Strip malls and other joys of the house hunt

I have found a couple of ways to make loathsome house-hunting a tad bit more enjoyable for me.

1. Shock the pants off the realtor with the ability to dismiss an entire house in 5 minutes or less and refuse to reconsider when she bemoans the fact that there really aren't many houses out there that fit the "absolute must-have" criteria.

2. Spend most of your time examining in depth any and all passing strip malls as if they aren't the same the country over (and I promise you, having lived all over the country, they truly are). Make sure to comment in an aggrieved sort of way if the strip mall doesn't have the federally mandated hair cut place, nail salon, and Chinese restaurant. Actually, almost every strip mall we passed did have all three of these in evidence and I pointed them out every time. I'm sure the realtor thinks I'm a real joker (or some other thing that is rather unprintable here).

3. Show real grief that there's not a bookstore within a five minute drive of either of the two houses you are considering. I do truly feel this but I suspect hubby feels relief as it'll take me longer to get somewhere to spend his entire paycheck. Of course, since I was in full-on witchy mode, I pointed out that all that meant was the I'd spend more in gas getting to my beloved bookstores. ::evil grin::

4. Make sure to emphasize that neither house is your dream house and therefore you can be perfectly apathetic about them. For bonus points and extra fun, when you sense that hubby is starting to lean one way, start to lean ever so slightly the other way, all the while professing that either house is certainly "acceptable" but no more than that.

5. Make elaborate and expensive lists of things that will have to be altered before you could consider living in either of the acceptable choices. I mean really, I hate certain colors and if hubby or the realtor thinks I'm not going to spend several thousand dollars eradicating all the orange, lime green, and any other colors that don't please me, they are on crack. Be sure to shake head as if in apology when hubby notes down what the house will truly cost once you've altered it to your taste [paint, new carpet, and a tile backsplash (I'm a messy cook) will really add up].

6. Quietly and sadly comment, continuously if possible, on the one feature that neither house has that you are feeling will be the greatest loss from the current house. In my case it's the basement/lack of storage. You should hear me paint the picture of the damage the heat and humidity will likely do to my precious Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving, etc. decorations and all of my craft stuff (and that's only if we can find a place out of sight to stash all of it anyway).

It really is a miracle that neither the realtor nor hubby pulled off on one of the country roads and throttled me. But the woe is me made me feel a bit better (and actually loads of it was justified given what I know we have to move) even if it made them miserable to be trapped in the car with me. ;-)

Sick and Twisted

Ok, maybe I have been replaced by aliens, as my hubby has suspected since I signed up for the marathon. I actually hauled my rear out of bed at 4am this morning to get my run in (a mere 2 miles so not longer than 15 minutes or so) before I headed to the airport to fly down to Charlotte to look for houses. I hate mornings. I love sleeping. What the H*#% was I thinking?! Now I'm exhausted and I haven't even started the house hunt. Should make me more charming (HA!) than usual for such an unpleasant task (did I mention I loathe house hunting?). Oh, and I have to say, while running so early is peaceful, it is also more than a little creepy. It's quite dark and noisy with unidentifiable noises. And it made me really sweat when I saw a car in the middle of the road with its lights on but not moving. I won't share the scary movie I had running through my head but suffice it to say I breathed a huge sigh of relief to discover it was the paper delivery guy restocking his front seat! I don't think I'll be doing any more unaccompanied after dark runs--especially because, even scared, I was too boneheaded to get out of the street and up on the sidewalk away from the car. Clearly my brain is non-functional at o'dark hundred.

Mupdate #2

Every time I think about the fact that I’ve agreed to run 26.2 miles (oboyoboyoboyoboy), I have a bit of a panic attack. That is awfully far. For Pete’s sake, that’s far to drive! It’s revelations like this that illustrate just how sharp I am. Most people realize this stuff before they commit. I am hopeful that following the training schedule pretty faithfully will have me much more blasé about going so far once the day arrives. If not, a panic attack plus the adrenaline generated on race day should be a potent enough combination to get me through at least the first half of the marathon anyway.

And to set the record straight, I (Kristen) am the one running the marathon. It is the Nike WOMEN’S Marathon, after all. While hubby does indeed look good in a skirt (the things you have to live down after your college years!), the closest he’s willing to get to a marathon is to cheer me on from the sidelines and I think he’s counting on me being too focused on running to notice he’ll only be cheering at the end after an extended lie-in in the hotel room! But I do thank all of you who gave me a good chuckle by assuming that the e-mail going out under hubby’s name meant he was the one running. Originally I was going to write and say that if you really know him you’d never make that mistake but then I realized that if you really know me, you’d probably never believe it either. But it is true and no, I haven’t been abducted by aliens.

Just in case you are worried about me actually being able to finish a whole marathon (and if you aren’t worried, why the heck not? I sure am!), I thought I’d reassure you by letting you know that I do have a whole race history behind me. ::snort:: Last summer, after only starting to run in March, I ran 3 5 K’s and one ½ marathon. Aside from the equipment malfunction on the first 5K I ever ran (anyone who didn’t get to read my account of my bra unzipping itself completely during my first-ever run, I do still have it in my e-mail somewhere), all of the races were pretty fun and uneventful. I’m hoping that I’ll feel the same way about this one come October 20th. Actually, I am hoping that the sheer obnoxious wave of self-esteem that I rode for several weeks after the half marathon will be doubled just like the race and I’ll be gloatingly proud of myself for months. (I’m so pathetic I actually did look in the mirror and tell myself I rocked every morning for weeks after the half was over—and I still have my medal hanging in my room like a little kid.) I *will* finish this race though, no matter what. I’m stubborn as they come and if I have to crawl, log roll, or be dragged across the finish line, cross it I will.

I got my first honk from a friend the other day. I was so in my own world I thought someone was being rude and honking to get me to keep my poky butt out of the way. She probably did want me out of the way but I think we’re good enough friends that running me over most likely didn’t cross her mind. And once I realized it was Holly, it seemed like such a friendly honk.  The same day a guy leaned out of car shouting at me. I didn’t recognize him and because I’m oblivious when I run, even without my iPod (it’s that scary inside my own head thing again), I really only heard: “body” and “running” and some other unintelligible mumbling. I am choosing to believe it was not “Running with a body like that reminds me of the Jello watch it wiggle, watch it jiggle commercial.” Instead I’m choosing to believe he was complimenting me on my lithe (ha!) and appealing form. Of course, I am the same person who chose to believe that high school boys intentionally blared the song “Sexy Mami” when I walked past their car in the fall as I followed W. into football practice. All I can say for sure on that was that they did blast the song; I was walking past them; and the lyrics sounding just like “sexy mommy” were terribly appropriate. Draw your own conclusions. 

I’ve had my first running related injury now. I managed to cut my own toe with the toenail on the toe next to it. The good news is that I didn’t notice anything until I pulled off my bloody sock so no pain to speak of. The bad news is that it meant that my shoes were a bit too small in the toe box. Given that I have wide feet, this is probably not a huge surprise. I think the running store folks just wanted to offer to let me wear a shoe box instead of a shoe and be done with it. As it was, they had to order in 3 pairs especially for my odd duck feet. Talk about weird: strong arches, high instep, small but quite wide and pronating (yeah, I don’t entirely get what that means either, nor does my spell check, but the store had cool plastic foot models to explain things visually). My family calls my feet Fred Flintstone feet. I don’t really care what they get called as long as they carry me over the finish line. But I can see that keeping reasonably decent shoes on them is going to cost me all summer long. I’ve never worn out a pair of sneakers before in my life (swimmers just don’t you know, unless they are doing the fully-clothed-in-the-pool-for-lifeguard-training thing—and even then we just let them dry out and continued wearing them) but I can easily see it happening in my near future.

W. was shocked to hear how much money I need to raise for this little endeavor . His take on it? “That’s more than a plasma tv. If people gave *you* that money we could get a huge tv and all would be well with the world” (I kid you not, those were his actual words). How is bookish me raising a kid who is so reverent about tv? At least he is physically active, although when I suggested he run the kids’ fun run at the 10K I’m going to do later this month, he quickly bowed out citing the heat and humidity. It’s probably not nice to call your own kid a wimp, is it? Anyone want to donate to the upcoming therapy bills in addition to the run?!

Brownie batter Gu, Body Glide or Vaseline. Bet you never knew running was such a dirty sport did you! Let me burst your bubble a bit. Gu is a gel of sorts you eat every couple of miles to help you to keep from depleting all your nutrients and energy stores. I bought myself a case of it in the chocolate flavor and the young kid behind the counter told me he didn’t like the chocolate because it was like sucking on brownie batter. I’m still wondering what is wrong with that since that’s exactly why I bought the chocolate! After all, I am a lick the spoon while making brownies kind of girl anyway. Nothing better (well, maybe uncooked chocolate chip cookie dough, but I digress). No wonder I’m not really cut out to be a real runner. As for the Body Glide or Vaseline, apparently I’ll need to slather this on myself to prevent blisters. Makes my skin crawl just imagining where I’d have raw rubs after such a distance. And yes, before I was informed otherwise, I did suspect you had to buy it at an adult bookstore and wondered how it would look for me to walk into one carting all three of my kids. Just imagine the questions I could have fielded on such a shopping trip! But it turns out you can buy Gu and Body Glide at a running store, even at the same time, and no one raises an eyebrow. Must be terribly sad to be so inured to such great potential potty humor.

And finally, training for this is good for my competitive little soul since it allows me to say that hubby will never, never, never be able to outrun me. He actually winced when I told him that I ran 8 miles the other day. Yup, I’m up to 8 for the long runs and still smiling. Of course, my weekly total is still fewer miles than I’ll have to run on race day (oboyoboyoboyoboy) since I’m only at 22 a week but that number is climbing steadily right now.

Squashed like a bug

W. has decided he really enjoys tennis a lot. Good thing since we've been spending a bloody fortune on his lessons. Apparently he's got a lot of natural talent too (which pretty much guarantees that I won't be willing to play him for long since I'm not interested in losing to my kid!). He was even invited to play in the high level match play games. Usually he's matched up with kids close to his age and ability level but tonight there were fewer kids than usual so he had to play whoever was around. He lost all his matches, which didn't sit too well with Mr. Competitive. The one he was most horrified by was the match he played against the guy he claimed was #5 on the Michigan State team. I wasn't there so I have no idea how he came to this conclusion but I somehow can't see any coach ever letting my mouthy 11 year old play tennis against a college kid who would wipe the court with him. Then again, if he was being too mouthy, perhaps that was the perfect solution (although then you have to pity the kid playing against him as he not only had to play a scrub but also listen to said scrub moan and whine and complain). After making certain that he enjoyed himself tonight despite all the losses, I had a good private chuckle over W. having to face being completely routed in every match. (He did tell me that the MSU kid only beat him 6-0 as if there was a way to lose worse than that!)

Hmph!

My 6 year old came downstairs tonight after I sent him to bed and asked me if he could give his clay handprint to anyone or if it had to be mine. Keep in mind that this was the handprint craft his kindy class made for the moms on Mother's Day. And I've already been given said craft as my gift. Turns out he wants to take it back and give it to my grandmother (his great-grandmother) instead! I've heard of re-gifting but this is ridiculous! He's *un*gifting before re-gifting. And I'm losing my Mother's Day gift.

Why I Should Never Chaperone a Field Trip While PMSing

First I should admit, up front, that I am a terrible girl. I would have been better off born as a boy. I never have a single clue in this world when I'm going to get my period. The rest of my family does because apparently I turn into a raging hormonal rhymes with witch the likes of which this world has never seen (not that I'm buying their version of this personality morph--I'd probably be more inclined to believe them if they just admitted it has nothing to do with hormones and everything to do with my personality defect, but whatever). So I agreed to chaperone a field trip for the middle child without having the remotest clue that I'd be PMSing on the day. Please note that I freely admit I'm not the world's best chaperone either. For starters, I generally hate other people's children. Heck, I often don't like my own children so it's not a stretch to dislike those that aren't formally related to me. At any rate, R. guilted me into agreeing, despite having chaperoned this same trip last year for W. and so knowing exactly what my day would be like.

I started the day off pretty well with a 5 mile run (the marathon training schedule only called for 3 miles but that's clearly for wimps--and anyone who reminds me of this comment in a month's time will be shot on sight) that felt easy and slow. Then I came home to a kid who ticked me off before we even got in the car to leave for school. W. decided that playing in his room with his Legos, which had previously been removed from his room because of their contribution to his complete lack of ability to get ready in the morning in a timely manner, was a better plan that getting dressed and having breakfast. The Legos are now in the garage sale pile if that gives you any idea of how angry I was (and it's only because it'd be illegal that W. isn't also in the garage sale pile--perhaps even the "free" box). Did I mention I'm also not very maternal? So a late start to school, a weeping child, and me trying desparately to control my blood pressure meant that at best I'd end the day with a headache and at worst, well... Let's not even try to imagine the head spinning Exorcist move I occasionally find myself capable of reproducing faithfully.

I go down to the classroom to collect my carload of kids (really only two extras, plus R.) and the teacher tells me we're to meet them at the cafeteria. Really, I do read all the notes that come home but this one completely whizzed over my head. every other parent knew so I'm obviously the only nincompoop in the bunch. Ah well, I get the girls and we head out. I only have a vague idea where we're going as I'm not from here but I figure we can get in the ballpark, right? So the girls get in the car and I tell them all to sit in the back, figuring I won't deal with arguments about who sits in the two middle seats. Child one tells me she can't sit in the back because she gets carsick. My response? "That's okay. So does R. so I'm really good at cleaning up barf." Disgusted look from child one, who proceeds to claim a middle seat. Child two claims the other one, leaving my own carsickness prone daughter the back seat option. All-righty then. Conclusions: child one clearly lacking sense of humor and going to do what she wants regardless of my instructions and child two a quiet follower. We get started and child one decides to announce that the van smells funny. Well duh! My kid gets carsick in here periodically, just how do you expect it to smell? R. also keeps her stinky dance shoes in the car at all times so she doesn't forget them. Not a petty smell. I'm pretty certain we had removed W.'s shin guards and cleats before the field trip but that odor lingers too. Even better, I get us lost so complainer has to sit in stinky car for longer than planned. Hehe.

We get to Greenfield Village and child one complains I parked too far away. I resist the urge to tell her tough noogies and ignore the comment. We get inside the gates and start off on our roaming "do what you want" day. Apparently what they all wanted was to eat lunch immediately. I told them no (it was only 10am) but agreed to let them all ride the train around the village. Not a one of them said thank-you to me for buying their tickets (R. included). I'm unimpressed with their manners. We ride a while before child two grabs the map out of my purse (whose child at the age of 9 feels free to go into a relative stranger's purse?!) and announces that she wants to go to the candy store. I tell her that we'll look at some of the more educational places first, not using the "e" word, of course, but that I'll make sure we get to the candy store before we leave. After every building we went into thereafter, child two was bored and darted right back out again regardless of whether child one or R. was interested in the presentation going on. And worse, after we followed her out of each building (despite my growing desire to let her wander off on her own and be eaten by one of the coyotes they've apparently recently sighted in the back 40 at Greenfield), she wanted to know if we were going to the candy store. So I lost my cool a bit (I have Irish and Italian ancestors so it's a mercy I lasted as long as I did rather than a surprise that I eventually snapped) and told her that she was being incredibly annoying and nagging and that if she asked one more time, we absolutely were not going to the candy store. I'm not sure if she saw the truth of this statement in R.'s face or if the steam coming out of my ears was enough but she stopped asking and we did eventually go to the candy store where we got to stand in line for 10 minutes just for the chance to buy very expensive jolly ranchers and other assorted bulk candy any local grocery stores sells for half the price. Now, naggy child two actually had money for the candy store, hence the broken record repetition. But child one had no money for goodies (and poor R. has me as a mother so she knew better than to ask me to buy overpriced junk). That didn't stop child one from grabbing a huge gobstopper sucker, thrusting it into my face and announcing that she wanted that. Very calmly, "No. Put it back." Greedy little snot reiterates that she wants it *a lot.* Kid, you got the wrong chaperone. Plus I should have known she'd push me on it because this is the same kid who asked about the (non-existent) goody bags at R.'s birthday party (silly me thought the chocolates they made at the chocolate store were more than enough to take home).

So now I'm in an even blacker mood that I was before leaving home in the morning because I've dealt with one of my own rotten children, one nagging pain in the rear, and one whiner who wants all things her own way. I. Am. Not. Happy. After the candy store, we have very few options left time-wise thank heaven. Child one who is apparently allergic to any exercise wants to get back on the train (the steam engine was fairly smelly and making R. a bit nauseated). Child two has to pee. When told that we'll find a bathroom but we'll have to walk, child two decides maybe she doesn't have to pee afterall. I warn her that we won't have time to find another bathroom if we get on the train. She's okay with that. Of course, as expected, as soon as we get off the train, she announces that she has to pee again. Too bad she has the chaperone from you know where. Looking at my watch, it is clear that we can't both traipse off to a bathroom and get to the appointed meeting place on time so I tell her she made a choice and now we have to speed to the front so she'll just have to hold it. (I'm sure her mother has heard all about how nasty I am by now.) And off I trot. The entire journey to the front is punctuated by child one whining that her legs hurt and her shoes don't fit. When I try to muster up some sympathy, she admits that she has a pair that fit her better but she's only allowed to wear them twice a week because her dad doesn't want her to get them dirty. You have got to be kidding me!!! A walking field trip (which it would have been exclusively if I hadn't sprung for the train) doesn't rate the decently fitting walking shoes? No wonder this kid is a whiny baggage!

Anyway, we make it to the front and I check us out to go home, send the girls to the bathroom, and off we head back to school. It was a much subdued car ride back, for which my throbbing head was thankful. I was never so grateful to see teachers drive in as I was today. You couldn't pay me enough to spend more hours with children not my own. Sheesh! I collect the two children at school who do belong to me and we come home, only to have me discover the reason for my incredible irritability. Now methinks I should forestall this ever happening again and just vow never to chaperone again (poor T.--as the third child he always suffers because of the self-knowledge I earn with the older two--but I just don't think I can survive anymore field trips in this lifetime).

The Paparazzi

Apparently I take too many pictures of my kids. We had an unexpected storm two nights ago and T. came flying down the stairs in his pj's to tell me, "Mom! Somebody keeps taking pictures of us!" Ummmm. Nope. That's just lightning. Bwahahahaha.