Lookit, it's like this: I didn't post anything for a long time, but you really must believe me when I say that you didn't want to hear from me. I've been walking around for three weeks twitching and muttering under my breath about mortgage underwriters. Is that the sort of thing you want to waste time reading on the internet? I didn't think so.
We move in to our new house next Friday. I don't think it's quite hit me yet that, yes, we are buying a house and that maybe I should, like, pack or something. It seems like only yesterday that I was bitching a blue streak about my last move, and here I am doing it again. I promise I won't make you look at any pictures of food processors and computer monitors this time. Although I might make you look at the stack of boxes that comprises Our New Television Experience. Somehow, and I'm not quite sure how this happened, I was hoodwinked by my husband into disregarding completely the notion of standard cable television, opting instead for a DirecTV system with accompanying TiVo. All I know is that Marc and I walked into BestBuy and after an hour of being dragged around the store by a short, terribly energetic young man who waved his arms and extolled the virtues of satellite television whilst I eyedballed the small print in the circular and said things like, "No, no. It says here that we should get a satellite dish, two satellite receivers, a DVR, and a DVD player for free," we walked out with a satellite dish, two satellite receivers, a DVR, and a DVD player, all for free, and Marc has been regarding me ever since with a certain kind of silent awe; the sort of awe that says, "How in the hell did you pull that off?" The only answer I have for him is that I was raised by my mother, the Queen Bargain Finder and Small-Print Reader of All the Land, and godammit, if I'm going to fork $80 every month for the privilege of having 38,492 channels -- of which I will watch approximately 6 -- there had better be some free shit involved.
Mostly, the last few weeks have been incredibly fast and anxious, what with the holidays approaching and the need for packing and the realization that Holy Shit We Are Buying a House, and I keep trying to jettison from my mind the tiny voice that says, "You and your husband know precisely dick about fixing things. What in christ's name are you going to do the first time something starts leaking?" My response, when I choose to acknowledge that voice, is that to get through this without losing my shit, I must believe with all my heart that nothing in the house will ever leak, crack, burst, collapse, or shatter. It's the only way.
Yesterday, my brother, Prince Bargain Finder and Buyer and Purveyor of All Manner of Outdoor Hauling and Excavating Equipment, purchased four used Wheel Horse riding lawn mowers, some of which are marked for use in his lawn service business. One of those mowers, however, has been earmarked for us, because now that we are going to own a half-acre of lawn, we need some sort of grass-cutting machine.
But who am I kidding? My brother did not purchase four Wheel Horse riding lawn mowers. My brother purchased four Wheel Horse tractors. TRACTORS. Very small tractors, but they are, in fact, tractors. Ours even has a plow (a fucking PLOW!) on the front for shoving snow around in the winter time. And I think, really, that this is quickly becoming one of the hardest things for me to accept: Next week, we will become not only homeowners, but tractor owners as well.
posted by Kate at 4:49 PM link/comments
Granted, I didn't buy a fucking tractor like you did (way to go Teddy), but I had to come to grips with the lawnmower thing nonetheless. Notwithstanding that my lawnmower is currently busted and I have to ring the guy which is written on the list in my top pocket of things i have to organise today. Jesus I am such a dad.
I'm not sure who gets the grownup points here, kate. Granted, we're bringing a baby into the world, but AT LEAST we could still be turfed out on our collective ears at a moment's notice.
rock on
Here's the deal. There are several franchises around, at least down in these antipodean climes, who purport to be exactly those types of professionals you reference earlier. People who will, for a reasonable fee, turn up at your door and fix the disaster you have created in a half assed attempt to connect your dishwasher with a pair of needlenose pliers and a nickel (or 5-cent piece for those of us from WAY south of the border).
In any case, there's a bit of a baby boom occuring in Australia at the moment, as I'm sure there is in the US of A, and it could be possible to put forward some sort of a "dial a mom" service. Not that this should be confused with any MILF procurement fantasy fulfiller by fratboys. But here, at your very fingertips, could be someone who would outline the basic steps for the retrieval of wayward infants from on top of the outdoor laundry. Or tell you what those funny looking marks on the bedroom wall are. Or show you how to make a child go to sleep. For a reasonable fee. 24/7. In all states and regions. 1-800-HELPMOM
fucking millionaires
I have to say, you can hope and pray all you want, your house *will* get busted up, just make sure you have insurance and/or a home warranty. The question is, when and for how long. Let me explain, I, too, have started homeownership this year in the form of a condo. Within in the first week of moving in, my kitchen was flooded less than 48 hours before I was going to leave on a 10-day vacation where there is no telephone or internet. I was freaked! Panicked! Emotional mayhem ensued! It was calmly resolved the next day when the upstairs condo called a plumber. All was resolved by the time I got home the next day, but man, it stank, literally.
So don't panic, but get a little coverage and gather the names of good plumbers and electricians **BEFORE** you need one. Sounds nuts, but trust me, it will save you a lot of tears at 8pm on a Friday night.