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.

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.

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.

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.)
(Sob.)

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.

really truly?

We went for a walk on the other side of the lake this afternoon. I stood at the water's edge while Stella swung back and forth on the squeaky metal frame of a long-removed swinging dustbin and watched a coot clumsily take flight just in front of me and thought no, surely not.

Surely this won't be my reality in just a couple of months time? Surely it is not conceivable that I will stand on my lawn with the lake at my feet and watch waterbirds take flight?

Husband asks me if I've started thinking about where our furniture will go in the new house. I haven't. Well I have and once I've placed the obvious - 3 beds and a hideously huge leather sofa - I stymie and choke, not being able to imagine for a moment what we'll do with everything else. The vintage filing cabinet? The dog's special chair? The truckload of art supplies?

I mean, it's not like we really even know what the place looks like. One viewing, just one, and a bunch of mediocre photos and some very conflicting memories ('What do you mean there's a GATE there??').
I mean, we didn't even open a kitchen cupboard to sniff inside and check for damp.We didn't turn on a tap, flick a light switch, we didn't pace out the lounge or check the window catches or flush the loo's.

We walked around in disbelief and wonder that such a place could really be ours, we stood at the lake and watched waterbirds take flight and grinned stupidly.
We went back inside and sold our soul to the devil for a lot of money to make it so.

On Sunday we'll see it again. Let's hope we don't freak the fuck out.

tiny houses

Julochka had a post recently on tiny houses - a few ceramic miniature houses she'd picked up at a flea market. She also has the best Pinterest board full of images of teeny-weeny houses, it's one of those boards which represents the greatness of Pinterest - a deeply personal collection of absolutely exquisite creative expressions from all over the world.

All this reminded me of my tiny houses, and a weird coincidence, and how it all ties in nicely with my recent obsession - houses.

When my Grandfather died earlier this year, he left instructions for his grandchildren to divvy up his lovely collection of ceramic and glass figurines. We gathered together after his funeral and took turns to choose items which reminded us of him, of visiting his home as children and later with our children.

I was so happy to bring home this little row of porcelain Gault houses.

And especially pleased when husband and Frieda recognised them instantly and both said how they remembered them in my Grandfather's home. Perfect.

So imagine our delight when we spotted these ...

... a row of tiny houses (very possibly Gault?) on the bedroom windowsill of our New House (yes, that will be my New Bedroom View).

Another one of my portents and dreams I think. Another one which seems to now have come true.

I love my tiny houses, and I love that I'll be taking them (and the associated fond memories of my Grandad) to our new big house too.

in which I did some weird huru-guru hippie shit which didn't necessarily work but hey we sold so maybe it did

We sold our house yesterday.

Almost a month to the day after it went on the market. My FB time-line is full of congratulations that it happened so fast. 'Cos it did right?
Just because it felt like a million years to us doesn't mean it wasn't a short month in the real world, an even shorter month in the world of property sales.

4 show houses, about 15 other house visits, MEGA chocolate and ka-ching, it's done.

I didn't cope with it very well though. Insomnia, comfort eating, general crabbiness - wasn't my best month of the year by any means.

One day, after I had a little moan, a friend messaged me suggesting I consider a little 'house-selling ritual' that she swore by, citing examples of people who'd sold houses under dire circumstances after doing it. I'm not really into that kind of thing but I liked the basic premise of her idea - that one needed to let go emotionally, or 'release' one's home, before it would sell.
Considering I came home to this house as a new bride, invested so much time and effort renovating it, spent nearly 9 years here with my husbandguy, brought both our babies home from hospital here - ja, I've definitely been very emotionally invested.

So I gave it a bash. I gathered items which represented my home - frangi-pani's from the front garden, a lemon from the back, a splinter of wood from our beloved floors, a shirt both girls wore as babies - then, as per the instructions, I filled a basin with water and pushed the items in, holding them under while quietly chanting 'I release you, I release you, I release you.' My take on the alleged Islamic divorce practise of old.

Then I pulled the plug and let the water, and the ties that bind, drain away.

10 days later the house is sold. I can't really credit the ritual. If we'd sold the next day I would've been intrigued, but as it is I'm not wholly convinced.
But it did make me think about the house, and my relationship with it, and it did make me consciously try to let go. All of which is good, and necessary.

So now, eyes forward. And emotional reserves ready to embrace a lot of change - houses, schools, rhythms of our day. Now to think about establishing a new relationship, with a new house, and wondering what milestones we'll celebrate there.

Can you see her? Just peeking around the enormous tree, her jetty sticking out into the water? Behind the arb stranger standing fishing on the point? Looming quietly in the mist?

Hello new house.

floored

We bought them sight unseen.

My clearest memory of the show house was my husband walking from room to carpeted room bouncing gently on the balls of his feet.
'They're there,' he grinned. 'They're there and they're going to be beautiful.'

Once again, he was right. He has a good hunch for things.

We moved in a week before our wedding, and while I faffed with flowers and last minute arrangements, he channeled any pre-wedding jitters into tearing up the carpets, working late into the night before our big day.

the only - bad - before picture we have of this room when we first saw it

The next evening he carried me over the threshold, to a house filled with siblings and friends, flowers and joy and ... great big exposed tracts of glue-stained, dusty, hairy ... floor.
Extra-width Oregon Pine floor boards, gasping in the light they'd not seen for well over 30 years.

And so the work began. Carpet glue is a bitch. Ancient beetle-damage is a bitch. Sanding is a back-breaking bitch. But we did it.

And my god they are beautiful.

It's sobering to think we'll probably never live with such beautiful floors again. There are lots of wonderful flooring options out there for sure, and we're excited about experimenting with some of them (if/when/hold thumbs we move), but I don't think anything will ever come close to the warmth (to the touch and the eye), character, sound, feel, smell of original Oregon floors.
And I don't think we'll ever imbue so much love into flooring again. I'd have scoffed if anyone had ever told me I could love a floor, but I do you know. From the bottom of my feet.

This blog is about to get house-heavy. As we contemplate moving on, and look back at all we've done here, all this house has meant to us, I'm going to get sentimental. Brace yourselves.

scrubbing up

As I've said to countless estate agents over the last few weeks, I'm not even apologising for this room:

I've shown you our 'study' before, guess you didn't think it could get any worse right? It has ...

There's a part of me that can't believe I'm sharing this on the interwebs, but let me assure you the rest of our house doesn't (often) look like this.
This room houses the overflow of busy lives, of hobbies and projects and inquisitive minds and discarded toys and too well-loved books now in need of repair, of too much tech and not enough time. It is home to bikes and parts of bikes and memories and hurriedly unpacked bags, unpaid bills, financial records, wrapping paper stashes and ribbons I can't throw away. In this room, if you had unlimited time to scrounge, you'd find fine wine and gadgets, power tools, a broken stool, photos, wheel hubs, motorboats, a fridge, a laminator, light bulbs of all description and ... so much more.
As I said before, this room is the reason we need to move, the irrefutable proof that we need more space.

But regardless of my attempts to justify this shit-pit, the undeniable fact is we couldn't let any strangers in here. Not real strangers that is.
And so ... they said it couldn't be done, they said it would take us a life time, they said we might not make it out alive.
But we did.

We packed and we cleaned and we chucked and we re-categorised and we did it. We did it and now the space echoes and sparkles. And we're bored.

There's lots of talk of a clean slate encouraging a creative mind but I'm not feeling it. With our minds and our lives in their current state of flux, I could do with a bit of stuff - chaotic, disorganised, familiar stuff to distract and comfort me.
Living in this sanitised show-house is all a bit weird.

I think it may be time for a new hobby ...

oh my god I hope he's right

Twelve years ago, lazing around with the weekend papers, husband turned to me and said; 'I think I've found our cat.'
We'd just recently moved into our own place, our first place with no housemates, and getting a cat seemed the next logical step.

The ad read: 1 year old black cat. Female. Half Siamese. R50.

This was the information he was basing his statement on, he couldn't explain it, but he was convinced he was right.
And he was. She was, is, and will always be, the perfect cat for us.

3 weeks ago, lazing around with the internets ('cos that's the way the world now works), husband turned to me and said; 'I think I've found our house.'
I sat up and took heed.

It's in a part of town we'd never before considered, it wouldn't make his commute to work any easier, it doesn't put us in the catchment area for any great schools, it would place us a distance away from some of our favourite people ... but it has a garden and a view and the promise of a lifestyle we just can't resist.

We emailed the agent and heard back the next day that an offer had already been placed, it was basically off the market.
We went there the following Sunday, looked at another couple of houses in the area on show. Then, just to rub salt in the wound, we drove past The One. As we got out of the car a fish eagle called in the sky above.
We sighed and drove home.

A week later, a call from the agent. You know where this is going right? The potential buyers were having marital problems, they might be pulling out.

We went away for 6 days, spent some of that time wondering about The One. Wondering whether it was thinking about us too.

Back home to discover the original offer had fallen through, but an English couple were 'very interested' in the house. Naturally they'd be paying pounds, cash. We couldn't compete.
We sighed.

Then, they decided not to place an offer. The house, The One, the one with the fish eagles and the lake and the garden and the double garage workroom and the staggeringly high mortgage, was officially back on the market.

Guess I don't need to tell you how we went to see it. How we laughed in horror and delight at how much it reminded us of our current place when we first bought it. How we thrilled at the potential and despaired at the kitchen. How we met, giggling, in the bathroom as the agent was taking us around and grinned at each other, husband whispering 'It's crap but I love it.'
How we stood in silence in front of the lake at the bottom of the lawn and listened to the water birds and in our minds, pushed off our canoe and paddled off into the estuary.

We placed an offer. It's been accepted. We have to sell our current house first so we're not there quite yet. But we're closer than we ever thought we'd be.

There's a 13 year old black cat purring on my lap. I think she'll like it there.