That's what you get, folks, for making whoopee

Can somebody please give me a hand while I step up on my soapbox for a minute?

 

Yesterday I posted on Facebook the article about Plan B being available for people without age restriction or parental consent*, and spent time in a respectful difference of opinion with someone who does not share my views on most political issues, but whose opinion I respect and enjoy debating. Part of that exchange was how we dealt with sharing information with our parents in our youth, which made me reflect on the reality that in a few years, my oldest son is going to start thinking about sex. Constantly, if the statistics are true.

Cause You Were All Yellow

Thursday I got into my car to go to work a little bit on time. C-c-c-curly hair (my The Way We Were people know this), baubles, frilly shirt, sandals...I remembered my cell phone. I even remembered to drop a couple clementines in my bag. When I get down my driveway and rounded the corner on to the street, I got my cell phone out of my bag and put it on my lap. In doing so, I felt the phone touch my skin, and I looked down to observe that I had left my house with no bottoms on. I did not have to walk out the front of my house, but my carport is not attached to my house, and garden homes do not boast tons of privacy.

 

Leaving your house for work with no pants on has GOT to be an SOS signal to anybody listening.

Yesterday Once More

Pema Chodron is my dawg. Sister has some good stuff. Pema, Anne Lamott and Glennon Melton are saving my ass on a daily basis.

I find myself with some serious writer's block these last two weeks. It is something that I need to trudge through, because the reason for the block is major anxiety. But the writing is what relieves the anxiety, most of the time. When I write it, well, and truly end an essay feeling like I have said what I feel in a way that impacts the feeling, I shake off the grip of the anxiety. I have not been able to do that.

You Better Shop Around

Last night at 7:30 PM, when the boys got home from dinner with their dad, we three were out in the front yard, in our bare feet, at dusk, burying a statue of St. Joseph and reciting a prayer for his intercession in the speedy sale of our house and the presentation of our next home. The anticipation and rejection that one is exposed to when either listing a home or making an offer on a home is something I'd be mighty fine to never revisit again, having gotten quite enough of that sh*t in high school.

 

Although I think Baby Jesus is prepping me for my future in the dating world, which I never really lived in for the first third of my life. I just sort of wake up one morning in a relationship.

Looking for home in all the wrong places

The business end of unmarrying (which is the aspect I'm choosing to focus on at the moment, as I am still waylaid when the relationship or family part confronts me) continues. The house has listed and shown a couple times, which is encouraging with this being a holiday weekend at all. Fingers crossed someone will fall in love with her quickly and want her as bad as I did. I'm sorry, but I need it to be owned by someone who cares about appearances and has good taste. Fingers crossed so tight your knuckles turn white that the Godiverse sends me through the door of my future home soon.

 

We fell in love with this one, and it sold days later. Two others in the complex have become available, and sold quickly. Currently there are NO townhouses open there. The townhouse complex next door has some promise, but we'll get to that directly. I looked at three townhomes this weekend, and we'll walk through the Good, the HUD and the Ugly. This feels like House Hunters.

FROM THE ARCHIVES: Mama Tried

This is not one of my favorite moments of being a parent. Okay, maybe it is. Today. The day it happened I was not amused, nor the day after. Now, however, this is grade-A "remember when you were little and you....." story following by pee-your-pants laughter. Only in this day of modern technology and constant photography, this incident is forever captured, long after the paper has been thrown away. Also, time has permitted the perspective that the artistic abilities my children display in a moving vehicle is not without merit.

 

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A Literal Sh!tstorm

 

This is a post about how what we put our parents through when we were little comes back to haunt us when we are trying to raise children of our own. I was nearly perfect, but obviously with the spawn of Corey Allbritton, we have a long road ahead of us.

Don't Be A Girl About It

Warning: This post has a lot of photos. All photos were taken by the selling agent, Raina Johnson, owner of DiGiulio Properties.  

This weekend I listed my house. During the listing and photography, I was completely without emotion, which made me wonder whether this is not as bad as I think it should be, or whether I'm just too f***ing crazy to be aware of what a mess I currently am. I believe it to be the latter, because when I saw the actual listing advertising that somebody else is welcome to come and live in my brown house with the blue door, well, that's apparently the moment the shock was ready to wear off and sorrow tackled my ass smooth to the ground. 

But I am mighty proud of her, all fixed up. She cleans up nice, and is still cleaning up, as there are about ten small things that still need to be done before I am finished. The house can be shown while they are being done, because they are simple and hardly noticeable. Except washing the ceiling in the sunroom or putting the boxes in storage. Houses are selling quickly in my neighborhood. The last two sold in less than a week.