...

All in all, though, a nice, welcoming entry way.  Which also seems to get late afternoon sun.  Weird.

This is the formal living room (DECLARED SO AS OF RIGHT THIS VERY MINUTE.)  See that cut-out area, back behind Susanna Hoff?  (by the way, if you get that, I just love you so much I want to make out with you right now) Should I put a couch there, or make my dad build me built-ins.  Seriously, what do you think?  The door to your left (Susanna's right) leads to the kitchen, so I just have visions of having fancy grown-ups come over for coffee, and although we will likely sit in La Hacienda, it's possible that we might need fancy time, and this will be the fancy time room.  With coffee.  So it's totally awesome that the kitchen is right there.  Which does sort of make me think Dining Room, but I have declared it, so...

Hey oh, way, oh, oh wayyyyyoh way oh...

With every house we looked at, I tried to find something special about it, in case we bought it.  Something that would make him ADORE this house above all others.  The first offer, he was devastated because he lost a retaining pond behind the back yard and cannot, now, catch tadpoles.  AS IF HE WAS GOING TO CATCH TADPOLES.  But not kidding, devastated.  This house, I sold him the tree.  "That's your climbing tree," I told him.  I bet, by February, he is all the way up to the crook at the top of this picture.  Lucky kid.  I was stuck climbing apple trees, he's got his own live oak.

My mother said that, when she was a kid, she would climb trees and drop acorns and pine cones down on the chickens in the yard, playing Bombs Over Tokyo.  There are so many things I could say about that statement.  

So that's pretty much it.  As I mentioned, I met the neighbor, Nicole, who I hope will come and have a drink on La Hacienda every now and again.  Come to think of it, there isn't a gate on that side of the house, dammit.  She is going to have to come around or come through the house.  That's all right... anyway, I met her, because her brother parked his truck in my driveway tonight, when I needed to unload Round One of the Great Move of 2014.  They were super cool about it, though, and she has a little dog that's, I don't know, a Shih Tsu or something, and it's name is Gismo or Gonzo or something, and that's fine.  It's going to be weird to live directly next door to someone who is younger than 70 and doesn't (so it seems) beat his wife.  I hope we become friends.  On the other side, those people appear (see above) to have a boat, so they are nice people.  Boat people are nice people.

I'm ready to get the moving on the road.

Ready to have a drink on La Hacienda!

House. Whatevs. I'm over it.

So we are moving.  For real this time.  Remember that time I gave you a bunch of pictures of a house?  The house where I made an offer, and they accepted the offer, then we had an inspection and an appraisal, and all of that went well.  Then, after that?  They do a title search, and the goddamn title wouldn't clear?

Not that house.

The sad thing is, I still *LOVE* that house.  Which sucks.

I don't *LOVE* the house I'm really buying, but it's all right, because it is costing $33,000 less.  YES.  So I'll find a way to love it, don'tcha think?

It's a good house.  It's big.  Dedicated playroom FOR THE WIN.

It has a screened in porch where I can drink.

It has granite countertops.

I'm just trying to ignore the fact that it feels dark (can lights!), that it has no fireplace, and that it has a galley kitchen.  It has a pantry, I can deal with the kitchen.

Anyway.  So it's really happening this time.  I mean, I think.  Supposed to close this week.  Think happy thoughts.  Then pay no attention to my insanity as we approach actual moving date.  Ugh.

Oh- one more thing.  The outside has trim that is teal.  TEAL.  teal.  I shit you not.  Ugh.

1968 Movie Viewer

Things I learned while watching Chitty Chitty, Bang Bang, with my 7 year old son, this last Friday:

1.  Dick Van Dyke was pretty foxy in the 60's.  I'm grateful that there was no fake cockney accent in this particular show.


2.  Russia and Germany and all the little Russia sub-nations (at the time) were VILLAINOUS in the 1960's.  All bad guys had slavic accents, wore black hats and long coats, and looked like Boris Badinoff from Rocky and Bullwinkle.


3.  All women in the 1960's both looked kind of like, and wanted to be, Shirley Jones.  And who the fuck can blame them?  I want to be her, too.  Makes perfect sense to me.


4.  I'm not teaching my son how to be a good father.  The inventor dad, while truly being a very loving father, is clearly a total eff-up in life.  "What do you think," I asked my child.  "Is he a good father?"  C responded, "Yes, and no.  He is very responsible." NO HE IS NOT.  He is nice.  He is the opposite of responsible.


5.  Alzheimer's was pure entertainment back in the day.


6.  There are no children allowed in Bulgaria.


7.  All movies of that decade were musicals.  They could make a musical about nazis.  Oh, wait, they did...

(Julie Andrews also kind of looks like Shirley Jones.  I'm not sure which is the egg and which is the chicken, here, honestly.)

8.  During the last week of school, while I was in elementary school, we were piled onto the cafeteria floor and were force-fed terrible movies to kill time until summer break.  Chitty was DEFINITELY one of them.  Yet, I had zero recollection of the plot beyond the fact that there was a car involved.  What the fuck was I doing during the playing of this movie??  Sleeping?  Talking?  (I'm going to go with talking...)

9.  There were lots of inventions on the plate for this little family that were insanely awe-inspiring at the time, but are definitely being used in the back of the house at McDonald's.  I am pretty sure a McEmployee hasn't actually touched food since 1997.

10.  Ian Fleming liked to hit acid.

11.  Truely Scrumptious is both my dream name and the Best Porn Name, Ever.

Turkey Savior

Well, it's Thanksgiving week, y'all.  YIPPEE, you say.  PIE, you say.

I go, "eh."

Here's the thing, the big kid is thanking sgiving with his significant other's family, and the little one is at his father's for the week, so it's just me and my old parents.  My mama, she offered to cook, but I told her that was dumb.  And now, I fear that I will eat the following on Thanksgiving Day:

1.  One pot of coffee
2.  Three scrambled eggs.
3.  Two Jimmy Dean Sausage Links.
4.  Two frozen waffles (toasted).
5.  3/4 of a package of oreos.

And that, my friends, is both sad and absolutely fine, all at the same time.

Thing is, I really don't care about missing T'giving.  That makes me feel bad, like I'm a goddamn commie red bastard who's unamer'can.

Eh.

I will, however, be doing the following in the next week:
1.  Going obsessively to the gym.  OH THE GYM.  Yes, the gym.  It's free, right now, so I plan to wholly get my money's worth.
2.  Running.  Got two races this week.  What?  Oh, yeah, I meant to type that.  Two.  That's how I roll.  (OMG.)  Seriously, though, it's a little 5K on Thursday morning and a HALF MARATHON on Saturday.

Half.

Marathon.

WHO IS YOUR MAMA NOW?

(i am, i know.)

3.  Knitting.  Because that is what I do.

If I REALLY crave pumpkin pie, I'll buy a pumpkin spice latte one day.  And I heard that Burger King is open on Thanksgiving Day.

It's all good, yo.

Unforutnately THE GYM is closed on Thursday.  But otherwise, it's ALL GOOD.

Happy Thanksgiving to those of you who are into that sort of thing!

Bedazzled Art Mogul

If you were my mother's daughter, you too could enjoy some of the fun times which is called, "try to not get really irritated with your mother while you are preparing to move houses."

Exhibit A:  The microwave stand

I have this one, verugly (figure it out) piece of "furniture," that sits at the end of my kitchen countertops in old-house-land, because old house has EXTREMELY little counterspace, and there needs to be a place for a microwave to live.  Oddly or awesomely, depending on your perspective, this furniture is, indeed, a microwave stand, and it's white.  It's ugly, but it serves its purpose in life.  Microwave lives on it.

Several (four?  three?) weeks ago, which is to say, possibly one day upon the homeowner accepting my offer but well before the actual inspection took place, my mom goes like this, "are you planning to keep that ugly microwave stand in the new house?"  I replied that I am not, as the new house has a built-in microwave and a lot more storage, and thus the stand is redundant, and since it remains ugly, this is the time when we say goodbye.

Please note:  closing is pushed back to mid-December.

That day, so several weeks ago, I arrived home from work to find said microwave stand on the curb in front of my house.

Forfuckssake, mom.  Now the tiny old-house kitchen is full to the brim with crap that had been on or in the microwave stand, up on the countertops, which makes it damn hard to, you know, stir stuff or what-all.  SIGH.

Exhibit B:  The paint choices.

I orignially REALLYREALLYREALLY wanted a celery-green kitchen.  Honestly, I really still do, but it being an open floor plan, there's no way I can have a celery-green kitchen without having a celery-green family room, which I most definitely do NOT want.  And don't start telling me I can change paint colors at the place where rooms change function, even though it is the same wall, I will not do that, and I will not throw up a piece of trim, because that would be dumb.

Anyway.  So I've given up on that, and I've pretty much decided on colors.  Kitchen/dining/family is going to be a very light peach, warm, basically off-white, and neutral.  Boom.  Fancy and daring.  Same color will be on foyer and all hallways.

Front room is either a fairly dark, dusty purple, or else terra cotta.  I haven't decided yet.

Little kid bedroom is blue.  Other bedroom is purple or terra cotta.  Master is celery green.  Master bathroom is brown.  Hall bathroom is blue.

My mother, she no likey the terra cotta.  Or the purple.

S.I.G.H.  Not 100% sure that either of those colors will happen.

Exhibit C:  Artwork

The artist formerly known as my husband and I had very differing taste in art.  I like things that are red and may or may not look like things.  I'm good with swirls and shapes and big poppies and flowers and stuff that is red.  He liked churches.  And church "paintings" that have sparkly paint in them so they glimmer.  And one in particular that plugs in, so light shines through the church windows.

I'm trying to not be judgy here.  Different does not mean wrong.  It just means different.  But New White House is all mine and the baby's and the cat's. No former artist.  So it's my taste that gets to be everywhere, and by God, I'm going to decorate this bitch, even though I have zero idea how one does that, and I'm going to be on pinterest a lot, I think.

Anyway.  Art.

I've declared the following:  Nothing sparkling.  Nothing that plugs in.  Nothing with words on it (like a picture of a church with a nice bible verse underneath it.  I'm sure that would be lovely, but that's not the aesthetic I'm going for.)  Nothing with a metallic (gold OR silver) frame.

My mama, she comes home from Big Lots the other day, with....  "art" for my new house.

Let's stop for a minute and let me acknowledge that I'm a snob.  I get it.  I admit it.  But seriously.  Art from Hob Lob is a-ok with me.  Cute.  Love it.  Big Lots is pushing it, though.

So there's that.

And then, too, the "art" that she bought has words on it.  It's kind of incorporated into a fairly modern design, so that's something.  And it's stretched canvas, so no frame, so that's good, too.  And the predominate color is red, so that's great.

But...  it's bedazzled.

Yes.  You heard me.

With sparkly rhinestones.  Red.  Still.

OMG.

But, for all my complaining, it's very sweet.  Irritating as a mutha, but sweet.  Good intentions.  Still.  Fucking Bedazzled??

Home Owner Extraordinaire... almost!

Once upon a time...

there was a poor, lonely, neglected, repo'ed, bank-owned house.

And then this one lady, who is mean and has a thick grey stripe through otherwise reddish-brown hair, a lot like Bonnie Raitt, only she is mean and you know Bonnie Raitt isn't mean, anyway, this one lady, she bought that house.

She paid some dude (I can't think of his name, so let's go with Carl, because I think it might actually BE Carl) to overhaul it.

He overhauled it a lot, and did a good job, did Carl, and he painted it all white.  Very, very white.

And then, this girl decided to buy it.

We close in the next week, I think.

Here's a little tour.  All out of order, because I don't LIKE ORDER, DAMMIT...

Here is the family room.  Under that window, one arm of my giant sofa of death will be sitting, which means, you are looking at the place where I knit.  That window has a sill that is about a foot deep, so the cat, she will be sitting there, biting my head.  Oh, yes, she will.

Here is the opposite side of that family room, and this is the fireplace.  It's curvy.  I won't be able to hang anything on it.  But it is cute.  And it's functioning (so I'm told, by Carl, or whatnot) and I do like me a fireplace.

Here is where you walk in the front door.  It's too little to be called a foyer.  Note the boob light fixture.  I hate lights that look like boobs.  Gonna have to replace that bitch eventually.

"Front Room."  Normal people might call this a "formal living room," but we are a) not normal, and b) not formal, so we will just call it the "front room."  This is where video games will be played until the little person grows up, at which time it becomes the space where the old lady drinks coffee with her church friends.

This is the hall bathroom.  I like that it has Help-I've-Fallen-And-I-Can't-Get-Up handles.  Good times.

This is the tiniest of the bedrooms, and it's not too small.  So let's call it "your room," shall we?  You can sleep there when you come visit.

This is the Baby's Room.  Right now, he says he would rather have your room, because he doesn't want to have to turn upon entering his room.  His mother just sighs, because this room is significantly bigger.  She isn't sure whether to indulge or overrule him on this one.

Why, hello, extraordinarily white kitchen.  My, my.  Guess what, y'all!!  There is a lazy susan cupboard under that peninsula.  WHAT WHAT??!!

You know what is behind those (now fixed, on their track) accordian doors?  You thought it would be the washing machine, didn't you?  Nope.  It's a BIGASS PANTRY.  KA.  BOOM.

whitey white white white

Here's the eaty place.  Dining room, or whatever, but obvs not a formal dining room, which is absolutely good by me.  Note that this space is the same space as the kitchen and the family/knitting room, so I've got that whole "open floor plan" thing people pay big dollars for on HGTV.  Also, there is another very deep window sill, wherein the cat can sit while I eat (and bite my head.)

Open Floor Plan.  WOW!  

This is the master.  It has a full 3-piece attached bath, and a good sized walk-in closet.  Super duper.

Isn't it CUTE!?!?!?!!!  You love it, you know you do.

Know what's fun? Fun is "painting" this house on Olympic Paint's website.  I've got the colors almost completely picked out.  Good stuff.  More to follow, once I get keys in hand!

Happy housing!!!

Rememberer When

I'm pining for a few things that are long gone.

Jello Pudding Pops, for one.  My God.  Best snack popsicle ever.  EVER.  Dammit, Bill Cosby, why, oh WHY did you have to allow these things to disappear?  I have children now, I have the opportunity to buy them under the guise of "for the children" and eat my little pudding-pop-loving-heart out.

Manna from Heaven.

Then we have The Littles.

I find their goofy teeth to be both insulting, a mark of poor character, and oddly adorable.  Damn these Littles.

This one cartoon, one of those Saturday morning cartoons.  It was called, "The Littles," and it always had a craft idea at the end.  Make a fancy necklace out of a button and some embroidery floss!  WHY NOT??!!  My kid has a book called "The Borrowers" that appears to be freakishly alike The Littles, but I can't bring myself to give enough of a shit to read "The Borrowers" or determine if one is based upon the other.

Really, though, for sure this doesn't have a neato how-to lesson on something crafty and awesome.

My own goddamn bait box that I used as a makeup box, although I cannot tell you why, in that it was so fucking heavy and enormous that it wasn't like a travel box or anything, just occupied it's own corner in my bedroom, near a mirror...

Magical.

Here I am being all nostalgic, and the thing is, there's really only one thing worth talking about which is how, you know, yesterday, I offered to pay these one people some money, and they, in turn, are letting me take a house.

A HOUSE.  I BOUGHT A HOUSE.

And it's super freaking adorable.  Yep.

And it may lack pudding pops, Littles, etc., but it has a LOT going for it regardless.  And I can create my own nostalgia.  And I probably will. 

More to come.  In the meantime, let's all go listen to A-Ha and call it a day...