On the Move! Or not - Part 4 of a Seemingly Endless Series

As I've mentioned in the past, we've been house-hunting for some time now, and although we sometimes get tantalizingly close to finding a new home, we can't seem to make the final step and actually buy it. We've spent a considerable amount of time looking at possible new abodes, an experience that often leaves us wondering ... well, just wondering. We've also invested quite some time and money in getting our current home ready to sell, if we can ever not only find the perfect house, but also persuade that house's owner to sell it to us.

Oddly, as we began to primp our house by tending to all those little odds and ends that we never seem to get to, things began to break. Lots of things:

•  I tried to lower a blind in the family room, and a cord snapped, causing the blind to collapse on one side. 
• The ice maker on our refrigerator stopped working (actually, it works really well if all you want is crushed ice).
• The battery on my roomba let out a plaintive beep, and died. My carpet began to grow dog hair.
• The water line under a sink sprang a leak. Fortunately, there was a pallet of toilet paper from Costco stored under said sink, to absorb the water for several days before said leak was discovered.
• The door handle on our front door jammed, forcing us to enter the house through the garage for several days until the problem could be fixed. 

It was this last one - the door handle - that frustrated us the most. How on earth are we supposed to show a house to prospective buyers if they can't get in?  I began to wonder if maybe the house itself was rebelling: We're good owners, after all. Maybe the house doesn't want us to leave?

But all these problems are relatively minor compared to my terrifying discovery one stormy Sunday night. I had left my book in my car, so I wandered out into the garage in my jammies and bare feet to search for it and ... something moved.

I forgot about the book and went back inside to tell* my husband, "There's something in the garage."

He went out to check, aiming his flashlight under my car - and something bolted out from under the car and under the storage shelves. Smaller than a raccooon, bigger than a mouse.

You know: A rat.

And then it hit me: About two months ago, when my neighbor and I were instant messaging about our mail delivery (or lack thereof), she mentioned that they had just finished dealing with a rat problem at her house. As I recall, I said helpful things  like "OMG" and "shudder" and "Rats utterly skeeve me."

And then another light bulb went on: Maybe she was letting me know they'd dealt with the problem at their house because, you know, the rats were probably going to go somewhere and we're such a nice, short trip.

So I called her at 10pm and explained in a slightly panicked voice that I thought we had a rat in our garage, and she said helpful things like, "OMG" and "I'm so sorry" and "I was kind of hoping you'd call pest control when I mentioned this to you two months ago."

As she looked up the number of her pest control service for me, she inquired, "I didn't know rats could chew through concrete, did you? That's how they got in to our house."

Who needs horror movies and scary books when you have this kind of useful information? Not me. Halloween, I'm ready.

I was not a fan of rats before this happened - in my world, Ratatouille was a horror movie and I still can't believe it was rated G. I went to bed and spent a restless night dreaming about that little animated nightmare chewing his way through concrete on his way up to the second floor to attack me, marshaling legions of attack bees from the hive under our eaves.**

At 9 a.m. precisely the following day, I called the pest control people and the woman who took the call offered to send someone over on Wednesday - which sounds great except that was Monday and that gave Ratatouile two full days to gnaw his way through the conrete in my garage, and wreak whatever other havoc he could come up with - which I have no doubt is considerable. But that was all she had so I took it, and spent the next two days wearing hiking boots*** whenever I went in the garage, which wasn't very often.

The Rat Man finally arrived, and took a walk around our garage. There was no sign of anything - no rats, no droppings, nothing. He explained what we'd typically see if there were rats actually inhabiting the house, and then explained that he was not seeing any of those things. Brave man that he is, he donned special protective gear and went into the crawl space under our house, and not only found no sign of any rats (or chewed concrete), he took photos to prove it and emailed them to me.

"So what was it?" I asked plaintively. "I saw something run when my husband shined the flashlight under my car."

"Probably a rat," he said. "You said you've had your garage door open a lot recently, he must have come in and then been trapped when it was closed."

"Where is it now?" I demanded.

"I'm sure it's long gone. Probably ran out the next time you opened your garage door. You don't have any food in there or anything that would induce it to stay."

I considered this, and although I admit it's possible, it's not evidence. I wanted a corpse or at least to see the tracks it left in the dirt as it fled, hopefully in terror.

"Ma'am, you do realize that rats are more afraid of you than you are of them, right?"

I'm not sure that's possible. "Well, let's just say they're not. What else can you do to, you know, protect me?"

He laid some traps in the crawl space and put out some poison - in a big black ugly pet-and-child-safe bait station right on the side of our house, where prospective buyers can admire it as they struggle to open the front door. Two weeks later, he came back to check all the traps, and let me know he'd found the source of my distress: a mouse.

I glared at my cat. Slacker.

He smiled politely and handed me the bill.



*I say "tell." He claims it was "shriek irrationally."
**Did I forget to mention the beehive?
***Suitable for hiking and fighting off angry rodents.

Close Encounters of the Reality-Checking Kind

I was hanging out on Facebook the other evening, neglecting cows in Farmville and burning food in Cafe World, when up popped a chat window - a mom I know, sort of, or did until I moved my daughter out of the local public school.

"Did you hear about Patrice?"

Um, what? I haven't seen any of these people in a year. Haven't you read Emily Post's Guide to Suburban Etiquette? Chapter 17: If you move to another school, you cease to exist. It's after Chapter 16 (Baked-goods recipes you must master, but not actually consume), and before Chapter 18 (Standardized test scores: A measure of your parenting skills).

 "She died."

I blinked stupidly at the chat window and had one of those moments where the brain synapses just won't fire. She was young and in perfect health the last time I saw her - but that was over a year ago.

Me: "What happened?"
Mom 1: "I don't know."

A synapse fires. This isn't "Hello! I want to share information with you," but rather, "Hello! I am gathering information, do you have any?"

I checked to see who else was on chat and issued my own "Hello! Have-you-heard-about-Patrice-and-if-so-what-can-you-tell-me?" message.

Mom 2: "Yes, it's too awful."
Me: "What happened?"
Mom 2: "Suicide."

I spent some time going back and forth between the two chat windows as the horror of what happened became clear. Patrice divorced or separated about a year ago, began drinking and partying, evidently became persona non grata among the Sorority Moms she had previously hung out with, and then last week, committed suicide. Among the people who found her was one of her three young children, a sweet ten-year-old girl who I last saw two years ago, building fairy houses with my daughter on a Girl Scout camp weekend.

I remember Patrice and had several encounters with her that made an impression. The first was at her daughter Haillie's birthday party, which was held at an upscale swimming pool and involved pretty much every Sorority Mom in the neighborhood, all their kids, and us, for a grand total of some 75 or so painfully well-dressed people.  I was among the first to arrive and Patrice greeted me warmly but then became busy attending to children, swimsuits, and pool toys. I sat on the bleachers, which gradually filled with other moms and dads, all of whom knew each other and none of whom knew me or attempted to alter that fact.

 After a while, numerous pizzas were delivered, and it became apparent that Patrice was overwhelmed trying to serve slices not only to all the children, but to all the adults as well. I came over to help, as did Patrice's husband, and we had a pleasant exchange as we served everyone on the bleachers while Patrice and her mother served all the children in the party room. It proceeded like that through cake and ice cream.

When the party ended, I realized not one person other than Patrice, her husband, or her mother, had said a word to me, such as, for example, "Thanks." There were moments when conversations almost happened - for example, one mother sat right next to me and sighed irritably several times when I ventured controversial topics like "How are you?" This confused me because there were plenty of other places she could have sat - but of course, had she sat in one of them, I would not know for certain that I was being snubbed. 


I sent my daughter to say "Thank You" to Patrice for the party, and Patrice's slightly overwhelmed look brightened as she smiled back and thanked my daughter for coming and me for all the help.

As I drove home, all I could think was, "These are her friends? Why? She seems like such a sweet person."

Not long after that, she invited me to a party at her house, the purpose of which was to sell me stuff. I went because I had some extra money and felt like spending it there might be worth it for the time it would buy me getting to know someone who might be friendly to me next time I found myself sitting on the bleachers. As it turned out, I got to spend a lot of time with her, as I was one of two people who showed up - three if you count her mother. As I left, she hugged me and said, "Thank you so much for coming, it really meant a lot to me."

I called her a couple of times after that, and when I extended an invitation, she would accept it. We took our girls to the movies together - once. We went shopping together - once. When I saw her at Girl Scout functions she would come over and chat in the friendliest possible way, but it became clear that she socialized quite a bit with the Sorority Moms, and I was not included in that social circle. Although I would have gladly accepted any invitation, none were forthcoming, and so I stopped making efforts to be friendly, and our interactions ceased except for the occasional hello at school - although more often than not, she simply waved to me from the window of her freshly washed Mercedes-Benz as she picked up her children and then drove back across the street to her house. 

I knew she was on Facebook; we hadn't friended each other but she kept popping up as a suggestion and I could see all the names of the people she had friended - Sorority Moms and irritable sighers. Her Facebook page appears to have been removed, but a memorial page was set up, with posts by a whole crew of people I knew but many I had never heard of. Some of the comments:

"I'm sorry I didn't return your call last week."
"I'm sorry I left you but I will always be here."
"Sorry I was distant."

I later learned that her original Facebook profile had been removed because her children could see it, and other neighborhood children** were posting comments about how sad her death had made their own mommies - and including graphic details of Patrice's death.

For three years, while my daughter attended that school, I watched these women from the outside and felt so lonely - because they would not accept me, no matter how hard I tried. I tried to be friends were her - and several others - because I saw the looks in their eyes and sometimes listened to them voice the frustration of their disappointment at being let down by these friends, repeatedly. Apparently, it was lonely on the inside, too - but in the end, they chose to continue those relationships while I chose to walk away.

I wish I could say I feel vindicated somehow, but in the end, I just feel sad.







**10-year-old girls with Facebook accounts, because even though the Facebook user agreement says you must be 13 to sign up, what could go wrong with a little girl lying about her age online?
Please note: Names have been changed to protect the family's privacy.

On The Move! House Hunting, Part 3 of a Seemingly Endless Series

After three years of looking*, we finally found a house we liked - no, scratch that, loved. We jumped for joy. We discussed it at length. We mentally arranged furniture, giving away our kitchen table happily because the black granite breakfast bar was worth the pseudo-sacrifice.

Our realtor came over the next night, and we spent four hours with her learning about septic systems (ick), the implications of getting one's water from a well (no fluoride), and tree ordinances (can't cut 'em). We read a mountain of seller disclosure forms about things like whether or not the house contains any lead paint (doesn't know), or asbestos (doesn't know), or if the hot tub works (it doesn't).

We made an offer. We celebrated.

We were declined.

Not even countered, but just flat out declined: the seller's realtor informed us that no one in their right mind would accept an offer that was contingent on the sale of another house.

Okay, but as these people are willing to part with this house - my dream house - in the first place, they are clearly insane, so what's the problem?

The problem was that there was another offer that was not a contingent offer.

Sadly for the seller, that was the first clue: apparently the buyer, who didn't have a house of their own to sell, isn't really into owning houses - they just like making offers, something they have done quite a few times recently. So when the seller countered their offer, that buyer just walked away, something they have also apparently done quite a few times recently.

And the seller came back to us, and we thought, awesome! And we made the very best offer we could afford to make, very close to the asking price, because having lost our dream house once, we weren't going to lose it again. We waited optimistically for their reply, mentally re-arranging furniture and debating the relative merits of various paint chips to pass the time.

Our realtor called within hours of our signing the new offer to let us know there was yet another offer on the table - also not contingent. Our offer was being used as leverage to negotiate with the other prospective buyer, before it expired.

Our hearts fell a little bit, but we held on to some hope, because the first buyer walked away, so another buyer possibly could do the same - in the end, the house wasn't actually sold. But we tempered our hopes this time, by reminding ourselves that even a dream house has its flaws:

"A double oven is a fire hazard, really."
"The barn probably had rats."
"The property was so big, you'd never get to know your neighbors."

We didn't want to be disappointed if the realtor came back and told us they'd accepted the other offer - which, a day later, is exactly what she did. So we mentally returned the fire extinguisher to the store and stopped mentally choosing names for the barn cat we were going to adopt from the shelter, and got on with life.

My husband took a long bike ride. I took a long nap. And Emma got an invitation to go to a movie with her friend, whose mother kindly came to our house to pick her up, and then backed right into our neighbor's pillar. That's the seventh time in five years, for anyone who's keeping count**. 



*But who's counting?
**But who's counting?

What's wrong with conservative? Everybody likes vanilla

If I'm going to read, I need to see, so I decided it's finally time to replace my old glasses which always make me feel a bit like I'm looking through a fog. The practical aspect is easy - go to the eye doctor, get a prescription. But then I find myself standing in a room surrounded by eyeglass frames, and I have to decide. I don't know ... be practical? I really should. They're glasses, I wear them all the time, they should be conservative and go with everything and not draw comment from the suburban SUV mommies that I live in fear of. But then again ... why not get something fun?

My husband suggests practical. "When I get fun frames, I don't wear them, and then I end up replacing them with practical ones," he says.

I throw the question out to my facebook friends. The subject of glasses resonates with a lot of people, it seems. But the comment that resonates with me is from an old high school friend. 

"Conservative ... Jess? I don't think so."

I didn't used to be quite so dull. My favorite sweater in high school was a bright green affair with footprints all over it in even brighter green - people are walking all over me! Worn with amazing sparkly earrings (ouija boards!) and a crazy watch collection (personal favorite: Jesus Christ watch with the name of all 12 disciples next to the numbers; Dan Quayle watch with mixed up numbers was another) and lots of long fake pearls or vintage rhinestone pins or whatever took my fancy.

In college, I turned my brown hair into bright red hair (think Molly Ringwald), and then went platinum blond (think Jean Harlow). I was going to be a filmmaker (college major) or a writer (post-college dream) and Do Great Things.

But I had bills to pay and took jobs to pay them, and discovered I was a fairly good editor and that was close to being a writer, so I kept doing that and figured I'd write on the side. Then I got fired from a job, and found a better job, but they wanted me to finish my college degree, so I worked during the day and took classes at night.

The job was on Wall Street, which paid well, better than publishing, and I liked the financial security so I worked hard and tried to fit in - and the green footprint sweaters became black and navy blue suits. Once a friend talked me into "branching out into brown - live a little." The sparkly earrings became demure little studs. The hair color became my own color - at least, the color I think it originally was - applied professionally, to cover the ever-increasing gray. I dated a lot - guys who wore suits, mostly - and was incredibly frustrated at my inability to meet "The One."

Then I met my first husband (you already know how it ends), who encouraged me to write, and I wrote one short story (a good one), but somehow with all the moving and chaos and drama that accompanied that marriage, I didn't manage to write, even though I quit my job to do just that. We moved constantly, buying and selling houses as we went. At the end of that four-year tornado through my life, I found myself a single parent of a toddler, in Seattle, working full time at a bank.
 
And so on. I think this is the part where the violins start playing in the background. But don't bother with that: I am not complaining - I have a good , secure life; a nice house that, if you visited, you would compliment; and I have a bookshelf full of classics and assorted bestsellers, many of which I haven't read but which I always mean to. If this is what life is, then I consider myself fortunate indeed.

Still, I feel a bit of a pang now and then. One of my college classmates wrote a series of acclaimed children's books, about pigeons, no less (I consider pigeons to be flying rats). A high school classmate became a movie star; my friend's kids recognized her quickly when they were playing some video trivia game. An old work friend quit her job, went to pastry school in France, and now has her own patisserie in a trendy Manhattan neighborhood. My high school English teacher, who always encouraged me to write, wrote a book and won a Pulitzer Prize.

And here I am, trying to decide whether or not to get the fun eyeglasses or the boring ones.

It's easy to get into a rut when you're busy - and playing it safe is a lot easier than taking chances. When life is hard in some places, you play it safe in others - and before you know it, you're in a rut. You're vanilla. Nothing wrong with vanilla - everyone likes it. But what if your heart is really New York Super Fudge Chunk?

Time to take some chances.

Lately, when I choose books, I look for something by an author I've read before, or perhaps I go on Amazon and look at things I've read and follow the recommended title links (people who bought this, also bought that) until I find something. Sometimes I buy things from the book section at Costco. Once in a while, I will see a magazine review and buy the book. 

I mostly read chick lit. It's pleasant enough. After a while, it kind of all feels the same, though. Maybe that's why I don't read so much.

Maybe, what I need to do is find my way out of the book rut. Find new ways to do things. New ways to find books, new books to read ... something news. I don't know about life, but with books, at least for the next 9 months, I can do it. One extra rule is added:

6 - Can't read two books by the same author.

Of course, I have a few books on my library reservation list that are by authors I've read already. And that's fine - I can still read them (if I am ever first on the waitlist) - I just can't count them. I still have 40 more books to go, but there's no reason I can't read more.

I still haven't decided about the glasses, but only because I haven't found anything quite fun enough, yet.