There's a FOR SALE sign on our front lawn. It's official: we're moving.
Well, if someone will buy the house. The realtor says it has "the cute factor." I don't know what that means, but I'm pretty sure it sells homes. I kind of wish I had "the cute factor." Maybe I'd sell more writing.
I keep hoping someone's going to come in, look around and go, "OMG HONEY I THINK THIS IS THE MAVEN'S HOUSE! We need to buy it RIGHT NOW."
I somehow don't think that's going to happen. I'm not nearly as popular in real life as my vision board indicates I should be. In fact, I think if anyone knew there was a woman who called herself "The Maven of Mayhem" living here, they might be out that door faster than they can say "crazy bitches be livin' here."
Good news, at least: Somebody got laid a lot last weekend.
And by "somebody" I mean "something", and by "something" I mean "tile". Lots and lots of tile was laid. It wasn't a terribly exciting lay, but it sure looked good. And sometimes that's all that matters. I even bumped a few with a mallet to make sure they were firmly in place, so now I can casually point at my floor and say, "I hit that."
And if I installed a hidden camera nearby, I could make a photo album of troubled looks that could potentially fund a better downpayment on the new house.
And paint. There has been a lot of painting going on. It's funny how you don't notice the destruction of your walls until you start thinking about how other people are going to see them. It's like I had blinders on; I think they're a requirement for households containing three boy children. Scratches, peels, bumps and mystery smears were around every corner. The hallway looked like the set of the Jerry Springer show after a few chairs get thrown around.
Probably because there were actual chairs thrown around.
Did I mention I had to buy new chairs? Nobody likes to see a table for twelve with three chairs around it.
And tablecloths to hide Spawnling's Sharpie drawings. One of them is of a bum. Awesome.
At any rate, I have not stopped working for days. And that's not even including the birth I attended (that's a separate blog post) and the writing I've done (what little I've managed to do.) I'm exhausted.
And I'm so exhausted that I have these big crying jags about moving every day or so. I'll be completely fine, and then I'll start thinking about the great people, the neighbourhood, the schools we're leaving behind, and I sob. Or I'll think about people coming through this house - our house - and picking it apart, and I sob. Or I'll see our listing online and think "what a pretty house" and then remember that it's my house but probably not for much longer, and I'll fucking sob.
Basically I just cry a lot, but I don't feel depressed most of the time. I feel good, and actually quite excited -- until I don't. And then I sob. I don't understand this process. If you do, please tell me what's going on. I'm totally broke because I had to pay for all that laying (not all of us get it for free, you know, even if we say "Hey, baby. I'm The Maven.") But I'll pay you in compliments or possibly a coffee if you're local and not totally creepy with a crying chicks fetish.
This selling thing sucks. Now I remember why I never, ever wanted to do it again. It's tiring and stressful and I've thought about ripping the sign off the front lawn and throwing it at someone I don't like. But I also know that my family will likely benefit from this move, so there won't be any sign rippage going on. Also, rumours of assault charges aren't something you want to take with you to your new neighbourhood.
Wait. Or maybe you do...
My brain is broken. Well, more broken. It's no longer being held together effectively by pony stickers and wads of gum. I just hope that the selling process is quick and that the buying process is relatively painless in comparison.
In the meantime, our house is spotless and rather pleasant for the first time in since we lived here. I could get used to this.
Must go. I'm going to try a glue stick on my prefrontal cortex.
 |
| It's in French. I assure you it says "for sale" and not "condemned" or something. |
Well, if someone will buy the house. The realtor says it has "the cute factor." I don't know what that means, but I'm pretty sure it sells homes. I kind of wish I had "the cute factor." Maybe I'd sell more writing.
I keep hoping someone's going to come in, look around and go, "OMG HONEY I THINK THIS IS THE MAVEN'S HOUSE! We need to buy it RIGHT NOW."
I somehow don't think that's going to happen. I'm not nearly as popular in real life as my vision board indicates I should be. In fact, I think if anyone knew there was a woman who called herself "The Maven of Mayhem" living here, they might be out that door faster than they can say "crazy bitches be livin' here."
Good news, at least: Somebody got laid a lot last weekend.
And by "somebody" I mean "something", and by "something" I mean "tile". Lots and lots of tile was laid. It wasn't a terribly exciting lay, but it sure looked good. And sometimes that's all that matters. I even bumped a few with a mallet to make sure they were firmly in place, so now I can casually point at my floor and say, "I hit that."
And if I installed a hidden camera nearby, I could make a photo album of troubled looks that could potentially fund a better downpayment on the new house.
And paint. There has been a lot of painting going on. It's funny how you don't notice the destruction of your walls until you start thinking about how other people are going to see them. It's like I had blinders on; I think they're a requirement for households containing three boy children. Scratches, peels, bumps and mystery smears were around every corner. The hallway looked like the set of the Jerry Springer show after a few chairs get thrown around.
Probably because there were actual chairs thrown around.
Did I mention I had to buy new chairs? Nobody likes to see a table for twelve with three chairs around it.
And tablecloths to hide Spawnling's Sharpie drawings. One of them is of a bum. Awesome.
At any rate, I have not stopped working for days. And that's not even including the birth I attended (that's a separate blog post) and the writing I've done (what little I've managed to do.) I'm exhausted.
And I'm so exhausted that I have these big crying jags about moving every day or so. I'll be completely fine, and then I'll start thinking about the great people, the neighbourhood, the schools we're leaving behind, and I sob. Or I'll think about people coming through this house - our house - and picking it apart, and I sob. Or I'll see our listing online and think "what a pretty house" and then remember that it's my house but probably not for much longer, and I'll fucking sob.
Basically I just cry a lot, but I don't feel depressed most of the time. I feel good, and actually quite excited -- until I don't. And then I sob. I don't understand this process. If you do, please tell me what's going on. I'm totally broke because I had to pay for all that laying (not all of us get it for free, you know, even if we say "Hey, baby. I'm The Maven.") But I'll pay you in compliments or possibly a coffee if you're local and not totally creepy with a crying chicks fetish.
This selling thing sucks. Now I remember why I never, ever wanted to do it again. It's tiring and stressful and I've thought about ripping the sign off the front lawn and throwing it at someone I don't like. But I also know that my family will likely benefit from this move, so there won't be any sign rippage going on. Also, rumours of assault charges aren't something you want to take with you to your new neighbourhood.
Wait. Or maybe you do...
My brain is broken. Well, more broken. It's no longer being held together effectively by pony stickers and wads of gum. I just hope that the selling process is quick and that the buying process is relatively painless in comparison.
In the meantime, our house is spotless and rather pleasant for the first time in since we lived here. I could get used to this.
Must go. I'm going to try a glue stick on my prefrontal cortex.