I’ve been fairly absent from the blogging/twitter/facebook world lately, but that’s only because I’ve been consumed by both client work and getting the house to a presentable level. My kids apparently take after me - they don’t like chaos all up in their face, especially in their home. Things are definitely better and I’ve been managing to accomplish quite a few tasks every day.
Robey was entirely awesome and surprised me Friday by showing up with both food and boys to help put things away and get my family room to the point where you could sit in it. I plied them with Bourbon and we unpacked a bunch of boxes, and I got some much needed downtime on the screen porch when I probably should have been working. One of the helpers didn’t even know me - I am glad I got to meet Alisa, and she’s really the bomb for showing up at a strange woman’s house to string lights and break down boxes. And Chad - sorry I spewed pink champagne on your shirt. I’m not used to drinking from a glass I guess.
Since I’ve been here, I’ve put down new peel and stick tile in my bathroom, watched my brother rip out the bathroom sink and add a cabinet/vanity and a new toilet, ripped out a shower stall door, painted the bedroom, girls’ room and office, unpacked and organized the garage and gardening shed, hung some pictures, unpacked 95% of the boxes, and gone to the grocery store one time. Last night my dad mowed the front lawn with the new self-propelled mower - that thing is awesome - and I did the back. Today I spent some time dripping sweat everywhere as I blasted the mack daddy of camel crickets out of the garage with the leaf blower, as well as dust and leaves from who knows how long ago. I’ve swept and touched more cobwebs and icky spiders than ever, and if this doesn’t cure my massive arachnophobia, nothing ever will. The girls “decorated” the gardening shed playhouse with lights and pictures of sparkly princesses in ball gowns. It makes me smile to think that while I’m potting some new flowers, I’ll have little pictures to remind me of their boundless joy and energy. It doesn’t take much to make them happy.
We all took a much needed break today and headed to Southside to visit our new pool. I joined last night online; it’s affordable and I loved the pool. It’s very, very “normal”. None of the Wyndham pretensions, none of the battle of the mom-suits. The majority were not anorexic with breast implants, and not everyone wore expensive designer suits that aren’t meant to get wet. Some kids were *gasp* not white. Some women were poorly dressed or chunkier than I. The lifeguards were laid back and encouraged Arden to go down the very fast waterslide on her stomach (she did), and they all cheered loudly for her when she popped up victorious. It takes me 15 minutes to get there, but it’s a road to another world. There is nothing about it to remind me of past summers in the Wyndham pool, and instead of making me sad, it liberates me.
I never hated this house I inhabit, but I will be honest. The first few days here were, well, humbling. Making ice cubes is a pain in the ass, and something I haven’t done in at least 14 years. Everything is quirky with this house. Some might say that’s “charming”, but at first it was just really annoying. Taking a shower in the bathroom made me shudder. Everything was coated in either grime or camel crickets or worse yet, random bugs I couldn’t name or spiders I could. The house smelled - that bad combination of old people who aren’t all that clean, uncontrolled and unchecked Virginia humidity, and dog (not mine, either). I miss the landscaping at the old house and a few luxuries, like my bathtub. My first nights were spent curled up feeling incredibly alone - not lonely - but alone. Sometimes I’d cry or think I wasn’t going to make it, but I still never questioned my decision.
A few weeks out, I’m feeling much better. The house still has a funk to it, but it’s a diminished funk. An exterminator has been called; there is a mass exodus of sick, moaning camel crickets from the crawl space and family room. I haven’t seen any disgusting spiders inside the house, nor has another cockroach appeared in Lily and Arden’s room. My bathroom has new, very clean, very inexpensive tile. Nicole’s beautiful curtain designs completely changed my dreary bathroom and my very 1960’s kitchen into something that really looks quirky and charming instead of just really effing ugly. My bedroom is tiny, but it smells good, has new linens and is completely and utterly mine. A neighbor showed up with a bowl full of home-grown vegetables - it made me want to cry because it reminded me of the housewarming visits neighbors in Michigan would pay. My experience in the last neighborhood was that visits were made, but mostly to see what car you drove and fact-finding questions that would be reported back to the minions of Prada-wearing mothers. I was lucky; both my immediate neighbors were nothing like that - but there was nothing pretentious or nosy about a bowl full of weirdly-shaped zucchini and cucumbers.
I had some very needed alone time this weekend as well. I’m still working through a number of issues - decisions are looming, and I’m spending a lot of time thinking through both the “why” of my situation as well as the “what do I want” part. I still work on gratitude lists and am amazed how many good people have helped me through what can only be described as a disaster of a year. I wish certain things were different - better - easier - but I’m also through what I’d like to think of as the worst bits. I’m looking forward to a new, less complicated, less energy-draining and soul-destroying rest of the summer.
A “for sale” sign went up in our front lawn on Sunday. The showings began almost immediately. It’s like the buyers can smell the blood in the water. A neighbor called and bitched me out for listing the house “so low” (in other words, at a price someone might - just might - buy it). People have been tramping in and out, probably commenting on the whys and hows of the sale. They know it’s a short sale - the realtor has to disclose it upfront. We had a second showing today. At 6 PM. On a school night. Now I remember what a huge PITA it is to list and sell a house.
One of the few neighbors I’m close to told me that at the school’s talent show the other night, everyone was talking about us and the house. My neighbor doesn’t put up with any of that crap so even though they know we are friends, I’m sure her tight lips drove them nuts. They want juicy gossip. I’ve seen her icy stare, and it would shut anyone down. They’ve taken to accosting Nikki as she walks Thora or the girls up and down the street. She’s also a tough nut to crack and her favorite thing to say is, “I have no idea about any of that stuff. You’ll have to ask Cristina.” It’s pretty awesome, knowing they can’t find out what’s going on. Even more awesome? The fact that we’re not having an Open House for neighbors to flounce through, exclaiming about my bad taste or lack of professional interior designers.
The house situation has rendered me blogless. I have no time, I’m working as a virtual assistant and running another small social media project. I’m trying to keep up with my own businesses and the other daily tasks of my life. My limited free time or creative time has gotten even more restricted; I’m just trying to get through it and hope BlogHer doesn’t drop my ad contract because I’m not writing enough.
Mike and I have reached an agreement on a settlement. It was efficient, but not without pain or stress. I’ve chosen not to write about the specifics of our divorce because I’ve read other bloggers who have. It hurts my heart knowing there’s a record of the ugliness or stupid decisions made during a time like this. I also think that when one party publicly bashes the other, it makes both people look like morons who shouldn’t have been allowed to breed. I’m sure I’ve made some big mistakes myself. I am very glad we were able to come to some reasonable decisions regarding the future and the children and what is going to happen with us financially. Unfortunately much of that is out of our control. The short sale will hurt us; a foreclosure will destroy us.
Which leads me to the next statement: seems like a weird time to be buying a car, but considering my credit is about to look as appealing as a turd on fine china, I had to do something now. My beloved Volvo has a ton of miles on it and costs $1000 every time I drive into the dealership. A friend of mine was upgrading and felt sorry enough for me that I was cut a great deal. I may end up living in a beat up house or apartment, and wearing clothes that are hand-me-downs or made by 5 year old slave laborers in Sri Lanka. I may end up selling anything I own of value on eBay, but the one thing I won’t end up doing is driving a piece of crap car. I got lucky, or maybe those positive vibes or past good deeds done for other people are coming back to me. And whether this is rational or not, I’m okay with losing the big house. I’m thrilled to be given a pass on cleaning granite and stainless steel, and trying to keep scratches from appearing on the hardwoods. I can’t wait to leave this neighborhood, have my children grow up in an area where reality is a mixture of people, backgrounds and ethnicities. I know I’m making the right decision, and I’m finally getting through the layers of guilt that feels like mud on my feet. So it isn’t rational to cling to a car - the trademark for depreciation - as something nice or luxurious or non-mom-like. But I feel that way, and I’m glad. I will hate not having a station wagon when I can afford to go back to the beach, but that’s a few years off anyway. Where will Thora go? In the backseat, between the girls, safely stowed on an old blanket.
Everything here, in my house and around it, is too much. Too much work, too much energy, too much pressure. I know Mike thinks it’s my fault we are in the house. He’s probably right. I made a huge mistake - and not the only one I’ve made in my life. I’m okay with my mistakes for the most part. They’ve served me well. With the exception of relationships, I rarely make the same one twice. I am looking forward to a pared-down life, one that is smaller, less complex, less about appearances and more about being true.
A neighbor caught wind of the “situation” in our household (wonder what that wind smelled like?) and wanted to know if Mike and I were selling soon, because she had a friend just DYING to get into this neighborhood and could she give her my number? I said yes, and less than 24 hours later, a Kate-Gosselin look-alike with more weathered skin and highlights was standing on my front porch. Downsizin’, y’all! She just couldn’t wait to get into the house and start tearing it apart.
Reason #243,862 I don’t want to list my own house: having to listen to the people walking through your house make inane comments.
This woman, poor thing, became the living, breathing effigy of everything I hate about the Far West End. In her tiny little package, North Face jacket, Ugg boots and Coach handbag, her manicured acrylics flailed around her as she pointed in disgust about the things that perplexed her.
The kitchen is too small. Too dark. The island would HAVE to be enlarged. The sunroom - who needs it? Make it a morning room. Bump out the ceiling into a cathedral ceiling, round the walls, add a chandelier. Rip down a wall, get rid of those RIDICULOUS closets on the third floor. Her builder would definitely have to be called; last time they looked at a house “like ours”, it was a mere $80K (it was cheap, she exclaimed) to renovate.
We have a pretty nice house. It’s big to me - but apparently 3600 square feet of living space and 3 1/2 bathrooms is just a bit confining to her. Only 2 bathrooms on the 2nd floor? Whatever would she and her 3 other family members DO? It must be hard downsizing from 6,000 square feet to a measly 3600, not to mention the horror of 3 1/2 bathrooms and no built in fireplace on the patio. I’m not sure how I’ve lived this long in this dump of a house - it’s really quite distressing.
She was horrified when she asked who our “cleaning lady” was and what “lawn service” we used; I had no answer, because we use neither. We cut our own grass and clean our own toilets. Quelle horreur!
Why does she want to move? Aside from buying a vacation property, they are unhappy with their current neighborhood. Too many “ethnic” types. I felt like telling her a dirty Mexicana owned this house, and would she mind all the grease and poverty we give off? She couldn’t WAIT to get into a proper neighborhood, devoid of any undesirables. They are already members of the swanky golf club here (we only belong to the “hood” version of it), it’s just so perfect, she loves all the women on my street. She’s blond, big boobs, and already has the designer jeans necessary to get onto our street. It’s a perfect fit. The whole time I heard, “You must be so sad to be forced to move from this neighborhood”, I nodded emphatically, internally screaming, “THANK YOU GOD GET ME THE HELL OUT OF HERE!”
Let’s hope she buys it. I might even PAY her to buy it. I shouldn’t joke, because that’s exactly what’s going to have to happen in order to shed my suburban neighborhood skin.
I’ve met some great people through Richmond’s Twitter “scene” (if you can call it that). One of them is the unofficial mayor of Short Pump, Trevor Dickerson. If you don’t follow Trevor on Twitter, he’s @trevordickerson. Though he tweets VERY frequently (but never about his bathroom habits, thank god), they’re mostly interesting.
Trevor lives near Wisteria Lane, and he’s written a couple of funny blog posts about it. More interesting is that if you think I’m jaded because I’m old and crabby, you should know that Trevor is a mere 21 years of age, and he even thinks it’s screwed up. Enjoy!
GET ME OUT #1
GET ME OUT #2
Additionally, I stumbled across a hilarious website poking fun at the Short Pump area. I was laughing so hard I was asked to leave the Daily Grind. Not really, but I should have been.
Our first house was in the city. It had a beautiful albeit tiny backyard. This view is from from the deck looking out toward the garage.
On my way to meet Bradley for coffee at my all-time favorite coffee+free wireless spot in Richmond, I swung by the old house (built in 1934). The house looks much the same with upgraded window treatments and a freshly washed front porch. I realize time makes one nostalgic, but if I could suddenly be 28 again (and 118 pounds!), living childless in that house, I would - for a couple of weeks. Just as the house I reside in has become a symbol of the things I would like to fix, our first house on W. 45th Street symbolizes a time in my life when I actually felt settled and in control.
When I first met co-worker and future friend Bill at Witt Mares, we connected when we realized we were both real estate nerds. I’m the type of person that could spend my weekends going through open houses in the city and dreaming. I love architecture and originality. I love looking for the little hidden details in older houses. My favorite part of Laura’s house is the little tiny door between the living room and master bedroom where the phone used to be. He pointed me to new areas of the city I wasn’t aware of, and even today, I’ll browse the real estate websites in my favorite zip codes.
Being at Crossroads was another reminder of why I love the area so much. The place was packed, even at 10.30 on a Wednesday morning. Most of the customers knew each other - and most called the staff by their first names. It’s dog friendly which works well for the neighborhood, since it seems to be a prerequisite that you own some form of canine to live there. It has an earthy, unpretentious air. Even the Target near my current house is snooty.
I felt a sense of community living there. Neighbors were friendly and watched out for you, but without stalking you (mostly). There was no pretention - but that might have been because the houses around us weren’t exactly pricey. I miss that community. Staying at Laura’s reminded me of that, and is probably one of the reasons I felt immediately comfortable in her home. Instead of talking about someone’s new size 0 jeans or the cashmere wrap they picked up “for a STEAL!”, we talked about local politics or the economy or the amazing amount of leaves those big hundred year old oaks dropped in the fall.
Nothing’s perfect, but I’ve always loved Richmond’s warty city center. I love the mixture of grime and history, white and black, safe and dangerous, beautiful and decaying. Out in the suburbs, everything is bleached and sterilized and served up in prepackaged designer cups.
Sitting at an outdoor table while Bradley slowly killed himself with cancer sticks cigarettes, I people-watched and missed my old neighborhood, as they say in the South, somethin’ fierce.
