Friends and Stuff

Ornaments of 2001

I began cleaning up Christmas with the plan to sort, weed out, and reorganize our decorations. I hoped to resent the Post-Holiday Fer of 2019 less than I did the 2018 Me when I opened our haphazardly and hastily packed boxes of decorations and ornaments this season.  I imagined myself testing for sparks of joy a la Marie Kondo to determine which tchotchkes to keep and which to discard.  I pictured fewer bins of decor in the garage.  I visualized a minimalist Christmas this December.

I enlisted Middle Sis, Tootsie, and her cousin to de-ornament the tree and my grand plans were quickly abandoned when one by one, the ornaments some of my oldest friends sent to me back in 2001 were plopped in my lap. 

In 2001 my then-fiance/now-husband and I bought our first house.  Amidst counting pennies from our change jar and trying to believe we'd "grow into" our mortgage (as our broker cheerfully reassured us we would), we packed boxes and piled them in the carport for ferrying across the bridge to our new (old) house and neighborhood.  The rental house we were leaving opened onto an alley, as do numerous rentals in the town in which we grew up.  Alleys in Coronado have their own characters, stories, and rules to live by.  Everyone knows that furniture and discards placed along the alley are up for grabs.  And nothing abandoned in an alley lasts long.

But my boxes of Christmas ornaments were stacked temporarily at the top of our carport driveway, nestled against our storage space attached to the house (in lieu of a garage).  Inside those boxes were the ornaments my parents had given me each year of my 30, often with a theme matching a family trip or significant event.  It's safe to say that those ornaments were probably the first, second, or third items I would grab in the event of fire, along with photo albums and some sentimental jewelry.

Needless to spell out, during the short time I and my fiance were away from the house, those boxes were taken.  All my ornaments.  I was crushed.

But because those were the only boxes left there, I figured whoever took them was likely disappointed or at least not interested in the contents and might return or discard them after recognizing their sentimental value.  It was 2001, so I placed an ad in the local paper with a passionate plea for their return, to no avail.  I lamented their loss to everyone I knew.

My parents, it turned out, had some duplicates of our annual ornaments which they gave me.  Family friends and students presented me with new ornaments. 

And then my high school friend group organized to send me ornaments from their current homes across the US.  The dolphin from my friend's annual holiday Hawaii trip is missing its tail, but the significance of not only the ornament, but those annual family trips which don't happen as frequently, sustains.

I learned in 2001 that beloved ornaments, like so many other material things, are just "stuff."  And while seemingly irreplaceable, if those ornaments my buddies sent me 18 years ago were to disappear tomorrow, I'd know that my friends, who remain true and present today, would come through. Instead of new ornaments, their enduring friendship is all I really need.

So sorry, Marie Kondo, this isn't the year for tossing ornaments.  And cheers to lifelong friends, true sparks of joy.

The House We Left Behind: a Photo Essay

When we chose our first home, a 900-odd-square-foot bungalow, it was after viewing dozens of dwellings in our neighborhood known for its small historic craftsman and mission-style houses.  It was the flow of our house and its expansive yard that distinguished it from the others we viewed. 

I always knew it was the backyard that would deter us from moving (but also from expanding our house), and the yard that we would miss most. 

So I wasn't surprised, on one of our last afternoons in our bungalow, to find Big Sis weeping in our fairy-enchanted garden.

I'm going to miss the birds, she cried.  We won't have this backyard at the new house, and Amani can't roll around in the grass...

I hugged her.  Let's take pictures, I suggested.  Show me what you want to remember. 

There's the ornamental pear tree that was blighted when we bought the house.  We were advised to remove it, but we carefully and gradually trimmed it instead.  Ten years later, it finally bloomed white in season, like all its pear-tree friends down the block.  We hung swings and fairy houses from it, and nasturtium beds blossomed in its shade.

There's the garden Husband carefully tended, and the artichokes we harvested each summer and the compost bin that prompted volunteer pepper and tomato plants.  The raised bed is an upcycled wood frame from the fluorescent light box that dominated our small kitchen's ceiling. 

There's Big Sis's blackberries.  Not a prolific vine, but it blossomed and berried each year, and it's one of the plants she was saddest to leave behind. 

There's Husband's cactus and succulent section of the garden, where many of the plantings were cuttings from our dear friend Eric's amazing property. 

There's our prolific lemon tree, which grew too many lemons for us to use, and even for the girls to make into lemonade at the spur of the moment.  We'd pick them and line them up on the low wall between our and our neighbors' yard, where they could be plucked by our friends for their use.  Many a fairy concoction featured a lemon-juice base. 

 

 

There's the min-rose climbing vines we planted and let grow wild.  They were at their blooming best as we packed.  

When we built a fence along our new side patio seven years ago, we strategically planted two jasmine plants along it.  I loved waking and coming home to its warm perfume in early spring, and when we flung open the french doors the scent would permeate the house.  I vowed to plant some at our new home...

One of the joys of teaching children about plants and gardening is identifying edible varieties all around.  We had some naturally sprouting nasturtium in the yard when we bought our home, and we spread the seeds around the various beds over the years.  The girls were fond of grabbing flowers to munch on whenever they wandered outside. 

Our yard also had snowbushes, heavenly bamboo, agapanthus, bromeliad, a dwarf pomegranate, giant birds of paradise, silver-leafed Dusty Miller, sage, lavender, Mexican heather, and geraniums. 

As Big Sis directed my photography and Little Sis conducted a video tour of our garden, Amani the dog dug her last hole:

But we're growing accustomed to our new home and its flora.  There is abundant nasturtium in the canyon, bougainvillea we don't have to trim lining the canyon and our property, hydrangea about to burst, and jacarandas flanking the deck.  Our friend Eric, whose fig tree and succulents we willed to the new owner of our old home, came by my office with a surprise:  a blackberry bush harvested from cuttings on his own property. 

And the fairies are on call already (making me sigh with relief that we're in the process moving in mentally, now...):

 

Couched in Innuendo

One of the awesome parts of our new house is the family room downstairs that opens onto the deck, a large open space with great windows and afternoon light.  I'd dreamed of having a house with a separate living area for the TV and kid movie time--you know, a place for the family to hang out when I'm hosting book club in the living room.  But I'd also dreamed of having a third bedroom and more than one bathroom.  I didn't think we'd wind up with a family room and everything else this house comes with too, so I'm pinching myself.  We moved in five days ago, and it's still exciting to come home from work everyday. 

A bigger house means we could use more furniture, but I'm resisting filling the place in the manner of our former home (you recognize you may be on furnishings overload when you can't find a space to do a wall-sit and your house resembles a thrift store showroom).  Nevertheless, our new family room demanded a couch, and a stain-resistant sectional seemed like the perfect choice.  A new sofa was a budget priority, so I researched seating options while we waited to move in. 

I explained to my skeptical mother that I was looking for a new couch online.  It had to be within certain width specifications to fit the space, I elaborated, and I felt confident I didn't need to sit on it to find the right one. 

"We are looking for a sectional with a chaise." 

"A sexual?"  my mom answered.

"I think that option is more expensive," I laughed.  "A sectional, Mom.  A sectional."  And then I wasted no time transcribing our conversation into a text to my siblings. 

I continued searching for the perfect couch online.  I wanted a spill-proof sofa that cost less than a compact car.  High-quality leather sectionals were ruled out. 

I consulted my father.

"Dad, have you heard of bonded leather?"

"Bondage leather?"

"Bonded leather, goodness."

Folks, allow me to introduce you to our Sexual Couch with Bondage Leather.  It did not come with chaps or a bullwhip, but we think it's pretty perfect (and G-rated, thus far):

33rd Street: June 2001-April 2013

We left our little bungalow behind last weekend, moving the last remaining items out as our excited buyer began spackling, painting, and making plans for her new abode. 

This was the first house we ever bought, the one whose mortgage we were promised we'd "grow into," as we dumped our change jars and counted every penny.  It's the house with dear neighbors, our amazing Apello pine tree, the yard where fairies fluorished, and rooms which welcomed us, newly married, and our babies. 

We're between houses until wood floors are installed in The New House and kitchen cupboards are painted.  Meanwhile, we've established temporary residence at my parents' house. 

The new house is still The New House.  Soon it will feel like Our Home--but not yet.  Now empty and echo-y, it waits for us to fill spaces and establish new routines, acquaint ourselves with neighbors, and create comfort. 

The girls said their own goodbyes to our beloved home and gardens; their tributes will be featured in a longer, forthcoming post. 

Farewell, sweet habitat. 

List: March Madness

If February was Morning Sickness Month, then March is A Little Bit o' Madness Month with hopes that April is Moving Month.

We found a house we love.   A house with more space.  A house on a canyon (surely with fairies) and cul de sac, with a front yard and raised garden beds for my green-thumbed husband and with a decadent deck (a deckadent!). 

The offer we made on the house was initially rejected.  But I couldn't stop thinking about it, and neither could the kids.  So when the call came last Wednesday that the other offer fell through, we jumped at the chance for another chance.  We'd have to sell our dear bungalow quickly.  We called our friends with a mobile storage company and ordered one to be delivered the next day.  And we (well, mostly Husband, with the help of our dear neighbors), loaded that thing up on Friday with half of our shizzle so that our house was "staged" for professional photographs on Saturday (staging which includes litter boxes and baskets of shoes and a few dust bunnies). Open House on Sunday.  Offers on Tuesday.  Counter offers on Wednesday.  Accepted counters on Thursday.  And I'm reluctant to say more than there's hope we have a new home soon, but there's hope! 

In the meantime we moved the dog and ourselves (so sorry, Bunny and Kitty) into my parents' home so our house stayed reasonably clean for folks taking a look.   There's been driving back and forth, meetings with inspectors, appointments at the city, finding and faxing and scanning and signing of documents, phone calls from realtors, and minor cliffhangers about financing and offers and inspection reports and disclosures. 

But we're so darned lucky that it's all happened so fast (knock on wood).  I'm feeling a lot of respect for sellers whose homes are on the market for months, enduring long stretches of keeping their houses clean and hoping it will all work out. 

Here are a few conclusions I've drawn from our experience thus far:

1.  Mobile storage containers are ingenious. 
2.  I'm going to hate myself when we unload that storage container.  Because we were so desperate to move things out of our house post haste, I packed many unlabeled boxes of random stuff worth nothing, which we then threw willy nilly into the container.  Many of you have commented that I'm likely moving my Piles of Denial to a new abode.  Indeed. 
3.  One should not pack last year's tax returns into the storage container.  I believe it was only a few hours after the storage container drove away that I received the email asking me for our 2010 and 2011 tax returns.  I actually know which box I threw those folders in, along with some of the girls' schoolwork from kindergarten and a few framed photographs and art. Maybe a few Polly Pockets. 
4.  Packing a house and a storage container provides rich fodder for spousal squabbling.
5.  A fish can survive many things, but not our hectic week.  Also, I changed the water in its bowl.  Let's call this a science experiment with a clear conclusion.
6.  I appreciate him, but I don't want to be a realtor.  I've watched ours work very hard, as well as be available to us at all hours. 
7.  It's wonderful to live close to my family.  I do not take it for granted. 
8.  If you're grabbing outfits one day at a time, you're bound to forget a key component.  On Monday I was glad I had flip flops in my office at school.  On Wednesday, I wore a jog bra. 

Family Action Plan 2013

At the playground a week ago, just after new year, a friend shared that someone she knew was creating a categorized life plan.  Having an avid interest in the Strategic Planning process (which we follow for goal setting for our school district, site, and programs), I was intrigued, particularly by the notion that our entire family could be involved. 

I happen to love charts; one year we made a Family Goals Chart and we currently have a Family Chores Chart on the fridge (with illustrations generously provided by Big Sis).  This year, with the structure of various categories in mind, I started thinking of verbs that might guide our decision making and planning for the year, like "give,"  "learn," and "visit." 

And thus our Family Action Plan was born:

On Monday night at dinner we filled in the chart together.  We decided "visit" was for people (so many we want to see this year!) and "go" for places; in the margin we wound up adding "do" because there were some actions that didn't quite fit the other verbs. 

One of my favorite categories is "try," where we have "grow watermelons, asparagus, and strawberries"; "golfing"; and "Thai food."  The "make" list will be fun to refer to on rainy or unscheduled days.  The "fix" category helped us prioritize home repairs, and "buy" to identify some worthy investments, like a new bike for Big Sis and a computer that works properly. 

 

 

I'm thinking my personal action plan might include "read," "clean," "give up," "accept," "start," "finish," "acknowledge/thank"...

How are you structuring your goals, plans, and dreams this year? 

Junk in my Trunk

We live in a small house.  I mean, it has Good Flow, but it's still just over 900 square feet with two bedrooms and one bathroom.  Nevertheless, we don't feel particularly cramped ("Oh yeah?  Speak for yourself," says Big Sis, who keeps pleading with me to produce an extra bedroom for her). 

Having a small house (okay, and tendency toward clutter and tchotchke-collecting) means that we have lots of stuff:

1.  In our garage.
2.  In our cupboards.
3.  In our closets.
4.  In our backyard.
5.  In the trunk of my car. 

For as long as I've owned it, in fact, the trunk of my car has functioned as another closet, even with actual clothes in need of dry cleaning stored in there.  And I suppose here is where I admit that I get a little twitchy when I see an empty car trunk.  At the very least, it screams of lack of preparation!  Every trunk should have some towels and a blanket.  A roadside emergency kit, too.  Some water bottles, maybe.  Empty grocery bags, for sure.  Duh. 

But then, there's the potential for the trunk to be, you know, where you keep Some Stuff.  Stuff that might otherwise take up room in the garage, cupboards, closets, or backyard.  It might be the stuff you had to move from the back seat of the car when you picked up an extra passenger.  It might be the stuff that you took to that one place and then never, well, brought back inside, because you didn't need to you or why would you, like sand toys or lawn chairs.  Or Stuff you need to drop off somewhere (donations, that dry cleaning).  Add some books and handouts I use for presentations, and there you go:  my Mobile Pile of Denial. 

A few months ago Husband convinced me that better gas mileage and general wear and tear on the car might be valid reasons to remove some of the heavier items from my trunk, such as the milk crate full of old teaching files.  So I grudgingly effected a purge. 

Meanwhile, yesterday was a day off for me, and because my car was registering 10% oil life and that ominous "wrench" light on the dash, it seemed like an opportune time for servicing. 

A simple oil change turned quickly into "Oh, look (you slacker)...you seem to have skipped your 30,000-mile 'major' service (read: 'major' bucks), so we recommend the 60,000-mile..."

And then there was the inevitable midday call from Brandon, my service rep and new pal:  "Hey, Fer, we just noticed that your tires are at 10% tread life, but hey!  We have a special going on four tires for the price of three..."

$1000 later and thirty minutes from time to pick up my car, Brandon called and left me a message with more good news:

"So, Fer.  We didn't notice this until we just put your car up on the alignment rack, but you have a problem with what are called the 'Upper Control Arms'.  What these do is...something yadda yadda...with how your rear tires wear.  These will need to be replaced, and we can do it right now...give me a call."

I called back too late.  Which, Brandon assured me, was a good thing, because then I could probably get the automaker to cover most of the cost, since there was a known issue with Upper Control Arms on my model of car.

"By the way, Fer," Brandon added, "Any chance you carry a lot of stuff...er, weight, in the trunk of your car?  Because, you know, we generally notice this issue on cars right away, as there's a tendency for the back tires to wear unevenly.  But yours didn't exhibit the normal signs..."

Umm, yes, Brandon.  Yes, I do carry extra weight in my trunk. 

"So, the good news is that you probably mitigated the issue with that weight in the back."

"Is it possible I saved lives with my full trunk, Brandon?  Because I am going to hang up right now and let my husband know what a genius I am." 

And then I am going to use my own Upper Control Arms to carry that milk crate right back to the car. 

Hoarders

Here is our fridge:

It is resembling a vertical form of the Pile of Denial. 

Help me, 2012!

The 'Moving to Africa' Strategy

We have a fantasy (or dream--we haven't yet determined which label applies) about moving to Africa for a year sometime before the girls are in high school.  You know, get off the grid.  Expose them, and us, to another culture's ways and means and sense of community and time.  Defy all notions that retirement accounts, bank accounts, mortgages, obligations, careers, loyalty, and inertia stand in the way of such an adventure.  Nevertheless, they do.  And fear creeps in. 

But I was imagining last week that we were relocating to Africa for year or two or three, with a little prompting from hints of a possible opportunity.  The mind reels. Then I gained an objective view of what I would think and do if we were leaving in months for a sojourn abroad. And I recognized the value of living in an "Africa imminent" state for a while. I recommend it, even if you are not planning to budge.

First thought: We have too much stuff. Let's sell it all. But seriously; what would we keep? The list proves surprisingly short (and most of the objects to which we're attached are small). For example, a couch is a couch, after all, and replaceable. Save a few antique dressers, most of our furniture merely functions versus delights. Some of it is questionably functional, actually (see "glue gun").  And the rest of our tchotchkes? I'm asking myself, if I would ditch them for Africa, why am I saving them now? 

Also:  I considered all the services we'd have to cancel, including bottled water and cooler, organic veggie delivery, museum memberships...tallying them helped me take stock of what's truly appreciated and what may be frivolous or underused. (Note: water cooler and cold fluoridated water is a worthy budget cut, but the CSA box would only be axed under dire circumstances or an actual move across the Atlantic).

Next:  If we were readying our house for rental; it's time to fix some stuff.  A great way to prioritize tackling deferred maintenance is to consider what someone else living in your home shouldn't have to put up with, namely the hole in the garage roof, the toilet prone to clogging, and the part of the living room wall which I believe may crumble at any moment.  Meanwhile, the spendier schemes, like room additions and new kitchens, suddenly seem less relevant and compelling.

And then:  Nothing curbs the gimmies like supposing the object of your material desires will have to be packed, sold, or shipped.  Next time you shop at Target or Costco, curb your spending by considering how useful or necessary the items in your cart are if you're headed off the continent. 

Finally:  If family and friends are about to be halfway around the globe and an expensive flight away, time with them is at a premium.  Less morbid than to live "like you're dying" is to live like you're embarking on a prolonged walkabout.  Linger over dinner; go on long walks and talks; invite folks over; make yourself available.

When someone you know is contemplating a courageous endeavor, nudge them off the grid. Promise to visit them in faraway lands. Remind them that stuff is stuff and people will be here when they return, enriched by experience. Honor the fact that you wouldn't make the leap yourself; live vicariously.

And then head out of town for a spell (like a week, or even a weekend)!  What a relief to know that not all adventures require as much advance planning, deep breaths, and sacrifices as a move to Africa.  Use the money earned at that garage sale and saved from curtailed spending. 
 
Stay away just long enough to appreciate home again.

Blossoming Books

Our daughter has her own Piles o' Stuff accumulating. I'm a little concerned we're growing a hoarder. On Saturday she and her cousin broke the plastic tee into six pieces while hitting lemons off it in the backyard, and I directed them to throw it away. Big Sis responded in what's becoming a familiar refrain: "But, Mom, I could use the pieces for something."

For a while she had a candy wrapper collection. Her backpack...eeeeeek. I think we'll plan on cleaning it out over the holidays. Last time I peered inside, I found a morass of silly bands, pebbles, small coins, loose tissues, string, bottle caps, dried flowers, and pencil nubs and useless erasers. She has stashes of "treasures" just about everywhere I look.

The tower of books by her bedside became our latest challenge. She sleeps in a top bunk and stacks her readings and journals on the adjacent dresser. On more than one occasion her hill of books has tumbled over onto the head of an unwitting victim sitting on the carpet below. She knocks her water over weekly. 

I had heard somewhere the idea of mounting a window box to the side of a bunk bed to store books (and other trash), so this was our project tonight: 



Because no project I undertake is done properly, you will note that the window box ledge-bracket-thingies stick out a dangerous distance from the bottom of the window box. Not the right size box or brackets. Oh well; we installed it anyway. But placed it over the dresser so no one pokes an eye out.

I'll save the eye-poking for myself, for when I clean out another of her stashes and risk the wrath of Big Hoarder Sis.

What's Cookin' This Christmas

Let's pretend you asked me what I wanted for Christmas.  I would reply that I have everything I want.  Which I do.  Especially considering I have my job, my healthy self and family members, my unforeclosed house, my amazing friends.

But then you would press me, and I would ask, "Okay, you mean, besides this?"

You would nod.  And for a moment I would think about how I wrote that post a year ago, and here we are a year later, carton of contentment and everything.  I will concede a little bit of longing.  But just a healthy dose, the curable kind. 

Tell me something tangible, something material you desire, you would prod. 

Okay.  Okay?  I'll tell you what I want.  I want another bedroom on this house.  And a half-bath.  Just one more toilet would make it so no one has to run outside for a Nature Pee during rush hour.  And if Santa wanted to throw in a jacuzzi tub with the deal, who am I to argue?

But Santa has other plans, it seems.  Santa, rumor has it, is giving us a new water heater this season. 

So not sexy, a new water heater!  No one will come by and comment on its color to justify the money spent.  There's just no bang for your buck on a new water heater.  It's an invisible expense. 

Nevertheless, if I had to choose between room addition and water heater, I'd have to go with the heater.  Invisible it may be, but under appreciated it is.

When I spent a year in Kenya, I lived in a very modern house almost the size of our current one and with a water heater.  The fact that I had to set an alarm each morning so I would wake in time to turn on the heater  so the water for my shower 1.5 hours later would be warm but not Too Hot, and the fact that I had to occasionally replace the propane tank that fueled my kitchen stove (much like we do for our barbecues) reminded me that gas lines and water heaters are too often taken for granted in our First World.  Most of my neighbors in Africa had neither. 

So we're gifting ourselves a new water heater, because we'd all be huddled in one bedroom after bathing in cold water without one.  And if going with the tankless water heater option means that we gain some cupboard space for at the very least, a broom, then Santa is our hero.

We'd also love to paint our kitchen cupboards--that is, with any funds leftover from the water heater allotment.  How likely are we to have funds leftover?   Not very likely.  It's more likely that our kids' play kitchen gets a remodel.

To that end, I am at Gearhead Mom again this week, reviewing the upgrade of our kids' play cafe.  Talk about bang for your buck:  a play kitchen is all play and no clean-up.  For the children, anyway!  You feed them while they pretend to be cooking and eating and serving others.  A brilliant investment.  Way cheaper than a room addition, a water heater, AND a coat of paint on your kitchen cabinets.