Monday, March 31, 2014

Still Working on the Southern Address...

Well, we made it through what I consider our first "real" house hunting experience in North Carolina. (I'm not counting December, since at that time we could only look...wistfully...with no possibility of even considering a purchase...) On a dreary, drizzly Saturday we piled into Agent C's Lexus-tank to shop around...real estate style. When we met her at the office, she handed us a folder with all of the information she'd prepared to facilitate our productive day. First off, she had divided the appointments into a Morning and an Afternoon Session, with a lunch break in between. (Clearly, this lady speaks our language...) Next, she had printed a map of the area, including all of the sites we'd be visiting designated--in order--with green numbers. (Organization--I just LOVE that!) Of course, she had also copied the listing pages for all of the homes, so we could read about them while we drove. (Which I ignored, but Husband seemed to get a big Nerd Thrill out of, so "to each his own"...)

Then it was basically a matter of stopping at each candidate, wandering up and down stairs (all of us), counting rooms (Husband), yelling "dibs" on living quarters (Derek and Riley), analyzing the layout for function and...pleasing...ness (yeah, that would be me), eyeballing a likely "home office" (Husband again), and all of the other things--concrete and intangible--that go into evaluating a property. After getting a few stops out of the way, Husband cheerfully remarked, "I didn't like the upstairs of the first house, the downstairs of the second, and the yard of the third. Who'd like to place a bet on what I won't like this time?" (Not surprisingly, no one took him up on that...) We knew we were getting a bit punchy when we arrived at a prospective home...burst into a group fit of giggles upon entering the front door...and still toured it anyway, for entertainment value. (It had...how shall I put this...a log-cabin-like interior appearance, with bizarrely-shaped rooms, as if a giant had laid it out using building blocks, with no particular plan...)

Meanwhile, the boys were having a bit TOO much fun, racing each other around corners, gagging at One Direction posters they encountered in current-occupants' bedrooms, and whooping with glee when they identified a "Bonus Room" (not kidding--that term appears repeatedly in the official literature) that could be used as a..."Teenage-Boy-Cave". (Husband coined that term, and it was instantly adopted by the adolescents...sigh...) Somewhere along the way, Agent C suggested we name the homes, so we could more easily remember what they looked like when they all inevitably began to run together in our overloaded brains. For example, the one house we all liked had a tasteful green exterior...which Riley immediately dubbed Kiwi Thunder. (Well, I guess it worked, since we certainly won't be forgetting that one anytime soon, right?) Then there were not one, but TWO houses near each other, where as we approached the front door, we were "greeted" by a large....slug...on the step. Yep, welcome to what shall hereafter be known as: Slug Neighborhood (which got the unanimous thumbs-down anyway, for other reasons than...insect...ular...ones)

Finally, we all agreed that when we paused for much-needed sustenance, we would talk about absolutely anything except the house search...because we still had the post-meal batch to get through. All together, we spent about 7-1/2 hours with the ever patient, helpful, kind Agent C. Although we didn't find anything we felt compelled to make an offer on this time around (we re-discussed Kiwi Thunder the next day, after sleeping on it, and decided it wasn't "the one"), this just means we get to take another shot at it in a few weeks, when the boys will be on their Spring Break and we can make our next trip. So we headed back northward with the promise to do it all again soon...and traveled right into a freakin' snowstorm. Terrible visibility, strong wind, white flakes pummelling the car, slush beginning to pile up on the roadways...Are. You. Kidding. Me? Ohhhh, I get it now: obviously, we weren't supposed to leave at all! Dang it! (Is it Spring Break yet?)

Friday, March 28, 2014

Chapel Hill Spring Visit

The time had come for another foray into the Southland--this trip a 3-day weekend--with the goal of beginning our house-hunting in earnest. Since we'd had such a horrific traffic experience on our first attempt to breach the Carolinas, (yes, I'm talking to YOU, Virginia) Husband researched an alternate route that would allow us to avoid the Bane of Our Existence--um, "I-95 South". So we set off with an optimistic outlook (and fingers crossed), despite the grim (gray, squally) weather. And all went peach...ily...at the outset. We survived our brief stint crossing the American Legion Bridge on the Capital Beltway. (Whoo hoo!) Then Route 66--not the historic one, but rather the...pain-in-the-butt...one--was downright tame, compared to its usual snarly mess of congested cars.

Finally the moment arrived for us to venture into unknown territory, on a state highway that we hoped would provide us with a smooth, uncomplicated...trauma-free...journey through the Old Dominion, right into North Carolina. And you know what? It lived up to expectations: a few traffic lights when you navigated through a town, but otherwise, clear sailing at nice speeds and little "volume" (as they say in professional Traffic Report lingo in the D.C. Metro area). When we hit Charlottsville (home of UVA, if you're curious), we encountered a minor slowdown that cost us a measly few minutes. It was close to lunchtime, and we'd been on the road for several hours, so there were other...issues...to address as well. (That's right, we needed..."facilities"...funny how all that Gatorade and coffee come back to haunt you, yeah?) But we decided to wait just a few more minutes, to get past the city before stopping for food and...other stuff. Near. Fatal. Mistake.

You see, what we learned from our unfortunate choice was this: there's N-O-T-H-I-N-G between Charlottesville and, apparently, Lynchburg...60-some miles away. Okay, okay, there's the occasional McDonald's...and Hardees...and something called Bojangles--none of which actually provide food that I can eat. It wasn't long before the commentary erupted from the back seat. First Derek piped up, "Remember when it wasn't a desperate need (to pee)? Well, now it is..." Then Riley joined in, "Ugh, I'm sooooo hungry back here! Isn't there any food at all? I'm not gonna maaaakkkke it!" Darn dramatic children. However, I was actually the one who called "uncle" and pointed Husband to a seedy-looking...general store...gas-station...ish place in order to, well, you know. Since I called dibs on the "Unisex Bathroom" (as it was so helpfully labeled), I had time afterwards to look around the market. And oh, what a fascinating place it was. There was a fisherman's outfitting section...all sorts of sundry foodstuffs...beer and wine...hardware supplies...a full-service deli in the front...my selection for runner-up-item-for-sale, a Standing Bear Toilet Paper Holder (exactly what it sounds like)...and my absolute, hands-down favorite: a Bear Grylls survival knife. (Somehow, we restrained ourselves from purchasing any of these oh-so-tempting things--shocking, I know...)

After that, Lynchburg actually came to our rescue with a veritable plethora of cuisine options. (On second thought, "cuisine" being perhaps an overly formal word for the sandwich-joint we picked, but whatever...) It was a good thing, too, because unfortunately the last road we had to take on our supposedly "new, improved Mid-Atlantic commute" turned out to be...pretty annoying. (And since it took much longer to go those last 45 miles than we anticipated, by that time the lunchtime soda was becoming problematic...sigh...) But hey, in the end, we arrived safely, in plenty of time to spend the evening with several of Husband's cousins. We even got to wander around outside for a while in over-60* temperatures...until our hostess jinxed us by noting in a cheerful tone of voice, "It looks so bleak...but it hasn't rained all day!" (Yep...cue the deluge not 5 minutes after that...and the very wet sprint back to her house...) But sprinkles be darned, tomorrow we're...taking Chapel Hill by storm! (Sorry...clearly I'm still a bit punchy from the car ride...off to bed I go...)

Monday, March 24, 2014

House Hunters: a brief history

Once upon a time, the man formerly-known-as-Boyfriend became Husband, and we started looking for a house in which to start the next chapter of our lives together. In order to do so, we enlisted the services of a very nice man named Steve, who happened to be both a realtor, and the spouse of one of my co-workers at the time. Husband and I were in no particular hurry, as we were renting a perfectly acceptable condo in a very nice area. The only thing we'd nailed down with absolute certainty was the town we wanted to focus on, so Steve began selecting and showing us properties, to form a picture of what we'd like. Basically, we were all getting to know each other...while traipsing about other people's homes and playing the super-fun game "What I Like/Loathe About This House".

Now, Husband is an extremely practical, logical-minded individual. (Hellllooo, his job title is--not making this up--"Manager of Data Management"...he apparently lives for organization, numbers...and redundancy, but that's not relevant to the story...) Therefore, he approached this process with the idea that we would critically evaluate each candidate; weigh the pros and cons (I swear I could almost see him making the columns in his head); use some kind of, I don't know, "mathmatical formula" to determine the desirability of the abode; and come to our decision in a completely objective, rational manner. (Hahahahahaha! Silly man--he was shopping with MEEEE, shouldn't he have known better?) Let's just say my natural tendency is to be a bit more..."organic" (intuitive? touch-feely? whatever)...about the whole adventure. This means that each time we strolled into a potential homestead, and it didn't...feeeeelllll right...my emotional reaction was met with (early on) a blank stare and (after a few repetitions) frustrated incomprehension.

"But...but...what's wrong with it?" Husband would sputter. And I would gamely try to verbalize--in a way that might get through the Male Reason Sensor--that my GUT was telling me the house we were standing in "just wasn't the one for us." (That went over so, so very well, let me tell you...) Finally it dawned on me--that he would be much happier and more satisfied if I just started making up excuses as to why the house wouldn't do at all. "Um, the layout of the rooms is...weird," I improvised. Or "there aren't enough...windows!" I can only imagine how Steve--a low-key, observant guy--was taking all this. My guess is: quietly chuckling on the inside. But evidently he was also recording mental notes from all of our comments and discussions, because he began whittling down the options on his own at his office, and only contacting us when he thought there was already a good chance we'd like the offering in question.

This was how it came to be that one bright, sunny afternoon, we met outside our current house to have a look-see. It was 5 months into our search, so we were--while not quite anxious or stressed yet about the fact that it was taking a while--definitely ready for a breakthrough. We meandered through the rooms....upstairs...downstairs...basement...and even the garage and yard...and looking back now, I remember the growing sense of excitement. And yes, that intangible feeling of it being the perfect "fit". I don't recall a single word of what went back-and-forth between Husband and me during our visit. Nor do I have a specific memory of whether Steve's actions were any different than they had been for the other dozens of houses we'd examined together. All I can say is, when we went back outside into the driveway, our prescient agent spoke before we did, asking "Should we go back to my office and draw up an offer?"

And, of course, the rest is history...and I don't just mean that metaphorically, at this point...as we prepare to turn Casa WestEnders over to its new owners in a few short months. The whole thing occurred in a crazy whirlwind of activity, barely leaving me time to breathe, much less to process. But I've had a little bit of downtime in the past few days, and certain parallels have crystallized for me, between what happened 15 years ago and what transpired last week. For example, when Husband and I bid on the house, it had gone up for sale that very day. (Sound familiar so far?) The market at that time was extraordinarily competitive, and after lots of traffic (also eerily similar to our situation) the owners received several offers, along with ours, immediately. Fortunately they chose us, first-time homebuyers. Back to present day: when reviewing the contract over the weekend with our realtor, we found out that our buyers will also be first-time homeowners. I like that very much--it gives me an undefiinable "warm fuzzy feeling" (which Husband probably wouldn't "get", but that's okay).

So, it feels like things are falling into place the way they're supposed to so far...now we have to hope that our house-hunting process goes smoothly as well...this time with my instincts...Husband's concrete mental tendencies...and two highly-opinionated adolescent boys...Ay yi yi...I'd better start resting up for this coming weekend's trip!

Friday, March 21, 2014

72 Hours?

So, having scurried around squawking like the proverbial chickens with their heads missing, getting the house ready for sale, we really hadn't had time to think yet about the looming issue on our personal horizon, namely the big "What's Next?" Well, the answer turned out to be "sit back for a (brief) moment while your trusty real estate representative works her magic via the Internet". In fact, Agent L emailed me Wednesday afternoon with the notice that our listing was "live and active", and just like that, we were open for business. Little did I know, that particular piece of innocent electronic correspondence should have been branded with a warning...for the craziness that would ensue.

Thursday morning I got an apologetic phone call asking if it was too-short-notice to allow an interested party to come over...at 9:30. Um....sure? Who am I to turn down our first customers, yeah? When they arrived, I quickly grabbed my purse and waved a cheery farewell, hightailing it out of there so they could wander around without me doing the Homeowner Hover...and also to avoid hearing their opinion of my living quarters. "No problem," I thought, "I'm just getting a jump start on my To Do List." Then, as the day progressed, I received a veritable barrage of requests: 5:30...5:45...6:30...aargh! I texted Husband and informed him that we would be needing to vacate the premises...at dinner time. He was typically unperturbed (and amused), deciding on the spot to come home and whisk the boys off to Subway for their evening meal. At that point, with the visits overlapping each other and multiple cars parked on our normally quiet street, it began to seem a bit like a circus...from which I felt increasingly compelled to run and hide...

But we survived the...onslaught...and although I ended the day completely worn out (as though I'd done soooo much work...I suppose the adrenaline...and evasive action...took their toll...) we agreed that it had appeared to be a very successful Day One on the market. And, don't get me wrong, it was exciting, too--but the little voice (of reason) in the back of my head cautioned, "Calm down, it's possible that nothing will come of this, everyone so far could have hated the property, prepare yourself for the potential of a very long process." Then I got yet another email Friday morning from our agent--before standard business hours, mind you--stating that she had a strong offer on the table, that the buyers were very motivated to have us review it, and that she and wanted to meet Saturday morning to discuss the details. Holy. Guacamole.

Reeling with this intel, I got ready to leave the house and go...tackle my day...thinking that since no appointments had been scheduled for the daytime hours, I could just put things "back to normal" (as opposed to "Pristine Model Home Condition...ish) and not worry about it. This basically boiled down to: the usual stuff taking up counter space, everyone's laundry delivered in piles to their beds to be put away later...and, oddly enough, a baby tooth of Riley's, left on a napkin in our before-school rush when it fell out this morning... (You just can't plan these things, am I right?) So naturally, I fielded an email while I was out running errands...that someone was coming by...at 1:30. Jeez, I sure hope they enjoyed the...clean underwear...and discarded dentition...that I left for their entertainment. OOPS!

When I arrived back at the ranch--um "home"--I quickly re-set the better-than-usual order of things...and it's good that I did, because in the meantime, I was notified of another showing later that same evening...and more for Saturday at 8:30 (someone coming back for a second look) ...10:30... 10:45...11:30...and noon. Ay yi yi! (I reassured Derek--who was extremely concerned--that while he does NOT have to vacate the house when the first visitors arrive...he WILL be required to leave his bed. As for the rest of the guests: it's Saturday, and they're just going to have to deal with us...) I placed a call to Agent L in a bit of a tizzy, asking her how to proceed with all this...real estate madness...engulfing us. She advised that we hold with our original plan to meet and go over the one firm offer we have in hand...but that we do it somewhere ELSE rather than at our kitchen table, while people are busy examining/critiquing the merits of our little homestead.

This is exhilarating...terrifying...and exhausting all at once. But if everything else fails, I can always accept the bargain held out to me by one of Derek's best friends. When I was volunteering at the middle school on Friday, I had the opportunity to catch Derek up on the new development. A few minutes later, his buddy approached me as I was preparing my daring Escape from the Cafeteria and said--with an impressive Cheshire Cat grin and enough brash bravado to bowl over a limo-full of used car salesmen--"I'll buy your house...for 30 dollars...7 pretzels...and, um...an eraser!" I sincerely hope it won't come to that, but I promise to keep it in mind! (at least until the resolution of tomorrow's pow-wow...)

Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Extreme(ly Minor) Home Makeover

The next installment of our saga, tentatively entitled "Fairly-Clueless-But-Highly-Motivated People Try to Sell a House" involves prepping said domicile for its close-up. That's right, a professional photographer had been appointed to snap pictures of each and every room...and then our living quarters would be virtually placed on the Internet, for any interested parties to scope out (or laugh at, be repelled by, what have you...) This looming appointment caused quite a stir in our household--well, for Husband and me, anyway...the boys remained blissfully oblivious, unless we demanded that they hop to and do something useful to help out--more on that later. But for the adults, a veritable flurry of purposeful activity ensued, over the course of a week or so.

The most pressing--and seemingly insurmountable--item on the agenda was to arrange power washing for the siding and back porch, both of which sported an impressive (read "unsightly") amount of grime and/or green growth (the latter being an unwanted side effect caused by the shade from our otherwise very desirable maple trees). This is theoretically not a difficult task to schedule or accomplish...except when it keeps freaking snowing well into March, and what you really need is warm-ish, dry weather to proceed. But Lady Luck trumped Mother Nature--for one day at least--and we were able to have the handyman come out and give our house a bath last Friday, in between late Winter storms. Then, Husband got to channel his...inner Huck Finn...by spending the gloriously warm, sunny Saturday afternoon slapping (or in his case "carefully, methodically applying") a coat of stain on the deck...instead of playing in the yard, as he would much rather have been doing.

Meanwhile, I tackled the inside issues...which in translation really means: "a borderline-obsessively-tidy person feels compelled to do things like line up the edges of magazines, straighten the bananas in the bowl on the kitchen counter, place the couch pillows so that their patterns are facing the same way and they lie at an absolutely even distance from the armrests...etc." (You may be chuckling, thinking I'm exaggerating or even  fabricating...sadly, this is all 100% true. I'm exhausted all over again from merely recounting my mini-frenzy...) Then of course there were the cosmetic improvements that were actually suggested, such as tucking away prescriptions. ("Yes, people WILL go through your medicine cabinets," I was told. Gosh, that's horrifying, because we have so much to hide! I mean, heaven forbid they discover that Husband takes pills to help alleviate his...migraines...shudder...)

Hmm, what else was there? Oh, right, clear the master bedroom entryway by stowing the ottoman somewhere. (No problem...um...I'll just chuck it right here...in Derek's closet....) And the most difficult, inconvenient request of all: the children needed to get in the habit of making their beds and putting away their clean laundry....EVERY. DAY! (Are you gasping and reeling in shock? Well, let me tell you, they did. It's just not something we've ever required them to do, because frankly, I couldn't care less if their covers are a jumbled mess or their clothes remain on the floor where I (also known in this capacity as the "Laundry Fairy") left them. But at least for the time being, they must (are you ready for the injustice and back-crushing toil of this?) pull up their comforters...and (if that weren't bad enough) tuck their apparel into the proper drawers! (Yeah, all sarcasm aside, this adds approximately 45 seconds, total, to their everyday routines. Not even enough for them to work up a good whine about it, honestly...)

For me, the most amusing part of the whole rigamarole was watching Husband...crawling around from spot to spot...wielding a teeny-tiny paintbrush taken from the art supply kit the kids use for school assignments. You see, he had taken it upon himself--without any prompting whatsoever--to locate, mark with a sticky-note, and touch up any gouges, scrapes, or scuffs in the paint...all over the house. It was an undertaking of both colossal...and miniscule...proportions, I tell ya. I have no right to laugh, though, what with my own Battle of the Bathroom. (Okay, more like a "minor skirmish"...which I won, thank you very much...) There was one area along the baseboard where for some reason a gap had appeared between the wood and the paint. It was structurally sound, but a visual eyesore, if you will. So after being annoyed by it...but ignoring it...for, oh, I don't know, a year, maybe...I finally decided to fix the sucker.

This necessitated a trip to the Seventh Circle of Hell--I'm sorry, "the hardware store"--to purchase an appropriate product for the job. There I was, doing my best to explain to the helpful employee what I was trying to achieve, so he could recommend the proper substance...and I totally blanked on the word "baseboard". (I blame it on the stress of the testosterone-laden environment...or maybe home improvement fumes...or some such nonsense...) "Down by the floor, where the wood meets the wall, there's an empty space, and I need to fill it," I blathered. Bless his heart, he managed to squelch his inevitable confusion (and probably dismay) at the crazy lady in front of him, and keep his wits firmly about him, and point me toward a suitable solution...also known in high-tech, extremely specialized construction circles as..."caulk". (If you've concluded that I'm definitely losing it at this point...I can't say you're wrong...) Long story short...er...it worked like a charm, problem fixed, baseboard harmony re-established. (Bonus: I'll most likely never forget that term again, should I ever need it in the future, so "yay for that"....)

Fiiiinnnaalllyyy....we were all done nit-picking around, and could just sit back and let the shutterbug work his magic to make our home look as appealing...and power-washed...and caulked...and painted...as possible. And after all that--let's (euphemistically...and optimistically) call it Spring cleaning--I swear, he was in and out in 20 minutes. (Sigh--of relief...mostly...) Looking ahead, I'm told that a sign will go up in the yard by Thursday at the latest. And a lockbox has been installed on the front door, just lying in wait for the swarm of invaders--um, "potential buyers"--that might descend upon us at any moment. Oh dear. If you'll excuse me, I suddenly feel a strong urge to go...artistically re-rearrange the bananas. (Fingers crossed that the whole nervewracking "For Sale" process doesn't drag on TOO long!)

Friday, March 14, 2014

Big plans...from a little guy...

I can't recall exactly how or when it happened, but at some point when I was in elementary school I got the notion that I would attend college when I grew up. Maybe my mom or dad told me that it was expected, or perhaps I heard about the magical, mystical place from someone else...but from that moment on, it was treated as an irrefutable fact that my future would include higher education. Now, it didn't occur to me until much, much later (like, when I was an adult) that there was anything at all unusual about this. But the funny thing is, neither of my parents held a college degree. Furthermore, we were firmly situated in what you'd call "middle class" territory--you know, that shadowy realm where you're "too wealthy (ha!) for financial aid" but "of modest enough means that the cost of a good school will definitely...pinch a bit". Nevertheless, my entire vision of what would happen to me in that crazy, far-off time after high school...revolved around some as-yet-unknown university.

I mention this because I seem to have done the exact same thing to my own children. (Funny how that happens, right?) Both boys already know that it's not a case of "if you go to college", it's more like "which school you'll attend, based on the programs available, and what you want to study". (Oh, and the ever-so-painful--at least to your parents--price, of course...) Derek, my uber-laid-back older child, really hasn't given much thought to these issues yet (which, I hasten to add, is FINE, since he's only in 8th grade). The only topic that he seems to have considered in relation to institutions of post-secondary-learning is...the generosity of the meal plan...the quality of the culinary offerings...and the quantity of food he'll be allowed to consume on a daily basis in his 4 years of living there. (I blame Husband, who never wastes an opportunity to reminisce about his tenure at Penn State, while simultaneously extolling the virtues of dorm eating...sigh...)

Then, there's Riley...he who has general ambitions of becoming an environmental biologist, with more specific goals of studying reptiles and amphibians. I know...he's only 10...so we listen with great interest to his plans and schemes...and realize that they may (and most likely will) change 15 times before the day actually arrives for him to start seriously considering colleges. But sometimes he still manages to catch us off guard--like the other day, when he poked his head in the kitchen door and called, "Mom?" I was upstairs, and expecting the usual query from him, "Can I go to my friend's house down the street?" I opened my mouth to give him permission, but before I could speak, he continued, "Are you okay with me going to the University of San Francisco for grad school?" Absentmindedly I replied, "Sure, honey, no problem." Then my brain caught up and I backpedaled, "Wait, I'm sorry, WHAT?" However, he had already closed the door and disappeared outside to play again, so further clarification had to wait until dinnertime.

When he came back in, this is how he explained himself: "I'm planning my degrees." (Plural? Ay yi yi...) I want to get my first one from North Carolina, then go to graduate school at University of San Francisco." Oh-kay...I'll play along...wwwhhhyyyyy? He blithely elaborated, "Well, I was looking online for schools with good biology programs." (Oh...of course you were...) First I want a biology degree. Then maybe specialize in frogs and toads." (Meanwhile I'm processing this data, and also wondering "What'd you do, Google it?" The answer to this, by the way, was "Yes, yes he did." I swear these kids should just be known as the Google Generation...but I digress...) Husband's reaction seemed to be a mixture of bewildered/impressed/slightly concerned, as he shook his head and marveled aloud, "So, here I thought he was just sitting around playing silly games on his Kindle...and he was researching his future education?" (Apparently...)

On the other hand, Derek's response to the whole situation was a pretty common open-mouthed, perplexed/amused expression, and the added comment, "I don't even know what I want to be when I grow up, and he's planning where to go to school already?!" I tell ya, we've gotta watch this one. That's it, no more...educational browsing for you, young man! Now, go waste time with some pointless entertainment, right this minute! Because your father and I need a minute to call the Guidance Counselor and leave her a message...warning her that you're coming...

Monday, March 10, 2014

Woe to the Toe

Remember that pinkie toe...the one I figured I probably broke after smashing it with a heavy object back on December 6th? (A day that shall live in infamy...of course, not grave and solemn in the same way as, you know, Pearl Harbor Day on December 7th, but nonetheless noteworthy in its...painfulness...at least to me...) Yeah, 13+ weeks later, it's still looking really...angry...at me. When it first happened (after I stopped gasping, yelling, and sniffling, that is) I optimistically (or delusionally--whatever) thought, "Maybe it's just bruised....reaaalllly badly..." But when time kept marching on (ha!) without noticeable improvement, I conceded that perhaps I had damaged it just a wee bit more. (Self-diagnosis is a wonderful thing, yeah?) However, I didn't feel the need to bother my doctor, because I was under the impression that they can't really do anything for a baby toe, except give it time to heal. So I bought that silly pair of fleece-lined Crocs--the only shoe-like-things I could tolerate touching my feet at all for 2 full months--and settled in to wait it out.

Of course, in the meantime I made as few concessions as possible to the injured member...I diligently continued accruing the recommended 10,000 steps a day (yes, in those blessed rubber slippers)...I attended my Jazz class (dancing in stockinged feet)..I rode the exercise bike (wearing Riley's Adidas slip-on sandals)...just about the only thing I refrained from doing was running, and with the Winter we were having, that wasn't going to happen anyway. Every few weeks or so, I tested actual footwear--and eventually I was able to don sneakers without wincing and/or limping. (Yaaayyyy!) And then, the Frost Monster that had been smothering us in his icy grip since approximately the Dawn of Time (or...November...) eased his stranglehold at long last, and I was able to try pounding the pavement...which went surprisingly well, considering. (Albeit slowly...and chugging...ly after a long hiatus, but alas, that can't be blamed on the toe...)

It's just that, whenever I remove my shoes (Every. Single. Instance.) the toe stares up at me accusingly. Red. Swollen. Misshapen. (Downright...bad-tempered...and frankly unattractive...) So finally, I'd had enough of wondering what the HECK is up with that, and I booked an appointment with my podiatrist to go discuss the little...problem. Now, he and I have known each other (in a "physician/patient with foot issues" kind of manner) for quite some time, and he's a super-friendly, personable guy. But I was afraid he was going to reprimand me, nonetheless...for not having it checked out until so much time had gone by...for reckless, non-toe-supportive behavior...etc. When he examined the digit, his eyebrows raised but he didn't comment. After I told him exactly when I'd experienced the trauma, his mouth dropped open. "Okay, then, X-rays it is!" was his only remark.

Then, with pictures in hand, he shook his head and stated with just a hint of wonder, "This looks more like a...compression injury." I stared at him, bemused, "You mean, like...crushed?" "Exactly!" he heartily agreed. "That's right, buddy, I don't do anything halfway: 'Go Big or Go Home' is my motto!" I replied. (...in my head...while doing a....very gentle...trash-talk-dance) Outwardly, I nodded meekly and asked what I should--or should NOT--be doing at this point to help this sucker along. So first, he drew a diagram of what regular old toe bones generally look like...compared to how mine appear in photos right about now. (See below, where I have helpfully reproduced this for your viewing enjoyment...) He then demonstrated how to wrap it with some sticky gauze, to try to encourage the swelling to dissipate. And? "That's pretty much it," he shrugged, "Come back in 3 weeks and we'll see how it's doing."



His only other advice was to continue making comfortable footwear choices. (This pretty much goes without saying, for me--but he of course isn't familiar with my closet full of casual kicks.) Before I left, though, I wanted to pin him down on one or two topics, such as "Am I banned from any activities?" Negative head shake, "You can do anything that doesn't cause discomfort." "And it'll hopefully recover, given some more time?" Again with the slight lift of the shoulder, "Or, worst case scenario, it'll just be swollen." I gaped at him, "As in...forever?" Oh, JOY. So, we'll keep our fingers...and fellow toes...crossed that it's just being darn slow and stubborn in the whole "bone knitting process", but that it will come around on its own sweet schedule. On the other hand...if you read between the lines...I do believe my podiatrist just indicated that in his professional opinion, I really must wear nothing but the most cushy, cradling, non-toe-crunching footwear possible, for the REST OF MY LIFE. Whoo hoo! You know what that means: this might just call for a cute new pair of sneakers!

Saturday, March 8, 2014

Home...sweet home?

So, this week kicked off with yet another snowstorm. Ho hum. Schools were closed Monday and Tuesday (the 8th and 9th time this has happened during the academic year--5 of which may need to be made up in June, depending on whether the Powers That Be decide to excuse any of them). Yaaawwwwn. But the truly noteworthy event of the week actually didn't happen until Friday, when Husband and I met with our local real estate agent to discuss how to proceed with the sale of our house. Now, keep in mind that we're coming into this kind of blind, our only previous residence being a rented apartment. We've never actually been on the selling side...which turned out to be a LOT more complicated place than we had imagined.

We'd already been through the part about making the checklist of "Things to Fix/Spruce Up", and we had begun to address these tasks, marking them off as we accomplished each one. But we found ourselves a bit taken aback by the formidable stack of paperwork (like, a tree's worth, I tell ya) presented to us by the cheerful Agent L. (I like that...makes her sound a bit like a spy, yeah? That's right, she's...infiltrating the market for us....or something...) We waded through sheets and sheets of random legal stuff like "any evidence of lead paint? check 'no', and initial" and "are smoke alarms equipped with a battery backup?". (Here we were stumped...Husband and I stared blankly at each other...then shrugged with indecision. All I know is, they shriek when clouds of sauna-like fog roll out from someone taking an overly-hot shower...or when something in the oven creates a bit too much steam. Does that answer your question? Moving on...)

I took my duties seriously and paid close attention for quite a while, hanging on every phrase of mumbo-jumbo that came flying my way. But after a certain amount of time I admit that my brain checked out. Is the plumbing functional? Well, I should darn well hope so! (Like there's an acceptable alternative? No, I'm sorry--but the outhouse in the back yard is fully operational--enjoy!) And what might have actually been my favorite: are you aware of any underground storage tanks? (What do you mean...like where we've buried the bodies? Is that a problem for you? Don't worry, they've never caused us any issues, so I'm sure they won't bother you at all...) Yeah, it's possible I got a wee bit punchy toward the end, there.

Then we got around to nailing down some critical specifics, such as "what exactly needs to be done before listing the house?" (basically: power washing the outside), "what happens after that?" (photographer comes to take the shots that will be posted on the Internet) and "when do you suggest we move forward?" (Right about NOW would be advisable. Gulp...) Agent L then helpfully promised to email me the name of someone who could take care of the exterior cleaning (whom she promptly called first, to give him the heads-up on what we needed and when to expect to hear from me. She's good, this one...).

And while she was at it, she asked if I had any moving companies in mind. At this point Husband chuckled politely and interjected, "Oh, we haven't even thought about that yet!" Ahem...au contraire, mi esposo (yes, I'm aware of the mixing languages...writer's prerogative) my organized (obsessive) brain has already indeed considered it...but I have no idea how to attack this particular agenda item. You see, the last time we relocated, it was from a town 30 minutes away...and we packed, loaded, and drove the truck ourselves. (Fortunately, we are in complete agreement that that is sooooo not the plan for this time.) No worries--she made another note to send me information on that topic, as well. (Forget what I said earlier, this woman is a veritable TREASURE...)

Finally, there was just one more thing to cover. Husband has been pushing for us to schedule another recon mission, to scope out more homes for sale in NC. When he proposed this, I pointed out that it might be premature, since even if we found something we loved right this minute...we can't buy it until we have a contract on our house, anyway. However, he's feeling anxious that we might "miss out on something great" if we have to wait a few weeks to go nose around the Southland again. After speaking to both Agent L and Agent C (in Chapel Hill), he agreed that we'd be better off getting our proverbial "ducks in a row" here in Maryland, so that we can scout with a purpose next time we visit, rather than just...window-shopping.

Thus, Operation House for Sale has begun in earnest (as I currently sit here and watch Husband traipse in and out of rooms, wielding a small touch-up paintbrush and a determined expression). And Operation Carolinian Dream Home will hopefully commence within the month. (Good Lord willing and the creeks don't rise...as my dear mother used to say...) Now all we have to do is try not to break anything between now and then...hmm, it's a nice day, I think that's my cue to go shoo everyone outside, where it's safe (...er)!

Monday, March 3, 2014

Work with me, March....

Not to sound like a broken record, but OY...isn't it time for Winter to be gone yet? Like we haven't dealt with enough flakiness (in a meteorological way), and frigidness (in a...yeah, exactly what you'd think...way), and kids-off-from-school-nonsense? March, March, March--I know I've had some harsh words for you in the past. Like how you're a colossal disappointment every year, because I hope and even dare to expect that you'll be warm (or at least....not sub-arctic) and inviting, and all "ooh, I'm ushering in Spring, aren't I wonderful?" And instead, you're a damp, raw, nasty...let's go with "meanie".  But whatever--I can agree to let bygones be bygones. Just as long as you take your stupid cold and storms and vamoose, will ya?

What's totally bizarre is that just yesterday, all four of us were playing outside and enjoying the 50* temps. I went for a run, while the boys took a soccer ball to a nearby field to practice for the upcoming season. Even stranger, when Derek came back he reported that he felt tired and winded. He seemed completely baffled by this, which is not surprising to me at all, because this is the boy who I've watched lope up and down a soccer pitch for 90 minutes at a time while barely breaking a sweat or breathing even a fraction more quickly than normal. He makes running look like something fun and natural and easy (and yes, I am CONSUMED with jealousy...darn that....lucky teenager...)

However, for the first time in his young life, he's experiencing a Winter that has prevented him from maintaining his customary fitness level, and he's feeling the effects of the "off-season". (As are we all, incidentally...the difference being, he'll whip back into shape in a flash, while the rest of us will have to work much harder...darn lucky teenager...) And today, he admitted to being sore after his workout--which was a totally novel concept to him. Well, don't worry, honey, because things are NOT looking good for Wednesday, when you're scheduled to try out for the Middle School team...with 4 inches of snow covering the grass. Yeah, good luck with that...

Here's another funny thing that happened somewhere along the way: we (okay, here I'm actually referring to the "Royal We"...so "I") became all...impervious...or whatever...to the season's repeated, dastardly attempts to stifle us in her...white cloak...of tyranny. It totally snuck up on me, but I imagine it must have happened after the previous big storm. You know, the one that dropped, oh, I already don't even remember--maybe a foot or so?--on us, effectively shutting the region down for a few days until we could dig out.

In contrast, I went out today while the flakes were still falling, to shovel the driveway. As I began pushing the 4-inches or so of powder out of my way, my first impression was "eh, this isn't so bad". My very next thought, making my way steadily down toward the mailbox, was "my Subaru can absolutely handle this." A short while later, when I did in fact venture out (to the amusement...and slight consternation...of my family) and navigated the variably snow-covered/slushy/icy/ streets, I found myself saying "pshht, they'll have this clear tomorrow, for sure, no big deal." But....the kids' school system has already called another day off for Tuesday. Sigh. Clearly, we are NOT Minnesota...or New York...or anyplace that's equipped to handle a real-live Winter. This is all I can ask, as we face down the rest of March Mayhem: is it time to head South yet? Huh, huh? Is it? May I be excused? Someone please text me when Spring arrives...