Sunday, August 26, 2012

reality bites

So you know how I said our new place reminded us so much of our current home 9 years ago? And then I mentioned how we hadn't opened a cupboard or done any close examination before putting in an offer?

Yup, the reality of all that bit us in the bums yesterday.

Laid bare before us she revealed herself; wrinkles, liver spots, stretch-marks, scars, unsightly secrets of her long and active life.
A house without furniture is not a home, can't conceal its true self behind the soft furnishings and knick-knacks of the people who live there. An empty house is just a house, and a house whose most recent occupant has been a little old lady with failing eye-sight and flagging energy is a house which requires a lot of TLC.

In one of the winter's worst storms she maintained her dignity though, she showed us how she buffered herself against the slamming North Wester, held us warm as we watched the lake splash hard against its banks, throwing suds of foam up onto the lawn. She revealed unknown nooks and crannies, surprises both pleasant and ... not so pleasant.
She dared us to wallow in buyer's regret, or see her for all that she is, beneath her scarred exterior.

Between yesterday and our return visit today, in the sunshine, reality bit a little harder and the fact that this house is ours, ours to heal and paint and renovate, ours to love and live and grow in has sunk in for us all. And made us so happy.

We went back today and, as is our wont, we ripped out part of the kitchen, pulled up a carpet, walked through the place in surgical gloves and threw away ancient woolly toilet seat covers (shudder) and random left-behind crap.

She may still be empty until the end of the week, is not yet filled with our things, but already she's started to feel like home. Our house on the lake.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

caffeine fix(ated)

Our coffee machine died a few weeks ago. It was our first co-habiting appliance, bought in 2000 - it had a pretty good run.
Over the years, as our coffee appreciation grew, we'd started using a stove-top Bialetti to make the brew, and kept the great black behemoth of a coffee machine out purely to steam and froth milk.

Then it packed up and we were without The Foam. This was a BFP (big farking problem).

And boy, did it open a can of worms.

In the last few weeks I kid you not when I say we've spent more time talking about coffee, coffee machines, how to get the best head (shut it), beans v ground, latte art etc, than anything else.
You Tube clips have been watched, product reviews have been read. Emails have been sent, experts consulted, machines have been bought and returned, arguments have been had and coffee-drinking habits have changed significantly - all this in pursuit of the perfect cup of home-brewed coffee.

Because it seems this is the most important thing happening in our lives right now.

This afternoon, when I called Husbandguy from the shops to consult (yet again) about which type of coffee I should buy I commented (yet again) on the ridiculous amount of time and energy we were putting into this. Never mind that we're facing A MAJOR MOVE in 10 days time.

His response? Some people have religion to get them through stressful times. Some smoke, some do crosswords, some knit and some game.
We, it seems, have decided to deal with this particularly monumental moment in our lives by immersing ourselves in the dark brew.

Besides, we wouldn't be sleeping well now anyway right?

Blink. Blink.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

with fronds like these, who needs anemones*

*with apologies to Marlin, father of Nemo, for stealing the punchline of his only joke ...

I had occasion again recently to wonder what the hell is wrong with some women?

Women who invent/encourage/imagine/perpetuate all kinds of CRAP in order to power-play/over-dramatise/lord it over other women?

To be clear, none of this happened to me. I was just privy to some intel on it happening to others, and by serial-offenders no less, and it made me sad.

I don't understand this kind of one-up-bitchship. Or one-bitch-(wo)manship. I don't understand this shit.

A woman who decides to dislike another woman to the extent that she'll spread really vicious rumours about her, that she'll poison and often terminate any friendship between her partner and the boyfriend/husband of the girl she has it in for. That she'll spread the venom so thinly and widely that all kinds of other relationships are tainted and damaged in the process.

I can only see such actions as motivated by fear, depression, sadness and a damaged heart. I see them like that to try and make sense of them, but truthfully they make no sense at all.

Tuesday, August 07, 2012

here's me

It sucks great big hairy donkey nuts that I'm not posting here anymore. I need this space more than ever, and I keep telling myself I've not time to be here.

Truth is I don't have time to be anywhere right now so why discriminate?

I've learnt and re-learnt some truths about myself in the last couple of months.

1. I can't relax if there's nothing pending.
I had this problem when I was free-lancing, but it made more sense then. If I didn't have a job lined up I couldn't enjoy my down time for worrying about it. As soon as I got a booking, my down time disappeared and I beat myself up for not using it more wisely.

But I discovered during the weeks when our house was on show and closer to perfection than it (or any house in the future) will ever be again, that I couldn't relax.
There was no piles of clutter requiring my attention, no shit-hole of a study spewing chaos into my head-space, no DIY project half-done and nagging for attention. Nothing but clear, calm, immaculately styled (well, relatively) space and I hated it. It made me restless, and nervous, and weirdly ... unproductive.

Suffice to say since the day we sold the that picture changed, rapidly, and now in the midst of half-packed, half-sorted, half-assed houseness, I'm zinging with creativity.
And have no time to indulge it.

2. I suck at change.
Yeah, this one wasn't really a surprise either. You know those anxiety attacks I had before Frieda was born? Yup, I had a couple more of those.
And although I could draw up a pretty comprehensive list of where the anxiousness was coming from, truthfully there was only one source: shit was changing and I didn't like it.

While part of me is glad this whole house-selling/buying, transfer, packing, moving process is a process, I can't help but wonder if it all happened in a week whether it wouldn't be easier on the emotions.

3. Living in Obs makes me feel cool.
And moving to an area which has a reputation for being exclusive and wealthy makes me feel uncool.
At the beach the other day (where we did this which was totally cool), I was hesitant telling people where we were moving to - concerned that they'd assume we were ... what? Wealthy? Snobs?
Then all the way home I laughed at myself remembering the few times I'd felt embarrassed telling people we lived in Obs - concerned they'd assume we were ... what? Hippies?
For fucks sake Molly, grow a spine.

4. I'm a soppy, nostalgic hoarder.
Seriously, you should see some of the stuff I've kept for years and years. I've been dutifully opening sealed boxes and sorting through them to ensure nothing surplus moves with us, and I've had a couple of good laughs at myself and shed more than a few tears at the things I've found.
(And I'm wildly excited to re-read a vast number of favourite books I've unearthed. In fact, I've packed them all into the same box - it's to go straight into our new bedroom and onto my nightstand.)
(Because of course we'll be unpacked and settled in mere days and then I'll have nothing to do but read read read.)

5. Packing appeals to my neglected spatial awareness skills.
Many different sized boxes, many many many many different sized things. Throw both at me and I'll astound you with my feats of spatial manipulation.
I always was very good at Tetris.