You have to clean a house before you can clean it.
Men probably don't get this, but any woman who has ever had a cleaning service will tell you, you have to clean the house before it can be cleaned.
It may seem redundant, but any maid service will tell you that they waste more time stacking up loose piles of paper, magazines, whatever, when they're cleaning instead of just coming in and getting down to the gut work.
My house is almost at a state now where a maid service could be called in for the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and bedroom. And now I'm exhausted.
I have several things on my side. Perversely, there's the weather. If it's bad on the day Cousin Karen intends to travel, I will insist that she stay at home and we'll get together another day, probably after the first of the year. She may think she's intrepid, but if it turns out to be as bad as all the weather reports are threatening, I think she should plan on staying home that day. As for me, I've already got most of the ingredients for a Thanksgiving dinner in the house.
Something else on my side is that Cousin Karen is very forgiving of houses en dishabille. Apparently hers is unless she is gone and Cousin Danny comes in to clean. It would seem he's very good at it, which makes me want to have him come up here while Cousin Karen and I go down the Shore.
I haven't touched my office or what used to be the guest room and is now...just a disaster and something you might seen on "Hoarders".
There is the chance that I will catch my second wind tomorrow, if I have a second wind to catch.
Then again, I might go back to bed, where it's warm and there may well be several cats waiting for me.
Showing posts with label ma maisonette. Show all posts
Showing posts with label ma maisonette. Show all posts
Monday, November 25, 2013
Sunday, November 24, 2013
Slowly, Slowly, Climb Mt. Fuji
I am attempting to make the house bearable in preparation for Cousin Karen's arrival on Wednesday. Yes, I know I've known about this for a couple of months but there's nothing like staring down the calendar and realizing that I've got to be right quick about it.
Yesterday went well. In between well-timed breaks, I cleaned and decluttered, did laundry and threw away a lot of junk. This morning it goes not so well. I've got a load of laundry going, which is good, but my picking-up and throwing-away has been delayed by a stitch in my side and an ache in my back.
As my mother, another well-known panic-cleaner, used to say and almost made herself believe, "They're coming to see you, not your house." This is one of those comforting lies we tell ourselves to keep our pulse below our target heart range while we run around the house, calculating what we can and cannot do between now and Tuesday midnight. I can get the kitchen clean enough to eat in, but there's no way I'm getting down on hands and knees to wash the floor. I can make comfortable seating in the living room, but I'm not promising that there still won't be a few boxes stashed behind the love seat.
Priorities, priorities.
I am especially concerned about the kitchen because when I last saw Karen in May, she showed up with a plate of macarons (the French kind, not the coconut kind) and promised/threatened to bake for me when she came to visit me. I'm not sure my kitchen, even after several hours of work, would be deemed hygienically fit for cooking. Maybe she'll just make the macarons at home and bring a big basket of them. (We learned in May that stale macarons made with regular instead of almond flour are still acceptable.)
I was kidding with one of the mail room guys the other day that I would hire him to help me clean my house. He looked serious when I named a price, but I didn't follow up on it. I wish now that I had. He's young, strong, and eager to earn money. Dang. If I said, "Paulo, take the bike down to the basement", I have no doubt that he would have hoisted it onto his narrow-yet-strong shoulders and moved the thing down to the basement. I just look at it and convince myself that I can be blind to it - after all, I've managed to be blind to this for a little over three years. What's another couple of months?
A long time ago, I read a haiku about a snail trying to climb a mountain and more than once I've whipped out the last few words to move me along:
Slowly, slowly climb Mt. Fuji.
And so I slowly climb. Who wants some cocoa?
Yesterday went well. In between well-timed breaks, I cleaned and decluttered, did laundry and threw away a lot of junk. This morning it goes not so well. I've got a load of laundry going, which is good, but my picking-up and throwing-away has been delayed by a stitch in my side and an ache in my back.
As my mother, another well-known panic-cleaner, used to say and almost made herself believe, "They're coming to see you, not your house." This is one of those comforting lies we tell ourselves to keep our pulse below our target heart range while we run around the house, calculating what we can and cannot do between now and Tuesday midnight. I can get the kitchen clean enough to eat in, but there's no way I'm getting down on hands and knees to wash the floor. I can make comfortable seating in the living room, but I'm not promising that there still won't be a few boxes stashed behind the love seat.
Priorities, priorities.
I am especially concerned about the kitchen because when I last saw Karen in May, she showed up with a plate of macarons (the French kind, not the coconut kind) and promised/threatened to bake for me when she came to visit me. I'm not sure my kitchen, even after several hours of work, would be deemed hygienically fit for cooking. Maybe she'll just make the macarons at home and bring a big basket of them. (We learned in May that stale macarons made with regular instead of almond flour are still acceptable.)
I was kidding with one of the mail room guys the other day that I would hire him to help me clean my house. He looked serious when I named a price, but I didn't follow up on it. I wish now that I had. He's young, strong, and eager to earn money. Dang. If I said, "Paulo, take the bike down to the basement", I have no doubt that he would have hoisted it onto his narrow-yet-strong shoulders and moved the thing down to the basement. I just look at it and convince myself that I can be blind to it - after all, I've managed to be blind to this for a little over three years. What's another couple of months?
A long time ago, I read a haiku about a snail trying to climb a mountain and more than once I've whipped out the last few words to move me along:
Slowly, slowly climb Mt. Fuji.
And so I slowly climb. Who wants some cocoa?
Saturday, February 02, 2013
Maximalism?
I also think of painting the house in colors seen in Indian movies - plum walls, magenta curtains, marigold for the bedroom, those over the door hanger things, pine green carpets. In short, color, deep, rich, saturated, all over the house.
Fill the house with poufs (not that kind) and ottomans (not that kind, either), curtains not just on windows but on walls and more pillows than Bed, Bath and Beyond sells in a month.
I know that somewhere, there's a middle ground and eventually, that's where I'll land.
But I know where all of this comes from.
In my grandparents' house, the furniture was never moved and the walls in every room in the house remained the same soggy beige color, with the exception of the yellow kitchen.
In my mother's house, she spent at least one weekend a month directing me and my stepfather in moving the living room furniture. This drove me slightly crazy, but at least she was taking an interest in the house, which was something she never did when we lived with her parents. However, she crossed the line when I went away to college. My first weekend back home, I found she had rearranged the furniture in my room. This, of course, was beyond the pale. I threw a mighty temper tantrum. A simple, "Mom, I'm going to change it back" would have done, but I made a great clatter, moving things back to their proper places.
I've lived at Ma Maisonette longer than I've lived anyplace else. Of course I'm getting tired of it. Of course I want to change things.
And of course it would help greatly if I de-crapped all the surfaces. And cleaned the place. Then I would really see if I needed to change much or even anything at all. Probably not that much at all.
My fear with minimalism is that it would soon prove not to be soothing, but to be depressing.
My fear with maximalism is that it would soon prove not to be exciting and exotic but overwhelming.
The truth is that I would somehow find my way back to the middle ground. The house wouldn't be much different from the way it was. But hey, I've only got maybe seven or eight years in this house before I have to bug out of Jersey anyway. And before I could sell, it would all have to be painted some neutral color. Yawn.
Fill the house with poufs (not that kind) and ottomans (not that kind, either), curtains not just on windows but on walls and more pillows than Bed, Bath and Beyond sells in a month.
I know that somewhere, there's a middle ground and eventually, that's where I'll land.
But I know where all of this comes from.
In my grandparents' house, the furniture was never moved and the walls in every room in the house remained the same soggy beige color, with the exception of the yellow kitchen.
In my mother's house, she spent at least one weekend a month directing me and my stepfather in moving the living room furniture. This drove me slightly crazy, but at least she was taking an interest in the house, which was something she never did when we lived with her parents. However, she crossed the line when I went away to college. My first weekend back home, I found she had rearranged the furniture in my room. This, of course, was beyond the pale. I threw a mighty temper tantrum. A simple, "Mom, I'm going to change it back" would have done, but I made a great clatter, moving things back to their proper places.
I've lived at Ma Maisonette longer than I've lived anyplace else. Of course I'm getting tired of it. Of course I want to change things.
And of course it would help greatly if I de-crapped all the surfaces. And cleaned the place. Then I would really see if I needed to change much or even anything at all. Probably not that much at all.
My fear with minimalism is that it would soon prove not to be soothing, but to be depressing.
My fear with maximalism is that it would soon prove not to be exciting and exotic but overwhelming.
The truth is that I would somehow find my way back to the middle ground. The house wouldn't be much different from the way it was. But hey, I've only got maybe seven or eight years in this house before I have to bug out of Jersey anyway. And before I could sell, it would all have to be painted some neutral color. Yawn.
Friday, February 01, 2013
Minimalism
Open the front door. Call the township to come do a bulk pick-up. Take a big broom and push everything out the front door. Everything except my cats and me.
The filing cabinets with novels started more than 20 years ago. Jewelry not worn in 30 years. Things that have simply stopped drawing my attention, although when I bought them, I loved them.
I want the magic broom to push things down into a tiny size so everything fits through the front door. G'bye! Bye, books! Bye, movies! Hm. Should probably hang onto the clothes. But the pots and pans stacked under the counter - out, get out.
And now have the wall-to-wall carpet pulled up, the floors refinished, the walls painted a cool neutral grey-ish color that hits white just perfectly. Then back up the truck from IKEA, assemble the beds, the couch, the chair, the lamps, string up the ones I don't know how to string up. I want a couch I can use a Swiffer under.
It sounds like an episode of "Hoarders", but lately, that's where my mood has been. Oh - and the couch and chairs would be in a no-nonsense tweedy grey as well. I suppose I could use cherry red or lime green to make it pop if I had to.
Somehow install sliders on front of all the Billy bookcases so I wouldn't have to look at all the books. Replace the very tired living room curtains with heavy white curtains - heavy, but not long, so the heating vents can be kept clear.
I see this desire to clean up and clear out as a good sign, somehow.
The filing cabinets with novels started more than 20 years ago. Jewelry not worn in 30 years. Things that have simply stopped drawing my attention, although when I bought them, I loved them.
I want the magic broom to push things down into a tiny size so everything fits through the front door. G'bye! Bye, books! Bye, movies! Hm. Should probably hang onto the clothes. But the pots and pans stacked under the counter - out, get out.
And now have the wall-to-wall carpet pulled up, the floors refinished, the walls painted a cool neutral grey-ish color that hits white just perfectly. Then back up the truck from IKEA, assemble the beds, the couch, the chair, the lamps, string up the ones I don't know how to string up. I want a couch I can use a Swiffer under.
It sounds like an episode of "Hoarders", but lately, that's where my mood has been. Oh - and the couch and chairs would be in a no-nonsense tweedy grey as well. I suppose I could use cherry red or lime green to make it pop if I had to.
Somehow install sliders on front of all the Billy bookcases so I wouldn't have to look at all the books. Replace the very tired living room curtains with heavy white curtains - heavy, but not long, so the heating vents can be kept clear.
I see this desire to clean up and clear out as a good sign, somehow.
Saturday, July 28, 2012
In Which I Plot to Confound My Neighbors
Actually, I don't think my neighbors will care much at all. But. If they do notice, they may scratch their heads and wonder what their crazy neighbor Becs is up to. Dare we hope that she is selling her house and moving?
No.
There will be a great deal of activity, relatively speaking, inside and outside of ma maisonette. There will be masons. There will be handymen. There will be Diego. There will be pressure washing. (I love pressure washing.) There will be heavy pruning of the trees in the front yard. There will also be a big trash pick up by the township from my front yard as the Big Chair goes out.
I never realized before that some of this stuff doesn't really cost that much. I think the mason will be the most expensive and no, sorry, I'm only going for repair and not replacement of the problematic porches.
Inside the house, the house I'm ashamed of, things are changing. Yesterday I set the timer for half an hour to de-clutter the worst corner of the kitchen. It took me a little over twenty minutes and that was truly dealing with stuff, not just cramming it into a closets. This give me hope, which is a thing rarely seen around here.
Today, I'm going out and about. There's only so much home and needy cats that I can take.
------------------------
Oh - I think I figured out something about the outside cats.
I've thought this before, but I haven't seen Sam in four days, which is rare for him. The jury is still out, he might come shambling back up, but I think I won't be seeing Sam again.
About a block from my house are some woods, not enough woods to call it a forest, connected with a school. I think there's a colony of feral cats living there. If I can do trap, neuter, release, I will. But once again, my optimism fails me.
No.
There will be a great deal of activity, relatively speaking, inside and outside of ma maisonette. There will be masons. There will be handymen. There will be Diego. There will be pressure washing. (I love pressure washing.) There will be heavy pruning of the trees in the front yard. There will also be a big trash pick up by the township from my front yard as the Big Chair goes out.
I never realized before that some of this stuff doesn't really cost that much. I think the mason will be the most expensive and no, sorry, I'm only going for repair and not replacement of the problematic porches.
Inside the house, the house I'm ashamed of, things are changing. Yesterday I set the timer for half an hour to de-clutter the worst corner of the kitchen. It took me a little over twenty minutes and that was truly dealing with stuff, not just cramming it into a closets. This give me hope, which is a thing rarely seen around here.
Today, I'm going out and about. There's only so much home and needy cats that I can take.
------------------------
Oh - I think I figured out something about the outside cats.
I've thought this before, but I haven't seen Sam in four days, which is rare for him. The jury is still out, he might come shambling back up, but I think I won't be seeing Sam again.
About a block from my house are some woods, not enough woods to call it a forest, connected with a school. I think there's a colony of feral cats living there. If I can do trap, neuter, release, I will. But once again, my optimism fails me.
Friday, July 27, 2012
In Which I Try to Hold Onto My Own Hat
The past week has been stressful at work.
The Perfect One has been editing my documents. And of course you know, my documents spring full grown from the brow of Zeus. Then I learned that TPO and her group have been holding on to previous documentation that they did, without once cluing me in. I started working on Document A in 4/11. They had completed their documentation on Process A in 3/11. Did I think to ask them? I have to admit, I didn't. I suppose I'm not that familiar with what an auditing group does, but I didn't think they did this kind of thing.
Then again, no one ever came to me from TPO's group and said, hey, we have some docs that might help you out.
Document A was incomplete because the manager of that group had a nervous breakdown and asked to be demoted.
All day yesterday, I felt like someone had shackled me, wrist and ankle, to my desk. I couldn't sit still. I was hyper touchy. I was willing to chew through my wrist and ankle (I mean, if I could reach them) just to get the hell out of there. Another thing that stopped me from fleeing was a scheduled meeting with the Big Boss.
He validated my existence by looking at a document I had written, based on comments made by legal eagles, and said with a hint of surprise in his voice, "We're really moving along with this. This is good."
But when I got back to my desk, I still wanted to chew my way free.
I knew yesterday by 3 pm that I would not be going to work today, that I would take a personal day off. I have nothing pressing at work. I just knew I could not tolerate another day within 50 feet of The Perfect One.
Plus, I am in the grips of Refi Mania. I'm sorry. Really I am. I'll call Dr. A and Dr. Yeow and see what they advise.
Yesterday, I made a list of what I need to do before The Appraiser Cometh. This morning when I woke up at four, I decided that I would take myself out for breakfast at around 6:30 and then go to Home Depot.
Home Depot. Jeez, I'm sorry to wake you guys up, but the sign says you open at 6. Haven't you had your coffee by now? Are you not yet awake and alert? Can you please stop fucking smirking at the fat white woman who wants to do a little humble home maintenance, like painting her front door and the railings on her porch. (Front door: Brick red. Railings: Dark Walnut. I like the change from black.)
What I didn't realize until I was loading two nice big buckets of white and purple cone flowers in my car was that the switch has been flipped and I'm off to ManicLand. I got home, unloaded the cone flowers onto my front steps and realized the trees in front need pruning. I also realized the humidity is about 115%. And the temperature is going to be well above 90 today. Me? Paint? In this weather? Oh, darlin', it is to dream. The most I'm going to be up for is finding a mason on Angie's list who doesn't mind taking on the small job of repairing my front steps.
One possible course of action for me today is to change into my comfiest clothes, turn the a/c way down low and begin the decluttering process, which I hope will not unhinge me further.
But what if I want to chew my way out of Ma Maisonette?
There was a very, very bad, very private crisis here last Saturday, which is still so painful I don't want to go into it. Suffice it to say for the moment that I was deeply shocked and disturbed by my thoughts and the only way I could think of to deal with the situation was to drug myself into a long sleep. The echoes of it still bother me.
Sometimes I feel...so very, very whack.
The Perfect One has been editing my documents. And of course you know, my documents spring full grown from the brow of Zeus. Then I learned that TPO and her group have been holding on to previous documentation that they did, without once cluing me in. I started working on Document A in 4/11. They had completed their documentation on Process A in 3/11. Did I think to ask them? I have to admit, I didn't. I suppose I'm not that familiar with what an auditing group does, but I didn't think they did this kind of thing.
Then again, no one ever came to me from TPO's group and said, hey, we have some docs that might help you out.
Document A was incomplete because the manager of that group had a nervous breakdown and asked to be demoted.
All day yesterday, I felt like someone had shackled me, wrist and ankle, to my desk. I couldn't sit still. I was hyper touchy. I was willing to chew through my wrist and ankle (I mean, if I could reach them) just to get the hell out of there. Another thing that stopped me from fleeing was a scheduled meeting with the Big Boss.
He validated my existence by looking at a document I had written, based on comments made by legal eagles, and said with a hint of surprise in his voice, "We're really moving along with this. This is good."
But when I got back to my desk, I still wanted to chew my way free.
I knew yesterday by 3 pm that I would not be going to work today, that I would take a personal day off. I have nothing pressing at work. I just knew I could not tolerate another day within 50 feet of The Perfect One.
Plus, I am in the grips of Refi Mania. I'm sorry. Really I am. I'll call Dr. A and Dr. Yeow and see what they advise.
Yesterday, I made a list of what I need to do before The Appraiser Cometh. This morning when I woke up at four, I decided that I would take myself out for breakfast at around 6:30 and then go to Home Depot.
Home Depot. Jeez, I'm sorry to wake you guys up, but the sign says you open at 6. Haven't you had your coffee by now? Are you not yet awake and alert? Can you please stop fucking smirking at the fat white woman who wants to do a little humble home maintenance, like painting her front door and the railings on her porch. (Front door: Brick red. Railings: Dark Walnut. I like the change from black.)
What I didn't realize until I was loading two nice big buckets of white and purple cone flowers in my car was that the switch has been flipped and I'm off to ManicLand. I got home, unloaded the cone flowers onto my front steps and realized the trees in front need pruning. I also realized the humidity is about 115%. And the temperature is going to be well above 90 today. Me? Paint? In this weather? Oh, darlin', it is to dream. The most I'm going to be up for is finding a mason on Angie's list who doesn't mind taking on the small job of repairing my front steps.
One possible course of action for me today is to change into my comfiest clothes, turn the a/c way down low and begin the decluttering process, which I hope will not unhinge me further.
But what if I want to chew my way out of Ma Maisonette?
There was a very, very bad, very private crisis here last Saturday, which is still so painful I don't want to go into it. Suffice it to say for the moment that I was deeply shocked and disturbed by my thoughts and the only way I could think of to deal with the situation was to drug myself into a long sleep. The echoes of it still bother me.
Sometimes I feel...so very, very whack.
Thursday, July 26, 2012
No Place Like Home
I talked to someone at my credit union yesterday. As it turns out, I owe less than I thought on all of my (both of them) accounts. I can slap the HELOC together with the mortgage and end up saving $300 / month. Right now, cash flow is the problem. My credit score astounds me. It's nearly off the top of the charts.
Ma Maisonette will have to undergo the indignity of a full appraisal. I know that I can deal with most of the clutter, but the deep down cleaning is going to be left to professionals. Back in the day, I could just call Annushka and crew and they would come over en masse to see to things. Now I'll just call the same cleaning service that mucked out the house after Irene. I know it won't be cheap but I do have some emergency money tucked away.
Plus there won't be all that bloody angst to deal with.
I'm drawing up a mighty list.
Oh, hey - I need to have the front door painted. What do you think for color? The siding is beigey-gray, the shutters and trim barn red. Once upon a time, the door was barn red, too, but it's faded over the last, um, twelve years. What color do you think? Stick with the barn red? Brown? I can't think beyond that. I remember loving the doors and houses in Ireland. In Galway, there's a beautiful stucco building painted a deep and vivid purple with golden yellow trim and door. I don't think the good people on my street would take kindly to that.
Any suggestions for the door?
If you were going for a refi appraisal, other than cleanliness, what would be your main area of concern?
Inquiring minds want to know.
Ma Maisonette will have to undergo the indignity of a full appraisal. I know that I can deal with most of the clutter, but the deep down cleaning is going to be left to professionals. Back in the day, I could just call Annushka and crew and they would come over en masse to see to things. Now I'll just call the same cleaning service that mucked out the house after Irene. I know it won't be cheap but I do have some emergency money tucked away.
Plus there won't be all that bloody angst to deal with.
I'm drawing up a mighty list.
Oh, hey - I need to have the front door painted. What do you think for color? The siding is beigey-gray, the shutters and trim barn red. Once upon a time, the door was barn red, too, but it's faded over the last, um, twelve years. What color do you think? Stick with the barn red? Brown? I can't think beyond that. I remember loving the doors and houses in Ireland. In Galway, there's a beautiful stucco building painted a deep and vivid purple with golden yellow trim and door. I don't think the good people on my street would take kindly to that.
Any suggestions for the door?
If you were going for a refi appraisal, other than cleanliness, what would be your main area of concern?
Inquiring minds want to know.
Friday, July 02, 2010
Cousin Karen Canceled
At 8:15 pm, I got a text message that Cousin Karen isn't coming up this weekend.
My first reaction was to be pissed that she had done it so late and most of all that she had done it by text.
Then I realized it was for the best. After all, I spent the better part of the day trying to figure out how I was going to pay my mortgage. (I did figure it out, after all.)
And I was in the middle of building a set of shelves from IKEA when I got the text. This was good. I'm spurred on now to continue with the house. Cleaning. Straightening. Cleaning some more. Throwing some more stuff out. Although it will definitely be an everyone's gone to the moon weekend, I'm glad to get it. I will have to ask someone to come help me lift the bookcase into place because it easily weighs a hundred pounds and has no hand holds on it. If it slips, bye-bye pinky finger and bye-bye wee-wee-wee-all-the-way-home piggy.
I feel like the logjam at Ma Maisonette has just broken. Hallelujah and amen.
Although I will miss Cousin Karen's company.
By the way, to those of you out there I've canceled on at the last minute, please accept my deepest apologies. I suspect those who were victimized most often have departed, anyway. But if I've ever done this to you, I'm really sorry and I will do my most ut not to do it again.
My first reaction was to be pissed that she had done it so late and most of all that she had done it by text.
Then I realized it was for the best. After all, I spent the better part of the day trying to figure out how I was going to pay my mortgage. (I did figure it out, after all.)
And I was in the middle of building a set of shelves from IKEA when I got the text. This was good. I'm spurred on now to continue with the house. Cleaning. Straightening. Cleaning some more. Throwing some more stuff out. Although it will definitely be an everyone's gone to the moon weekend, I'm glad to get it. I will have to ask someone to come help me lift the bookcase into place because it easily weighs a hundred pounds and has no hand holds on it. If it slips, bye-bye pinky finger and bye-bye wee-wee-wee-all-the-way-home piggy.
I feel like the logjam at Ma Maisonette has just broken. Hallelujah and amen.
Although I will miss Cousin Karen's company.
By the way, to those of you out there I've canceled on at the last minute, please accept my deepest apologies. I suspect those who were victimized most often have departed, anyway. But if I've ever done this to you, I'm really sorry and I will do my most ut not to do it again.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Son of Snowmaggedon
The Weather Channel has run out of superlatives and is now reduced to the puny "February Fury."
I went out this morning and cleared off the car and the driveway. I loaded up the bird feeders for the first time this winter and had customers within the hour.
I did some work. I took a nap. I did some more work.
Just got back inside from a second clearing. My body has told me she has had absolutely enough for one day. As for the accumulation of snow, including last Saturday's paltry 4" - 5", I'm guessing there's 18" - 20" out there. It comes over the top of my Wal-Mart wellies. (I love my Wal-Mart wellies, bought late last year.)
Props to the Pleasantville Public Works department. They were rocking the snow plows from 7 - 10 am. Now that we've got another half-foot of snow on the ground, they haven't been seen, but it's still snowing pretty hard.
There are pine trees lining one side of my driveway. These are very large, very tall, very evergreen pines whose branches are now bowed down by the weight of the snow. I've checked them a couple of times during the day, relieved that one of them leans towards my neighbor's house. I went around my yard, freed the rhodo and the yews and boxwoods from their snow caps. After one snow fall, it took the whole summer for the yews to recover.
I put out more bird seed near the side door, which is semi-protected.
There are little bird foot prints in the snow there.
I went out this morning and cleared off the car and the driveway. I loaded up the bird feeders for the first time this winter and had customers within the hour.
I did some work. I took a nap. I did some more work.
Just got back inside from a second clearing. My body has told me she has had absolutely enough for one day. As for the accumulation of snow, including last Saturday's paltry 4" - 5", I'm guessing there's 18" - 20" out there. It comes over the top of my Wal-Mart wellies. (I love my Wal-Mart wellies, bought late last year.)
Props to the Pleasantville Public Works department. They were rocking the snow plows from 7 - 10 am. Now that we've got another half-foot of snow on the ground, they haven't been seen, but it's still snowing pretty hard.
There are pine trees lining one side of my driveway. These are very large, very tall, very evergreen pines whose branches are now bowed down by the weight of the snow. I've checked them a couple of times during the day, relieved that one of them leans towards my neighbor's house. I went around my yard, freed the rhodo and the yews and boxwoods from their snow caps. After one snow fall, it took the whole summer for the yews to recover.
I put out more bird seed near the side door, which is semi-protected.
There are little bird foot prints in the snow there.
Monday, October 05, 2009
Home Training
This morning, I made my bed.
Once upon a time, that wasn't such a rare thing. Every single morning, my bed was made. The sheets were changed on schedule every Saturday morning. Laundry was done daily. The sink never spent a night with a dish in it.
There used to be a routine. It was a good routine and it kept Ma Maisonette and me on track for a good long while.
Honestly, part of it was the mock-terror that Annushka would descend on me at any moment and berate me as she did E for sitting around in my pajamas while the house was a mess. Of course this never happened. Annushka would never have shown up at my door unannounced.
And so I've learned that I could sit in my pjs until 1 pm and not feel gross.
The house, my once-beautiful little house, is showing signs of neglect and the results of no major upkeep. Part of it is money, of course. But not that much of it.
I like sleeping on the couch. The bed has felt so unfriendly. The sheets are tattered by Phoebe and Dylan playing on them. Once upon a time, thread count didn't matter to me. When I was at Target the other day, I felt a sample of 200 vs. 400 vs. 600 thread count sheets. I like the 600 ones. They feel exactly the way I want sheets to feel. But Target had knit jersey sheets on sale for $15, so I got a set and will crawl into them tonight. I'm hoping they'll feel wonderfully cuddly.
I have let myself go. In more ways than one.
I just read Hyperchondriac by Brian Frazer. His family was chaotic after his mother became ill. He was too young to remember any time before then. His father used to get various kinds of fast food and put it on the table for the kids. However they portioned it out and ate it was up to them. I don't know if Mr. Frazer is pulling my leg, but he said the first time he went to a friend's house to eat, he started scooping up the mashed potatoes with his hands. He just never thought anymore about using silverware. Or plastic ware.
I was getting way too close to that. It was, um, kind of gross. And I was afraid that this behavior was going to become ingrained and me and when I went to the home, I would take to using my shirtwaist dresses as dinner napkins while I was wearing them or pulling out a plum with my thumb when the gruel went around the table.
It's hard to live like a regular human being and have a job, too. But I think I'll have to find my way through it.
And sleep in the bed tonight. I know it'll make Phoebe happy. She hasn't abandoned the bed to find me and seems awfully lonely in the morning when I go greet her. It's okay, Peewee. Everybody on the bed tonight.
Once upon a time, that wasn't such a rare thing. Every single morning, my bed was made. The sheets were changed on schedule every Saturday morning. Laundry was done daily. The sink never spent a night with a dish in it.
There used to be a routine. It was a good routine and it kept Ma Maisonette and me on track for a good long while.
Honestly, part of it was the mock-terror that Annushka would descend on me at any moment and berate me as she did E for sitting around in my pajamas while the house was a mess. Of course this never happened. Annushka would never have shown up at my door unannounced.
And so I've learned that I could sit in my pjs until 1 pm and not feel gross.
The house, my once-beautiful little house, is showing signs of neglect and the results of no major upkeep. Part of it is money, of course. But not that much of it.
I like sleeping on the couch. The bed has felt so unfriendly. The sheets are tattered by Phoebe and Dylan playing on them. Once upon a time, thread count didn't matter to me. When I was at Target the other day, I felt a sample of 200 vs. 400 vs. 600 thread count sheets. I like the 600 ones. They feel exactly the way I want sheets to feel. But Target had knit jersey sheets on sale for $15, so I got a set and will crawl into them tonight. I'm hoping they'll feel wonderfully cuddly.
I have let myself go. In more ways than one.
I just read Hyperchondriac by Brian Frazer. His family was chaotic after his mother became ill. He was too young to remember any time before then. His father used to get various kinds of fast food and put it on the table for the kids. However they portioned it out and ate it was up to them. I don't know if Mr. Frazer is pulling my leg, but he said the first time he went to a friend's house to eat, he started scooping up the mashed potatoes with his hands. He just never thought anymore about using silverware. Or plastic ware.
I was getting way too close to that. It was, um, kind of gross. And I was afraid that this behavior was going to become ingrained and me and when I went to the home, I would take to using my shirtwaist dresses as dinner napkins while I was wearing them or pulling out a plum with my thumb when the gruel went around the table.
It's hard to live like a regular human being and have a job, too. But I think I'll have to find my way through it.
And sleep in the bed tonight. I know it'll make Phoebe happy. She hasn't abandoned the bed to find me and seems awfully lonely in the morning when I go greet her. It's okay, Peewee. Everybody on the bed tonight.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
There's Got to be a Morning After
Without the aid of clonazepam, alcohol, or anything more destructive than cream cheese, I managed to settle myself down last night.
I watched two episodes of "Lost" on Netflix, but before I did that I came to a very obvious realization.
I need to find a better-paying job. I know. Duh.
Although I agreed to stay at this job for six months - and who knows, I may have to - I just have to get back into job search mode and keep on looking.
And find other ways to increase my income and reduce my expenses. The latter should be interesting, since I feel pretty much to the bone these days.
And one day, have the enormous satisfaction of telling Wells Fargo to go screw themselves.
Because honestly, I did a calculation on how much house I could afford on my current salary. It turns out to be a whopping $391 / month. A house that costs $80,000, which are scarce in New Jersey and scary when you find them.
This situation cannot hold for long, so must be changed.
On thinking about it, I'm surprised there haven't been more meltdowns over the past year. I count maybe three and think my quota could easily be one a month.
So. Up. Moving. Going. And pay a call to the nice folks on Dice.com.
I watched two episodes of "Lost" on Netflix, but before I did that I came to a very obvious realization.
I need to find a better-paying job. I know. Duh.
Although I agreed to stay at this job for six months - and who knows, I may have to - I just have to get back into job search mode and keep on looking.
And find other ways to increase my income and reduce my expenses. The latter should be interesting, since I feel pretty much to the bone these days.
And one day, have the enormous satisfaction of telling Wells Fargo to go screw themselves.
Because honestly, I did a calculation on how much house I could afford on my current salary. It turns out to be a whopping $391 / month. A house that costs $80,000, which are scarce in New Jersey and scary when you find them.
This situation cannot hold for long, so must be changed.
On thinking about it, I'm surprised there haven't been more meltdowns over the past year. I count maybe three and think my quota could easily be one a month.
So. Up. Moving. Going. And pay a call to the nice folks on Dice.com.
Monday, September 21, 2009
Thar She Blows
Dr. Yeow has frequently warned me to look out for manic episodes. I think he thought I was having one.
I don't want to say he's right, but at the moment, I'm feeling pretty low.
I got another love letter from Wells Fargo. This one said that I could put off paying my mortgage payment until Jan 10, 2010. Then everything would be due - three months of back mortgage payments PLUS late fees.
What f*ing saints.
And someone kept telling me they don't want my house?
And it turns out - it really does turn out - that I was making more money on unemployment than I am now.
I have been pushed and pushed and pushed and now I can't be pushed any further. Not unless someone comes and takes me where I've fallen down in a heap and bodily throws me off the precipice.
I've been crying and crying. The stupid cow at Wells Fargo kept saying, "You have to make more money and reduce your expenses to get into another program." And I kept saying, "How much more and how much less?" And she kept saying, "But that doesn't give us a true picture of your situation."
And finally, sobbing, I hung up.
I'm going to take some clonazepam. And maybe when I wake up, things won't feel so f*ing horrible.
I don't want to say he's right, but at the moment, I'm feeling pretty low.
I got another love letter from Wells Fargo. This one said that I could put off paying my mortgage payment until Jan 10, 2010. Then everything would be due - three months of back mortgage payments PLUS late fees.
What f*ing saints.
And someone kept telling me they don't want my house?
And it turns out - it really does turn out - that I was making more money on unemployment than I am now.
I have been pushed and pushed and pushed and now I can't be pushed any further. Not unless someone comes and takes me where I've fallen down in a heap and bodily throws me off the precipice.
I've been crying and crying. The stupid cow at Wells Fargo kept saying, "You have to make more money and reduce your expenses to get into another program." And I kept saying, "How much more and how much less?" And she kept saying, "But that doesn't give us a true picture of your situation."
And finally, sobbing, I hung up.
I'm going to take some clonazepam. And maybe when I wake up, things won't feel so f*ing horrible.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Snow Day Misc.
Woo hoo! Snow Day!
Shout out to all the kids (and teachers) in Jersey who wore their pajamas backwards AND inside out last night. It worked. We have about 6" of fluffy white stuff on the ground and more coming.
Of course, to even out the plus of the beauty of it - and it really is very pretty, clinging picturesquely to the evergreens and bare limbs of trees - there's the fact that it has to be dealt with. I spent about half an hour shoveling Ma Maisonette's tiny driveway. And I'm not kidding - the township snow plow came by to plow in my driveway the exact instant I rested the shovel against the side of the porch.
Oh well. It's still beautiful.
Actually, I think it was because I found "Witchi-tai-to" on Songza http://songza.com/and played it about eighteen times last night. And again just now.
------------------------------
Not As Bright As I Look...
Okay. Re the whole Fireman Fred thing and (shudder) last week and the attendant disasters. I have thought about this and come to the inevitable conclusion that Fred is an asshole. Yes, I know it was obvious to some of you from the very start, but surprising as this may seem, I actually want to like people. I know I tend to give credit where none has been earned. When he arrived on the scene, I wanted to make it very clear to senior management that I did not (and still do not) resent anyone getting that Director position instead of me.
What I am realizing is that Fred has been playing with my head from the git-go, in ways large and small, and I should never, I repeat, never have made it the slightest bit obvious what my Achilles heel is. In case you haven't noticed, it's the abject terror of losing my job.
The first month I contracted / temped for Mighty Citadel was something akin to paradise. No, really. I came in. The manager said, "We want an Access database that stores this, runs these queries and produces these reports. Can you do that?" I said, "Hotcha, you bet" and they put me in a little corner cubicle. There I labored away for hours every day, designing, writing and testing the system. Oh, and learning Access, since I only knew how to spell it when I walked into the building. Maybe once a day, Rita Skeeta came by to see how I was doing, look at the reports and how they were run, make suggestions and changes, and then go away. When I wrote and presented the documentation and user guide, it was like I'd made the tides turn. And there was much rejoicing.
I have to say, it was a pretty sweet gig.
The point of all this is that during this time, no one wanted to bond with me, be my friend, find out my life story (I could see the hair on the back of his neck stand up as The Temporary Therapist dutifully wrote it down), etc etc. In short, no one wanted to know anything and that was just as well.
Most of it was my decision to constantly deflect the few questions that came my way. Mostly, nobody pays much attention to a temp / contractor as long as she's doing her job.
Somehow, I have to find out how to distance myself from all this personal stuff at work without looking like I'm pouting. Working on that. Stay tuned for further reports.
-----------------------------
"There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort." - Jane Austen
I love being home. I need to be home. Given the amount of time I've spent not at home for the past two months, it's no wonder I'm so addled. (18th century word for "mental")
Home is real comfort. Home is peace, especially if the house is clean. Home is where my head clears. I can think. I can sort things out. I come back to myself.
The kitties settle down. Grace eats again. Dylan stops being an appendage. Butch ventures from his citadel on top of the china closet to one of the cat perches next to the front window.
Last night, I made dinner for myself. A real dinner: chicken with mushrooms in a wine sauce, steamed red potatoes and glazed carrots. And had a glass of wine. I spent the rest of the evening, feeling that tight spring just below my breastbone unwind.
And it was good.
Shout out to all the kids (and teachers) in Jersey who wore their pajamas backwards AND inside out last night. It worked. We have about 6" of fluffy white stuff on the ground and more coming.
Of course, to even out the plus of the beauty of it - and it really is very pretty, clinging picturesquely to the evergreens and bare limbs of trees - there's the fact that it has to be dealt with. I spent about half an hour shoveling Ma Maisonette's tiny driveway. And I'm not kidding - the township snow plow came by to plow in my driveway the exact instant I rested the shovel against the side of the porch.
Oh well. It's still beautiful.
Actually, I think it was because I found "Witchi-tai-to" on Songza http://songza.com/and played it about eighteen times last night. And again just now.
------------------------------
Not As Bright As I Look...
Okay. Re the whole Fireman Fred thing and (shudder) last week and the attendant disasters. I have thought about this and come to the inevitable conclusion that Fred is an asshole. Yes, I know it was obvious to some of you from the very start, but surprising as this may seem, I actually want to like people. I know I tend to give credit where none has been earned. When he arrived on the scene, I wanted to make it very clear to senior management that I did not (and still do not) resent anyone getting that Director position instead of me.
What I am realizing is that Fred has been playing with my head from the git-go, in ways large and small, and I should never, I repeat, never have made it the slightest bit obvious what my Achilles heel is. In case you haven't noticed, it's the abject terror of losing my job.
The first month I contracted / temped for Mighty Citadel was something akin to paradise. No, really. I came in. The manager said, "We want an Access database that stores this, runs these queries and produces these reports. Can you do that?" I said, "Hotcha, you bet" and they put me in a little corner cubicle. There I labored away for hours every day, designing, writing and testing the system. Oh, and learning Access, since I only knew how to spell it when I walked into the building. Maybe once a day, Rita Skeeta came by to see how I was doing, look at the reports and how they were run, make suggestions and changes, and then go away. When I wrote and presented the documentation and user guide, it was like I'd made the tides turn. And there was much rejoicing.
I have to say, it was a pretty sweet gig.
The point of all this is that during this time, no one wanted to bond with me, be my friend, find out my life story (I could see the hair on the back of his neck stand up as The Temporary Therapist dutifully wrote it down), etc etc. In short, no one wanted to know anything and that was just as well.
Most of it was my decision to constantly deflect the few questions that came my way. Mostly, nobody pays much attention to a temp / contractor as long as she's doing her job.
Somehow, I have to find out how to distance myself from all this personal stuff at work without looking like I'm pouting. Working on that. Stay tuned for further reports.
-----------------------------
"There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort." - Jane Austen
I love being home. I need to be home. Given the amount of time I've spent not at home for the past two months, it's no wonder I'm so addled. (18th century word for "mental")
Home is real comfort. Home is peace, especially if the house is clean. Home is where my head clears. I can think. I can sort things out. I come back to myself.
The kitties settle down. Grace eats again. Dylan stops being an appendage. Butch ventures from his citadel on top of the china closet to one of the cat perches next to the front window.
Last night, I made dinner for myself. A real dinner: chicken with mushrooms in a wine sauce, steamed red potatoes and glazed carrots. And had a glass of wine. I spent the rest of the evening, feeling that tight spring just below my breastbone unwind.
And it was good.
Sunday, December 09, 2007
Kick the House
Annushka used to say this when she came home from open houses on Sundays.
Going to open houses is a good, cheap (free) way to spend a Sunday and a great way to get ideas for decorating.
E and I went out a Christmas tour of a down-at-heels NY suburb today. Well, part of it is. Once the summer retreat of steamship company owners and railroad vice-presidents, it's now home to black folk, Latino folk, and many, many gay white couples. The gay white guys love to buy the beautiful old decaying Victorian mansions and restore them to their former glory.
They pay to have stunning work done.
There was not one house I saw today that I would rate as less than gorgeous.
The first was my favorite - it's definitely going in 'Had she been beautiful', a lovely frothy thing. There were beautiful curved beams arching over the entryways to parlors and quarter-sawn golden oak paneling, mahogany floors, inglenook fireplaces the size of my living room (not exaggerating). And best of all, a lovely hideaway windowseat under the stairs, the kind you could imagine Jane Eyre hiding in, but in the imaginary good version of Jane Eyre, where her spiteful cousin doesn't find her.
Halfway through the schlepping into these houses, I started to get a headache and I was very afraid that when I got home, I would want to kick Ma Maisonette.
But I am home and so happy to be here. To me, it's as welcoming and embracing as any velvet-curtained window seat. The warm yellow glow from the walls, the gleaming office floor, it's a relief to me.
The cleanness of lines, the absolutely logical use of every inch of space at Ma Maisonette make me love her all the more.
Plus the fact that I don't have to pay Alejandro to fly over from Italy to match the tiles from the quarry where the original hearthstones came from and pay $200 an hour for the privilege of Eric the stained glass window expert to re-lead the stained glass windows.
I am home and the last thing on earth I want to do is kick the house. If I could put my arms around her, I would.
I have actually been known to kiss the kitchen wall.
That's what having a real home can do to you.
Going to open houses is a good, cheap (free) way to spend a Sunday and a great way to get ideas for decorating.
E and I went out a Christmas tour of a down-at-heels NY suburb today. Well, part of it is. Once the summer retreat of steamship company owners and railroad vice-presidents, it's now home to black folk, Latino folk, and many, many gay white couples. The gay white guys love to buy the beautiful old decaying Victorian mansions and restore them to their former glory.
They pay to have stunning work done.
There was not one house I saw today that I would rate as less than gorgeous.
The first was my favorite - it's definitely going in 'Had she been beautiful', a lovely frothy thing. There were beautiful curved beams arching over the entryways to parlors and quarter-sawn golden oak paneling, mahogany floors, inglenook fireplaces the size of my living room (not exaggerating). And best of all, a lovely hideaway windowseat under the stairs, the kind you could imagine Jane Eyre hiding in, but in the imaginary good version of Jane Eyre, where her spiteful cousin doesn't find her.
Halfway through the schlepping into these houses, I started to get a headache and I was very afraid that when I got home, I would want to kick Ma Maisonette.
But I am home and so happy to be here. To me, it's as welcoming and embracing as any velvet-curtained window seat. The warm yellow glow from the walls, the gleaming office floor, it's a relief to me.
The cleanness of lines, the absolutely logical use of every inch of space at Ma Maisonette make me love her all the more.
Plus the fact that I don't have to pay Alejandro to fly over from Italy to match the tiles from the quarry where the original hearthstones came from and pay $200 an hour for the privilege of Eric the stained glass window expert to re-lead the stained glass windows.
I am home and the last thing on earth I want to do is kick the house. If I could put my arms around her, I would.
I have actually been known to kiss the kitchen wall.
That's what having a real home can do to you.
Monday, November 19, 2007
Peace of a Sunday
When I woke up yesterday morning, I saw rain pelting down, hard. It looked cold and raw outside.
Inside Ma Maisonette, all was blissfully clean. I took my last vacation day on Friday to fling myself headlong into the cleaning process, which Ma Maisonette desperately needed.
And on Sunday, she shone, warm with yellow lamplight against the grey.
I had no where I had to go. I had nothing I needed to do.
I made a splendid little breakfast, then settled down on the couch to read. For lunch, I made a snacky of nachos. I realize Edith Wharton and nachos doesn't sound right, but it hit the spot.
I put my feet up and looked out at the rain and felt very, very glad for the safety and sanctuary that is Ma Maisonette.
Just as it was getting dark, I put a pork roast in the oven, made homemade applesauce and nuked a baked potato. It seemed like the pork roast wasn't getting done, so I put a meat thermometer in it and twenty minutes later, reached in with my bare hand to take it out. Comic relief for the day - no blisters, just me doing a hoppy war dance in the kitchen.
The roast was delicious. Dinner was fabulous.
And when I settled into a snug bed on a cold night, knew I couldn't have done any better if I'd tried.
Inside Ma Maisonette, all was blissfully clean. I took my last vacation day on Friday to fling myself headlong into the cleaning process, which Ma Maisonette desperately needed.
And on Sunday, she shone, warm with yellow lamplight against the grey.
I had no where I had to go. I had nothing I needed to do.
I made a splendid little breakfast, then settled down on the couch to read. For lunch, I made a snacky of nachos. I realize Edith Wharton and nachos doesn't sound right, but it hit the spot.
I put my feet up and looked out at the rain and felt very, very glad for the safety and sanctuary that is Ma Maisonette.
Just as it was getting dark, I put a pork roast in the oven, made homemade applesauce and nuked a baked potato. It seemed like the pork roast wasn't getting done, so I put a meat thermometer in it and twenty minutes later, reached in with my bare hand to take it out. Comic relief for the day - no blisters, just me doing a hoppy war dance in the kitchen.
The roast was delicious. Dinner was fabulous.
And when I settled into a snug bed on a cold night, knew I couldn't have done any better if I'd tried.
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