Old stuff

You know, there is something comforting about old people. I don't know exactly what it is, but I adore them*. I kinda can't wait to be one. I can wear polyester elastic waist pants and say whatever I want because I won't give s___. I will hopefully live in a double wide that needs minimal maintenance. I will spend my time taking codeine syrup for my "cough" and reading romance novels. I mean, I'll be old. Who cares?

*Unless they smell, in which case it's a no go. For instance the other day on the way to church we pulled up next to a car full of three really, really old people. An ancient, heavy breathing man was taking up a lot of the driver's seat (okay, technically his pot belly was taking up the driver's seat, sheesh), while two shriveled up crones huddled in the back. They were all wearing copious amounts of polyester bought from previous decades. Had it been colder outside, I'm positive the windows would have been fogged up with their wheezing. To be honest, I was unsure if all three of them were still going to be alive by the time they reached their destination. I turned to Sam and said, "I don't think it smells very good in that car." And he said, "no." (God bless him.)

I have been thinking about all sorts of old stuff lately. We are currently in escrow on an older house. Did I mention that? Yes, some crazy bank has finally decided to accept one of our offers...but only after this house had fallen out of escrow TWO times, and we made THREE offers. And also our realTOR (apparently we've all been mispronouncing it these past years), like, prostrated himself and begged and slit his wrists and made risky deals with minor demons 'n' stuff. Okay, not technically, but something like that. Thank the LORD. However. Please everyone keep all your fingers and toes crossed because it is not ours yet, and until they hand over those keys any number of things could go sideways.

Now, this house is not crazy old. It is just kinda old. Like 80s old. Okay, wait--I know what you're thinking. When I think of an 80s house, I tend to think, "ahhhhhh, get thee away from me! Oakey-brass-yuck!" But luckily the previous owner(s) of this house managed to get rid of all the icky 80s-esque things like popcorn ceilings, black-rimmed windows, oakey cabinets, etc. It has a nice classic look now, AND it has all these great period attributes still intact. Yes, I just called the 80s "period". It has gorgeous cathedral ceilings. The banister is beautifully curved and perfect for displaying Christmas garland. Speaking of Christmas, I can't wait to put a glowy, sparkly tree in the bay window this December. Oh! And it has these beautiful book-matched wood doors that I love, love.

Why does everything have to be "new"? Why can't it be old? Old is good; it's very good. Old juxtaposed with modern is even better.

Okay, my dream, dream house would be a 2000 square foot Arts & Crafts house from 1912, perfectly restored and in a Traditionally Designed Neighborhood. That would be the epitome of old being the best. But, hello, that's truly just a fun dream to me, and not one that I intend to realize. In this real life I will take my old 80s house in an older, quaint neighborhood and plant my flag with pride.

Some other old stuff I've been pondering is old style. I am on a style blog kick to supplement my sewing blog obsession, and I find I'm really drawn to all these vintage style ones. A favorite one, Casey's Elegant Musings, recently posted on how to do your hair up in this really cool vintagey rolled back style. I took this and ran with it, and now I've been rocking these double french braid and twisted back updos. Scarily, this week both my mom AND my dad have told me, "hey Leah, I really like your hairdo." Ack! But. It's totally because they're old. And I did say I liked old stuff, so I'm just going to have to let that one go.

The thing about old style, old dresses, & old updos is that they're...romantic. Having cut my teeth on Anne of Green Gables & 80s Victoriana revival, anything romantic (or even broody romantic) feels comforting and nostaligic to me. I think that's what the appeal, be it old people, old house, or old style boils down to: romantic idealism. Romanticize the past and look to the future with hope...yeah...that's it.

Like an Ostrich

I have been avoiding this blog because who wants to hear about sad mopey crap?

Instead I am posting far more frequently on my sewing blog. Because that's my happy place. When the world looks black, I have a headache, and my kids drive me crazy...I sew. I bury my head in fabric and patterns. I go out to my machines and put creative thought into physical results.

(The only hiccup in this scenario is when my dad goes out on the porch and stinks it up, and/or the kids come out and bug the living y'know out of me. Wright likes to stand behind me on my swivel chair and choke me with love. Violet needs a snack or attention about every 27 seconds. Yesterday, my dad SAT IN MY FREAKING SEWING CHAIR for a good 30 minutes reading his dang gun magazine. But I don't want to go into yesterday; I might start crying again.)

Sometimes when I'm really upset, I open up my laptop and go to my favorite online fabric shops. Staring at little pictures of pretty fabric usually does the trick, and I breathe easier within a few minutes. Honestly, some days here, thinking about fabric is the only thing that gets me through the day. Addiction? Maybe. Lifesaver? Definitely.

('Kay, now I sound like Kate Gosselin in that interview where she asked herself--and answered!--hypothetical questions the entire time.)

A lot of times I only have the mental presence to read fluffy fashion/sewing/celebrity gossip blogs off my Google Reader. I can't seem to get into any fiction lately; something like that might require more emotion than I'm willing to expend.

So, a typical day goes something like this:

8:00 - Stumble in my living room with coffee while the kids watch Nick Jr.. Hole up with my laptop and zone out. I am ridiculously sleep deprived and pretty much only awake because of the coffee, and also because I got tired of the kids jumping on my head.

9:00 - Grudgingly brave the kitchen to get some breakfast for us. I avoid the kitchen in the morning because my dad is in there from like, I swear, 6am - 10am. Sadly, even when I'm sure I've waited long enough that I won't run into him, my strategy often fails. I think that man must go into the kitchen at least 50x per day. Which is a lot for a man who doesn't cook.

10:00 - Deny the kids' request for more shows and force them to play with something. Maybe go outside. Wish I was more awake. Wish Wright slept through the night. Wish I had my own house.

12:00 - Make the kids a lunch they won't eat.

1:00 - 5:00 - If we have the car, go to the park. Run errands. Do an art activity or puzzles with the kids. Break up about a billion fights, administer timeouts. Watch more preschool programs. Do laundry.

7:00 - Sam finally gets home, and we put the kids to bed. This is horrible and usually requires laying down with them, threatening, and combating stall techniques.

8:30 - Take my shower and almost fall asleep under the spray.

9:30 - Zombie walk into the living room to spend time with Sam and watch our DVR'd shows.

11:00-12:00ish - Finally go to bed.

12:30 - Unable to sleep because of a) Violet loudly sucking her thumb and b) Wright tossing & turning & moaning.

1:00 - Pull Wright into bed. Wait for him to go back to sleep. Possibly change his diaper because he has stuck his hand down his diaper and peed all over himself. Between his wiggling all over the place and Sam taking up over 1/2 the bed, alternate between sleep limbo and awake.

2:00 - Finally fall asleep.

7:00 - Wake up to kids jumping on my head and a crippling fear of my dad's feet.

Things I Know

Axiom #1: Trader Joe's Hawaiian Style Salted Potato Chips are like crunchy, salty, manna from heaven at 10:30 on a weeknight.

Axiom #2: I should really, truly, not eat Trader Joe's Hawaiian Style Salted Potato Chips at 10:30 on a weeknight. Or really any night.

But. OMG.

*crunchy salty crispness on my tongue*

Dangit, these things are amazing.

Ahem.

Lately I have contemplated the beauty of my children a lot. I see so many horrible, awful things happening to peoples' children in the news these days, and I think, "how would I feel if that were my kid? How much would my world end?" And I look at my beautiful, healthy, and safe kids. And I just...I treasure them. I am so blessed to have them. I bear the frightening responsibility of getting them to adulthood without serious injury, physical or emotional or otherwise. Once they get there, they should be grounded, sane adults capable of relationships and work.

That is totally overwhelming.

Whenever I complain about these early years, inevitably some well-meaning yet pithy-commenter will always say something to me, like, "oh, just you wait! This time is so short, and you will miss it when they're teenagers!"

*pause to gag*

My internal reaction tends to go something like this:

A) Hey, thanks! This is so much easier now! Hey, do you want to spend a night or two in my bed with my kids?? Like to wake up constantly to shuffle your child or pat a sobbing child? Enjoy a day of breaking up fights on a foggy, coffee-fueled brain?? (Day after day after day!) No? HMM.

Or even...

B) Fine. That's how it is for you. Probably your kids slept for you at a decent age. Or you were a "kid person" who likes playing with little kids, which I'm not. Perhaps you weren't an introvert who needs copious time to yourself in order to recharge and resents the lack of privacy, like me. Surely you didn't raise a couple of stubborn cranky mules, like I am doing? Hah! I plan to look back when my kids are older and say, "thank God!" BTW, suck it non-empathetic, pat answer person!!

Well.

Buuuuuuuuuuuut.

I think I might be sorta, half-way starting to get this whole idea. Like, my kids are er...kinda freakin' awesome at their respective ages.

Wright says hilarious things to me every day in his silly, leave-out-most-of-the-consonants way. He has the most endorphiny belly laugh. And he is so cuddly. I confess I love to squeeze up next to him at night, as long as he's sleepy. I know he is a boy, and I will forever lose that physical closeness with him someday. I will be sad when this stage is over, because even though he's a crazy two year-old that doesn't heel, he comes with all this GOOD to make up for it.

Then there's Violet. Once I get the thumbsucking and nose-picking out from between us (and we have made muchose progressos!), I can look in her bee-u-ti-ful face and marvel that this increasingly gangly, freckle-faced and blue-eyed child is mine. Like, really? And the ladies in the nursery that I scoffed at all those years ago were right...she truly has a sweet spirit. Lord knows where it comes from, but she is this friendly, kind little girl who loves to make new friends and paint pictures and bake cakes with Meemah. I am blessed. One day she will be a surly, moody tween who thinks I suck. I will surely miss this time then.

All those surfacey beetches were right. Grr.

Nose Burrowing

Violet has this really disgusting habit where instead of just sucking her thumb like a typical fidgety child, she goes the extra mile shoves any and all available fingers up her nose. Pinkies are preferable. She does this basically anytime that she is watching tv, riding in the car, or otherwise not actively using her hands for anything productive--hello 11 hours of sleep. So, like, 75% of the day she has 1 thumb in her mouth, 1-2 fingers on the outside of her nose, and 2 pinkies either just in or digging in her nostrils. HOLY CRAP. This bugs me probably far more than it should. It kind of hits me right where nails on a chalkboard would be.

I know, I know, I need to just help her quit. But so far I have had no luck. Usually I say, "hand!" and she stops. Then 30 seconds later, "hand!!" And so on and so forth. She is a 4 year-old who doesn't have the self-control to stop an activity like this. By the fifth time I start to get testy and become the mean mom who yells at her kids for pathetically tiny wrongs like thumb sucking/nose picking.

But, like, I am really, really OCD about germs and nasty things, so this is almost one of my worst nightmares about having children. That and warts. I hope my kids never have wart issues. *shudder*

I actually have big plans for a sticker chart and Disney Princess reward system and a Baby Lulu floofy dress ultimate reward and Thum, this bitter, minty stuff that you paint on your kids' fingers. I have purchased all these things, and they are sitting in my (parents') garage. I just...need...to...get...going on it. Sigh. Lazy fatalism is holding me back.

**Side Note: While typing this blog the past 10 minutes, Violet is watching Speical Agent Oso, and I have said, "hand!!!!!!!!" about 13x. Thirteen. Grr.**

***Extra Side Note: I just changed to Mickey Mouse Clubhouse, and this upset Wright so much that he walked up to the tv and hit Mickey's image on the screen. Brilliant.***

On a slightly happier note, I just came across this website last night, Overhead in New York, and I die. I stayed up way too late scrolling through the entries. It all quotes that various New Yorkers have overheard and then submit to the website. I like to imagine New York accents as I read some of them. Beware though, they are not for virgin ears (as is New York itself, no?). This one was one of my favorites:

(**Disclaimer: I did not write this entry and swear words, I am just click-quoting another site!!**)

I Hear He Does Quartets All the Time
14-year-old boy #1: You ever play any Chopin?

14-year-old boy #2: Yeah, I played one of his last year.

14-year-old boy #1: Can you play Fantasie-Impromptu? That one's mad hard.

14-year-old boy #2: No, I did an Etude. That's where you play scales and shit.

14-year-old boy #1: I read that he, like, bridged the gap between the classical and romantic eras.

14-year-old boy #2: No way, dude. You ever hear his Nocturnes? That shit is mad romantic. You're thinking of Beethoven.

14-year-old boy #1: Oh, right. Beethoven. He was a pimp.

--2 Train

Overheard by: Blerg
via Overheard in New York, Apr 6, 2010

Happy almost-weekend, people!

In the Bleak Midwinter

I know, I know. I live in Southern California, so this technically doesn't apply. Our Winter is nae near so bleak as, say, way up near a frozen Minnesota lake where no mountains hover and a few bare-bone trees stand aboot. Bear with me here.

It's, er, more figurative. I live in a house where I spend all day avoiding my parents, suppressing my children lest I offend said parents, and overall just living a half-life. Not to mention, it has been rather rainy and dreary these past months. Yes? Okay, then. So in light of that only mildly depressing outlook...

My muse has gone missing.

I think perhaps it got trampled underneath my dad's offensive, shuffling feet? Maybe it rode away with Sam as he took our CR-V to work so many times this Winter?

My best theory: I can't feel it because in order to exist here each day, I have emotionally numbed myself up but good.

Wah, wah, woe is me. My life is SO hard. Gag.

I realize no one is threatening my life or children, no one is on drugs, my kids aren't mortally sick, and so this is all psychiatrist-couch meandering, OKAY??! I'm not trying to be epic here, just digging and 'splaining.

Enerate (that's hillbilly speak from my dad), there it is. I can't feel my feelings, or I only feel the dark and icky ones, so I don't want to bring them out into the light and expose their slimy yuck. Reaching way down, I can't find anything even blackly funny that I can poke at, no sarcastic comment to amuse you. Not just now.

So, sorry. You know you feel yourself reaching back over to your Google Reader page...clicking on some blog with inspiring pictures that'll cheer you up (and possibly make you feel a bit jealous?? Just sayin'...). I know. I read those ones to, and God bless those people. We need them. I love looking at beautiful pictures and eloquent waxing about how "amazing!" and "awesome!" life is as much as anyone. I know I'll never be that girl, though. So I feel free to hang out over here with my black fingernails and my coffee and my complaint rock. To each her own.

And things change. Again.

Since my last post, many statuses have gone up, down, sideways, and which whatnot.

Sam has informed me that this would all be much easier if I didn't, "post our every decision on Facebook." What?! Me? NO. ;p~

Soooo, we have decided to sort of still house-hunt with an expiration date. If we don't find anything in the near future, we will go ahead and move forward with renting. Because, hell, we REALLLLLY need to move out of my parents.

It's just really about finding the right house. And if we have to pay a little more for that house than we might later this year, then so be it.

Do I seem a lil' obsessed with this? I apologize. I believe my obsessed obsession obsessiveness stems from the fact that--no matter what size house we live in or whether or not we own it--my current chosen profession is Homemaker. Home. Maker. And, after living like a teenager at my parents' house these past 18 months, I have come to realize that while a home is important to everyone, it's sort of my focus for living and existing. Making a home for my family and raising my kids in it. That's what I'm supposed to be doing here. And, if I don't have that...I feel rather aimless. I'm just waiting for my Life to start.

Hey Life, hurry it up, will ya?? My dad's been sticking cotton balls in his ears again to drown out Wright's screaming, and I can't take it anymore.

(P.S. If the screaming could stop, too, that would be great! Thanks, Leah.)

And it's gone

Okay, I lied.

We're not going to get a house anymore. Not right now, at least.

But we are going to move out of my parents' house. THANK. GOD.

Before starting our current house search, we had been cautioned by many MSN articles...Money magazine...the newspaper...our friend Paul, that it is a terrible time to buy a house. Undeterred and in denial, we brushed this advice aside and plunged in the desert wasteland that is the Southern California housing market.

Except, then it didn't go very well. Actually, it didn't go at all. Man, there is nothing--n-o-t-h-i-n-g--out there. At least nothing that we can agree on or mostly like or even get into when we have to compete with 10 to 15 offers on each house, and everything gets bid up like crazy out of our price range. It's not discouraging, it's throw your hands up in the air impossible. And empty.

After only a week, I was honest with myself that this whole thing didn't feel right. The terrifying feeling I felt when we put our offer(s) in was not excitement and nervousness, it was "I don't want this" scared. I mean, getting out of my parents house feels right, but the house hunt was just...wrong. I kinda don't like it when people throw God's will around like it's nothing ("And then I knew that God wanted me to go to Wal-Mart to get my tampons, and I was like, thanks God!"), because who are we to always be so certain of God's will, y'know, but...I don't think God was into our house search. I feel like this is a very clear, "NO. Not right now." And I truly feel that we're not just being discouraged either, but rather reading the signs like sensible people.

Sooo, the current plan is to:

a) Get our freakin' townhouse re-rented & squared away.

b) Rent a house in our desired area. A simple Craigslist perusal has proved that there are plenty of houses for rent out there that will fit our needs. We will live there and nest and start our life until such time as is right to start up the house search again.

This feels right.

Truth time

This week we finally, FINALLY started our for realz search for a house. I have mixed feelings. Although I've had plenty of time to mentally prepare myself for this, years of driving around pretty much every neighborhood in the county lusting after various houses hasn't actually given me a true idea, in my head, of what is actually an option for us.

Here is what I have discovered:

I have big eyes.

Yup, this should not come as a surprise to me, yet for some reason I am still a little disappointed at the grandiose new house castles I let myself build in my head. Dammit, why do I have to have such nice taste?

Sigh.

The truth is, we are going to have plenty of house for what we need. But I would like a big house that's already nicely made up. Turns out I can check one of those boxes a) big, or b) upgraded & nice.

Today we toured a rather large house that would be just about perfect, p-e-r-f-e-c-t for our needs. Great neighborhood, great school district, room for the kids, my sewing, entertaining, etc. So, maybe we are total nincompoops, but we went ahead and put our bid in, because this place is going to move FAST.

It feels so WEIRD. Just weird.

The inside, to be honest, looks like total sh!t. I know that after a tiny bit of love it could and will look very nice, but I don't see that in my head. In my head I see yucky dirty carpet, marked up white walls, and chipped tile counter tops. Kinda hard to get excited about that, no?

Eh, I leave it up to God.

Shoe drool

I really, really want these shoes. I'm so tired of just wearing flip-flops when I want to be comfortable. I'm so tired of have uncomfortable feet when I want to look cute.

Enter Ugg sandals: Comfortable. Cute. One hundred bucks a pop.

Maybe this is one of those things where if you amertize the price over 2-3 years of wear it's actually a great deal??

My Glamour magazine says that gladiator sandals are, "here to stay." Who am I to argue with that? I am totally a gladiator girl.

WANT.

It's time to go...but we can't

It's finally the new year, and our tax paperwork is slowly rolling in, inching us closer to when we can apply for our house. And, well, find a house. It kind of feels like, "hey! We're almost there! we will be out of my parents' house before we know it!" But then I stop to think about it, and I realize that even in a best case scenario, we will probably here for several more months. Possibly even into the Summer. I mean, I pray, pray it will be earlier, but it's just really not in my hands. Buying a house takes a long time in this current market, especially when a lot of what is available is still tied up in the bank/seller's hands.

We are going on 18 months here at the 'rents, and as always, whenever I get discouraged, I remind myself that I have made it this far. I just have to put my head down and push on through the muck. But. I think all of this is finally taking its toll on our kids. Well, maybe not Wright so much, but definitely Violet. She just seems, well, sad. And we are having terrible behavior problems with her. She is down and whiny and non-sweet all day, every day. And scared of everything. I don't know if it's just her, or partly that my sadness rubs off on her. Okay, it's probably a combination of those things.

I had this recent conversation with her:

Violet: Mommy, Meemah and Peepah's house is small. I don't want to live with them anymore. I want a new house.

Me: Oh honey, me too. But why don't you want to live with Meemah and Peepah? You love them, especially Meemah. You LOVE your Meemah!

Violet: No! I don't! And I don't like it here!

Me: What? Why do you say you don't like them?

Violet: Because! I don't like their faces!

Me: Wha...? Oh honey, that's not a very nice thing to say. I'm sorry you don't like it here, but please don't say that about Meemah and Peepah. I don't understand though, you love spending time with Meemah!

Violet: No! I don't like her face!

Me: Where the heck did you learn this expression?? Did someone else say it to you? Was it on one of your shows?

Violet: No. I told it to myself.

She has since told us that she doesn't like Meemah's kitchen, she hates her room, she's scared, it's cold here, it's small here, etc., etc. I guess that she just genuinely wants to leave like we do. Nevertheless, we don't want to fuel it, so we've decided to keep any "it sucks" conversations about living here to ourselves. We are, after all, very lucky, and honestly most of the time it is completely fine. We go on and get through our days.

I think it has been more rough than usual for the kids because of all our terrible weather. We've been cooped up in the house a lot more. During cold/rainy weather Sam has to take the car into work and we are stuck here all day. My parents (ahem, my dad) have all these rules like: no running, no being loud, no roughhousing, and keep the door to the porch closed at all times because of the, "cold draft." Since the porch is their playroom and they are in and out of it all the time, the constant getting up to slam the door that the kids left open (ahem, my dad) and slamming into one's room because the kids are being loud (one guess) gets reaaaaaalllly old.

In the meantime Violet is just a sad, sad little girl. :(