Disclosure
Last night, as we were all loading into the van to go look at some homes, the always annoying and constantly unleashed cocker spaniel that belongs to one of my neighbors came tearing across the sidewalk and started jumping all over my realtor and his nice clean pants. It was snowing outside and the dogs paws were soaking wet. I know, because after she was done jumping all over my realtor, she started jumping up into my knee. That was before she decided to jump into my van, getting the floor soaked (with ice and snow, not pee, thank God for that).
This is the same dog that jumped up on me last summer and proceeded to pee all over my foot. Did I mention that the owner has not once apologized for any of these incidents? In fact, she acts more like we’re the ones in the wrong place at the wrong time.
As we finally got the dog out of our van and closed the doors, we all took a deep breath. "So," I said to my realtor, "do we have disclose annoying neighbors?"
If we did, we’d never be able to move.
Don’t get me wrong. We have some excellent neighbors where we live. We have a full-time Nanny/chef (who used to be the chef for the Bruce Springsteen tours) who constantly thinks about and brings my children special treats. Last time, she brought Big I sparkly red shoes, and stickers and special cookies for Lil C.
We have grandparents in the neighborhood who don’t get to see their own grandchildren as much as they’d like so they love up our kids. We have neighbors right beside us who own two big dogs who are always on a leash (one of them was our savior when we were car-jacked by the pit bull).
But we also have the cocker spaniel lady who can’t say "I’m sorry" when her dog pees all over you. The dog is constantly off its leash, running around the parking lot and our yards, jumping up with dirty paws on our clean clothes and driving us insane. In the summer, her dog jumped up on my very clean and very white Shureido gi pants. I wasn’t sure who I wanted to snap kick more, the dog or my neighbor.
We also have the neighbor that we lovingly refer to as "the local Britney Spears."
We’ve seen her wandering around the sidewalk wearing flannel pajamas and big fuzzy slippers. If the mood moves her, she’ll sometimes lay down on the sidewalk to soak up the sun or dirt or whatever. Often though, she’ll just wander around on the sidewalks, choosing to stay as upright as possible, so as not to spill her glass of wine or antifreeze. Sometimes during her little excursions, she’ll stand on the sidewalk in front of our house and blankly stare into our windows while trying to maintain her balance. Her balance could use some work. Her odd behavior doesn’t stop there.
She’ll frequently decide to warm her car up before getting into it. This, by itself, is not at all odd. Sometimes, however, she’ll leave the car running for hours, frequently with the door wide open. In the summer, it’s not unusual for both of her car doors to be wide open for days at a time, even during virtual monsoons. This is the same neighbor who chooses to leave her litter box air dry on our sidewalk for a few weeks at a time.
Recently she decided to take down the curtains in her kitchen. Since then, we’ve seen entirely too much of her, if you know what I mean. One of our neighbors has seen her entirely naked. I imagine he’s in counseling now. We’ve only had the distinct horror of seeing her in her bra and that was traumatizing enough. Britney may not be wearing underpants these days, but my neighbor is the topless wonder.
A few weeks ago, the police knocked on my door and asked me if I had seen her lately. Apparently, there was a 911 call from her home but no one answered at the door. It didn’t surprise me. This is par for the course with her. Eventually she must have answered the door, because the three cop cars drove away without having to break down her door. I can’t imagine it will be their last visit to her house.
Yesterday, she emerged from her house for the first time in weeks. She warmed her car up for about two hours before driving it into her garage and going back inside. Yes, she really is that odd. Now that I think about it, maybe she’s hibernating.
So, I’ll be happy to disclose that one of my windows sticks sometimes. I have no problem admitting that my microwave is a bit quirky. But I am zipping my lips when it comes to my neighbors. The previous owner didn’t warn us; and I’m not warning the next person.
Something to Panic About
The first nerve-wracking part of this week is now over. We have the pre-approval from the mortgage lender. We know how much house we can afford. We now know that we can build the house we want, with the options we want. We just have to choose and then sign the papers and put things into motion.
I’m excited about having my own walk-in closet. I’m excited about having a single-family home with a yard for the girls. I’m also really excited about having a basement big enough to turn into my own personal dojo without having to share too much space with litter boxes and abandoned toys.
Tomorrow night, we’re touring our "competition." Our realtor has set up a tour of several comparable homes to our current one for tomorrow night. After tomorrow night, we’ll know the exact number we can put on our house and officially list it.
Then it’s time to panic.
I feel like I spent my entire day following the girls around, picking up one mess after another after another. Lil C took a marker to my atrium door windows and glass fireplace doors today. Later, she took a pen to her sister and the ottoman in my living room. That was after she dumped an entire snack bag of cheese crackers onto my white carpet before deciding to stomp them into the floor. Did I mention that only one out of every three bites makes it to her mouth at the dinner table?
Lil C has also suddenly decided that she will intermittently go on the potty like a big girl, which means there is a constant half-naked little munchkin running around which terrifies me to no end. I don’t even mind when she tells me she "pooped on Dora" (in her Dora diapers) because at least that means it’s not happening on the floor somewhere. She is managing to make it to the bathroom every once in a while and while that is shocking, exciting and cool, this newly unbraced ACL recoveree isn’t quite up to the running that potty-training toddlers require their parents to do.
In fact, I’m not ready for a lot of things I’ll be needing to do.
I can not imagine showing this house at a moments notice. I think I’m going to have to tell my realtor I’ll need 48 hours notice and a babysitter if anyone is to walk in my house and not think it’s a trashed toddler fraternity house. Instead of crushed beer cans, there are strewn-about sippy cups. Instead of beer sludge on the floors, there are cheese and graham cracker crumb piles that will randomly turn up on chairs, under chairs and on carpet. Instead of hungover fraternity boys, you’ll see a toddler who refuses to change out of her pajamas for the entire day. Just call her "Heff," as in Hugh.
There’s also the business of all of our stuff. Since moving in to this home over four years ago, we have accumulated a kid and all her stuff, an entire other room of living room furniture, another dining table, a complete bedroom set for Big I and about a ton of new toys (We’re not even going to talk about the clothing and shoes that belong to various girls in this house). I seriously don’t know how we’ll move all of this stuff out of here. It’s tempting to sell the entire house and all of its contents and just start from scratch with everything.
Now that the panic has subsided about the mortgage, I’m sure something else will take its place. . . the prospect of owning two homes at a time, the stress of choosing cabinets, carpet, tile, exterior and interior colors of everything, choosing the best lot, the perfect model, and timing everything right.
There’s also, of course, the touchy issue of finding people to help us move. Mr. BBM and I have moved eight times since we got together so most of our favors are just about used up. I guess I’ll just have to recruit my readers.
Anyone?
Anyone?
Bueller?
Moving Right Along
On Friday, I reached 142 degrees flexion. I am fighting for every degree lately and it is painful. When I go to physical therapy, I am there for at least two hours and I work like I have never worked before. I also swear into my pillow a lot. It’s paying off though.
I am finished wearing my brace. I haven’t worn it since I walked into physical therapy on Friday.
I’m very nervous about people bumping into me in public. Uneven sidewalk and icy conditions scare me half to death, but I am doing it. The crutches have been packed away and the brace will soon follow.
Of course, I realize that at my post-op appointment in a few weeks, I’ll be fitted for a custom ACL brace but this one will be much less intrusive into my everyday life. This is the brace that will eventually get me back to karate, tennis and Amy Winehouse karaoke.
I spent my birthday weekend eating at a hibachi restaurant with my family, eating entirely too many chocolate cupcakes (thanks Mom), and painting my house like a weekend warrior mad-woman.
We got an idea of what we’ll be able to sell our house for on Friday, and we are excited. Our realtor didn’t balk at our "colorful" family room. He didn’t even mind our pink counter tops (We didn’t do it-We inherited it). He thinks we have a beautiful home and that it will sell quickly.
This comes with many mixed feelings. This is the home we finally put our stamp on and made our own. We spent many weekends stripping flowery wallpaper, and painting beautiful little girl rooms, complete with murals, clouds, flying fairies, and ocean waves.
Much to his surprise, I taught myself how to use suede paint like an expert while Mr. BBM was on a business trip. I fell in love with this house when we bought it and it will be difficult to leave it. Upstairs is the bathroom where I found out Lil C was on her way. I brought Lil C home to this house for the first time and spent many happy times with family and friends inside these walls.
I’ve realized though, that we can make any place our own. Our memories are our memories and they are packed and stored neatly in our hearts and minds. They travel well and they’ll go where we go, where we can make more memories. . .
Over the weekend, we found a house we love. It’s perfect. Saturday night, Mr. BBM and I both had dreams about it. It’s in a great neighborhood, in a great school district and it has just the right amount of space for us. Mr. BBM would have a private office. The girls would have tons of closet space. I would have my own walk-in closet (Can I get an AMEN from the ladies?), and we would have a usable yard where the girls would be able to play to their little hearts content.
Now we just need to figure out if we can get all the options we want on the lot we want and how this whole thing will work out so that we’re neither homeless nor the proud owners of two homes. That would be bad.
2008 may prove to be a year full of exciting changes in the BBM household.
Thanks to everyone for the awesome birthday stories and well-wishes. I have to give a major THANK YOU to Sizzle for singing me a beautiful rendition of "Happy Birthday" that made me wonder why she’s not being played ad nauseum on the radio right now. I also have to say that Adam had a story so funny, I actually cried I laughed so hard.
Distract me
I’m not normally the type of person to draw attention to myself. . . unless of course, you consider that I am a willing karaoke participant, I bleed on the mats and get injured at karate camps, I do all the interactive stuff at the wax museums . . .
Oh, who am I kidding?
Today is the 4th anniversary of my 29th birthday. That’s right, I’m 29 for the 5th time today, February 7th. Did I mention it’s my birthday???
I got a fabulous Japanese text book in the mail complete with audio CD from my friend Adam yesterday. Thanks Adam! Now the whole family can learn Japanese when we get in the car. Very cool! It will help distract me greatly while some of my dojo mates are off to New Orleans next week for winter camp, the camp at which I was planning on testing for Shodan.
Ho. Hum. Sigh.
I need all the distractions I can get.
So, in honor of my birthday, distract me from my sore knee and being another year older better older better. The best birthday story, poem, song or other distraction, left in my comments, gets lots of link love and the distinct honor of making me smile. You have until midnight.
What? You were expecting another trip down memory lane? If so, go here.
Edited to add: From a high school friend of mine who obviously has enough photo shop skills to make my thighs look that svelte. What a birthday present!
OMG y’all! Sizzle just recorded herself singing happy birthday and sent it to me. She should TOTALLY be on American Idol. Wow! Step it up people! You’ve got some competition!
I’m THAT Mom
When I was in college, I did a lot of babysitting for my boss. I worked at a flower shop and he was the owner. He had gone through a nasty divorce and had been left with his two children, ages 6 and 4 at the time. Obviously traumatized by what had happened, he spent a lot of time going out with friends and trying to pick up his life in the only way he knew how. I was the babysitter that allowed him to do this.
It was quite common for me to spend my Friday nights picking his children up from day care and after care before taking them home for a long night that wouldn’t end for me until around 2 a.m. It made it an even longer night because the kids also had "issues."
One night, I decided to take the kids to Blockbuster to pick out some movies to help us all survive the long haul of a night that was to come. The 4-year old little boy decided he wanted a spider man poster. I told him we were renting movies, not buying posters and a temper tantrum ensued. His sister thought it was wildly funny and I was horrified.
There we were in Blockbuster, one little girl laughing so hard she was in stitches and one little boy flailing all around the floor, screaming "I hate you" and "You’re so mean" at me as if I had just attempted to remove all his toenails or something. He was screaming, spitting and flailing so much so that there was absolutely nothing for me to do.
I was an experienced babysitter, but this was all new to me. I tried to pick him up and he kicked me so hard in the shin that I thought I’d pass out from the pain. I tried to nicely tell him to get up. That didn’t work. I tried to more firmly tell him to get up and that didn’t work. Finally, I tossed the movies we were going to rent on a nearby counter, grabbed him off the floor despite the assault my body took, and told him we were leaving and there would be no movies tonight. He continued to hit me and scream at me until he was buckled into the car.
I had two thoughts while standing in Blockbuster, noticing everyone noticing me. The first was that I was never having kids. The second was horror at the fact that these people all probably assumed he was my child. He looked so much like me. He had blonde hair and blue eyes and a slim build. It was awful.
Fast forward to the summer of 2005.
I am extremely pregnant with Lil C and we’re at the mall getting Big I’s pictures taken. We go to The Picture People and when the prints are ready they frame a big one of Big I. We bought the pose, but not that actual framed version. Big I can’t stand the idea of leaving a picture of herself behind in the store. She refuses to leave the store and throws a royal temper tantrum. We walk out and leave her behind. She comes running after us and throws herself on the mall floor, screaming, drooling, flailing.
It’s a Friday night and it’s a virtual high school class reunion for me at the mall. EVERYONE I know and haven’t seen in 10 years is there with their extremely well-behaved kids. Any other time, I would have been that put-together parent with the well-behaved kid, but not tonight.
I get so irritated with Big I, that at 7 months pregnant, I hoist her up, head out the front and feet out the back and start carrying her through the mall. She kicks her way down and I put her in a chair in the center of the mall. Holding her there, I quietly and calmly tell her that her behavior is not acceptable, that there are going to be serious consequences and that she better knock it off and now. An old lady sitting nearby leans over with a chocolate bar and says "Here, give this to her."
Infuriated with my child and the whole situation, I spit fire at this woman and tell her "Does this look like a child who deserves a chocolate bar to you? NO THANK YOU!" I pick my battles, sure, every parent does. But with one like this, there is no appeasing the kid or else your future authority is destroyed. Chocolate after a colossal temper tantrum? I think not.
Mr. BBM takes over when it’s clear my firm tone isn’t getting anywhere and we head towards the exit. She is screaming and thrashing and all I could think is, "Thank God I have pictures of her in my wallet so that if mall security stops us and thinks we’re kidnapping her, I can prove she’s mine." Big I lost TV. She went straight to her room and bed, and lost all DVD privileges in the car too.
Mr. BBM and I don’t mess around.
Fast forward to yesterday.
This was my first time to the grocery store with the girls since before my surgery. I went in for just a few items and figured I could handle it. The girls were being great. Both were riding in the truck cart and getting along just fine. It was when I stopped to talk to a relative that Lil C decided to raise hell.
She climbed out of the cart and starting grabbing hoards of Valentine’s candy that she was shoveling into the truck as fast as she could. I put them back and she threw a fit and grabbed more. The kid has a killer grip.
The grocery store won’t need to clean their floors anytime soon because Lil C did it for them. Break-dancing on the grocery store floor, she screamed and flailed, cried and yelled. Big I thought it was hysterical. Suddenly, I’m right back in Blockbuster, except this kid doesn’t just resemble me. She is mini ME!
The grocery store was packed with the after-school crowd and I was mortified. No matter what kind of person you are, you can’t help but notice an unruly toddler. You can’t help but pass a bit of judgment on the nearby parent who is obviously not controlling the situation. I might as well have been wearing a giant scarlet letter on my chest.
I grabbed the cart and walked away from her and told her we were leaving. She quickly changed her attitude and climbed back in the cart. Before I even stopped for fruit, she jumped out of the still moving cart, ran to the flower section of the store and picked up a ceramic pot.
The kid throws everything. She will frequently grab one of Big I’s toys and chuck it down the stairs just to be a stinker. I panicked.
Walking slowly wasn’t going to do the trick. I tried to lightly jog and the pain shot through my knee so badly it made me stop in my tracks and gasp. I limped over to Lil C and ripped the pot out of her hand as she giggled and then started to throw another fit.
Head out the front, feet out the back, we made our way to the check-out line. I would have just left the cart but I had absolutely nothing to make for dinner at home. She realized she wasn’t getting anywhere. She calmed down and asked to be put back in the truck. In the truck she went.
Out in the parking lot, she refused to get out of the truck. She knows I’m slow and can’t bend like I used to be able to do, so she kept scooting from one side of the truck to the other as soon as I would get to that side. I couldn’t exactly leave her in the cart in the parking lot.
Luckily, my relative came out, stuck his hand in the one side and she immediately went to me. I loaded that stinker in the car and told her we’re not leaving the house again until she’s three, or possibly 13. I haven’t decided yet, but one thing is for sure: I’ll be in isolation with a 2-year old. Send help.
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