I shouldn't be writing on my blog at midnight. I have already hit the publish button once, and I didn't even write anything yet. It's just that this is the first peace and quiet that I have had in five days and I'm afraid it will be even longer if I don't write right now. That has an interesting ring to it.
My middle child turned 10 on Sunday. Boy do I feel old. My father assures me that my recent birthday didn't make me "old": I hit that mark quite some time ago. Thanks, Dad. Anyway, my Sunday consisted of getting up and cooking a birthday breakfast for a child who is allergic to milk, eggs, and anything that might be construed as healthy. The last category is her own personal twist on allergies. That being said, breakfast consisted of roast beef hash and eggs, very light on the eggs in my daughter's serving. She had three helpings. Then we made some doughnuts for a light snack. Three dozen doughnuts. She was shooting for four dozen (there I go again with the homophones---it's not a bad word!---can you tell we've started up school again after our winter break?) when I caught her and shut that down. Yes, my tiny family of five polished off three dozen doughnuts in less than an hour. That's why we only make them on birthdays!
Then off to the mall with my daughter and two young friends to whoop it up at Build-a-Bear and ice cream joints. Have you been to Build-a-Bear lately? It used to be that when you made something yourself it was actually cheaper than premade items, but Build-a-Bear was invented by a Tom Sawyer personality who has figured out a way to extract extra cash by convincing folks that making it yourself is superior and therefore worth more money. I can't get out of there for less than $30-35 a kid, because they all want:
1. A bear or stuffy, not less than $18.00, because no one wants the cheap bears by the entrance.
2. Att least one outfit, not less than $10.00.
3. Bear underpants, because no one wants a "bare bear"bum. $3.00 minimum.
4. Fancy shoes to match the outfit. $7.00.
5. An accessory item or matching miniature stuffed item. $6.00.
I started the birthday tradition of taking a couple of friends to Build-a-Bear before all the fancy stuff kicked in. Like a cheap plastic wardrobe, made in China, that the funny Americans spend $36.00 on, "some assembly required." We all know what that means! Or even funnier to a home school mom, the politically correct astronomy t-shirt with only eight planets on it. At least I don't cripple myself at Build-a-Bear, as I am prone to do at skate parties, etc. I wonder what the other moms would think if the invitation warned them in advance, "Caution: attend Build-a-Bear party at your own risk. Your child may be returned to you addicted to fuzzy, materialistic substances with no intrinsic value whatsoever, and be inclined to overindulge in accessorizing without notice. Any child permitted to attend party does so at own risk and will cover any expenses over $20.00 from their personal funds. Any child with expensive taste must carry their own 'overage' money. P.S. : Hosts will not be responsible for humming-bird-like behavior of children who have overdosed on sugars and food dyes. Thank you."
I guess that sounds too unfriendly. That is why we only take two extra children. The kids have a good time, and I am not going to have to pay for a party out of my children's college funds. And the more conscientious kids don't have to spend the whole time wondering if they have hit the spending limit, they can just run around and enjoy the party.
Tuesday, January 22, 2008
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
If your're planning to move, just say NO!
I hate moving. That being said, perhaps some history is in order. As an Air Force brat, I moved almost every year or so of my life until my dad retired when I was in the 7th grade. What a pain! We even moved to Okinawa, Japan for 2 1/2 years, staying in temporary housing, off-base housing, and then moving into on-base housing before striking out for home again. If I thought those moves were bad, especially the Japan one where all of our possessions "safely" tucked into storage burned to the ground stateside, boy was I wrong! This move to New York has been one for my record book.
I will admit that, between all of the disasters I had while my Darling Husband was away in Boston for a month before the move, the dislocated hip, the D.H. being in Boston, home-schooling two kids, sorting our fabulous stash of personal possessions, and the busy-ness of being a single parent, I fell a bit short in the vacuuming and dusting department. And the kids did manage to dump two bags of shredded mail in the house before the truck driver got there. And the youngest decided to shred styrofoam with a butter knife all over the house, which is impossible to unstick from anything short of using a napalm or nuclear bomb. But, in fact, things were essentially ready to go; the driver was just not happy to be doing our move, I guess. Which must be why the driver, who has probably never even been home long enough to change a diaper on his own offspring if he has them, questioned what I had been doing for the last few weeks; I took some exception to that. I was really busy. I would have offered him a list, but there weren't enough boxes left after all the packing to hold the whole thing anyway.
The driver, after questioning my housewifery, then proceeded to stage my D.H.'s formidable technical library, about 40 boxes of books, on our front lawn, as the rain clouds gathered and rolled. . .you guessed it. The heavens opened, and for five minutes the most spectacular fall shower drenched the book boxes. Have I ever mentioned how fanatical my husband is about his technical library? If I ask him to tidy his study, he takes this to mean that a book is out of place and will spend an entire day taking the books off the shelf and reorganizing them, replacing them on the shelves in alphabetical order by subject. He doesn't do any cleaning as the rest of us understand it, he just dotes on the books. Imagine his response the the truck driver's blatant disregard to his treasures. About the time the truck driver affixed a tarp across the books, the rain stopped.
Then the fun really began. The lumpers taped some mattress boxes to our stairs and proceeded to dump all of our personal possessions from the second floor down to the first via this precarious and impromtu chute. The first spectacular crash resounded from my prized sewing machine; not content to merely launch it, the movers dumped it "ass over teakettle" down their ramp. I am not a swearing mom on the whole, but I walked right up to the so-called catcher at the bottom of the stairs and asked him what the hell he thought he was doing with my sewing machine. As bad as these two incidents were, it only got worse from there.
By the time they were done loading, at 1:00 a.m. on Thanksgiving day, the driver and his crew had also managed to:
1.) Crash our t.v. set into our hallway wall.
2.) Crash the swingset into our wooden fence so hard that they detached it from our house.
3.) Break one of our bookcases across the loading ramp because they staged all the tall furniture on the front lawn just as the wind whipped up. Truck driver then proceeded to tell the boss that it was such a piece of junk that it just "fell apart" in the front yard.
4.) Break the mailbox in front of our house.
5.) Destroy every lamp we owned as they loaded them.
6.) Fracture half of our plastice storage tubs launching them down the "ramp."
7.) Carpet our front lawn with cigarette butts and trash from their snacks and drinks.
8.) Lose the rolling shelf out of our entertainment center.
9.) Totally freak out three kids with their bad attitudes and rough treatment of our stuff.
The list of what they broke during the move is truly unbelievable. Most of the damage we have found so far appears to relate specifically to how the cargo was loaded. Most of the antiques suffered some degree of damage, all lamps, mattresses and furniture were filthy because they didn't bother to box or wrap them, every weld on my antique sled was fractured, our autistic son's loft bed was demolished, bookcases broken; the list is amazing. We would have been better off to have left it all and just bought new, the damage was so extensive and distressing, especially to the kids who had watched the unpleasant driver and crew destroy their things during the loading. The driver even "lost" our list of high value items the packers left for him---twice! We have to keep supplying from our official copies.
All I can say is, when it comes to moving, even corporate moves, document everything! Take videos before, during, and after. And if you have a problem with a truck driver from the minute he steps into your house, send him "packing!" The amount of damage he can do to your stuff is truly formidable, and just not worth it. We should have simply had the company send another driver, even if it delayed our move, and save ourselves a lot of pain.
Even if they really pay out on everything, we still get to do all the leg work to replace our stuff. As I said yesterday, what made me think that moving to upstate New York would be a good idea? It wasn't fun at all! It's awfully pretty, though.
I will admit that, between all of the disasters I had while my Darling Husband was away in Boston for a month before the move, the dislocated hip, the D.H. being in Boston, home-schooling two kids, sorting our fabulous stash of personal possessions, and the busy-ness of being a single parent, I fell a bit short in the vacuuming and dusting department. And the kids did manage to dump two bags of shredded mail in the house before the truck driver got there. And the youngest decided to shred styrofoam with a butter knife all over the house, which is impossible to unstick from anything short of using a napalm or nuclear bomb. But, in fact, things were essentially ready to go; the driver was just not happy to be doing our move, I guess. Which must be why the driver, who has probably never even been home long enough to change a diaper on his own offspring if he has them, questioned what I had been doing for the last few weeks; I took some exception to that. I was really busy. I would have offered him a list, but there weren't enough boxes left after all the packing to hold the whole thing anyway.
The driver, after questioning my housewifery, then proceeded to stage my D.H.'s formidable technical library, about 40 boxes of books, on our front lawn, as the rain clouds gathered and rolled. . .you guessed it. The heavens opened, and for five minutes the most spectacular fall shower drenched the book boxes. Have I ever mentioned how fanatical my husband is about his technical library? If I ask him to tidy his study, he takes this to mean that a book is out of place and will spend an entire day taking the books off the shelf and reorganizing them, replacing them on the shelves in alphabetical order by subject. He doesn't do any cleaning as the rest of us understand it, he just dotes on the books. Imagine his response the the truck driver's blatant disregard to his treasures. About the time the truck driver affixed a tarp across the books, the rain stopped.
Then the fun really began. The lumpers taped some mattress boxes to our stairs and proceeded to dump all of our personal possessions from the second floor down to the first via this precarious and impromtu chute. The first spectacular crash resounded from my prized sewing machine; not content to merely launch it, the movers dumped it "ass over teakettle" down their ramp. I am not a swearing mom on the whole, but I walked right up to the so-called catcher at the bottom of the stairs and asked him what the hell he thought he was doing with my sewing machine. As bad as these two incidents were, it only got worse from there.
By the time they were done loading, at 1:00 a.m. on Thanksgiving day, the driver and his crew had also managed to:
1.) Crash our t.v. set into our hallway wall.
2.) Crash the swingset into our wooden fence so hard that they detached it from our house.
3.) Break one of our bookcases across the loading ramp because they staged all the tall furniture on the front lawn just as the wind whipped up. Truck driver then proceeded to tell the boss that it was such a piece of junk that it just "fell apart" in the front yard.
4.) Break the mailbox in front of our house.
5.) Destroy every lamp we owned as they loaded them.
6.) Fracture half of our plastice storage tubs launching them down the "ramp."
7.) Carpet our front lawn with cigarette butts and trash from their snacks and drinks.
8.) Lose the rolling shelf out of our entertainment center.
9.) Totally freak out three kids with their bad attitudes and rough treatment of our stuff.
The list of what they broke during the move is truly unbelievable. Most of the damage we have found so far appears to relate specifically to how the cargo was loaded. Most of the antiques suffered some degree of damage, all lamps, mattresses and furniture were filthy because they didn't bother to box or wrap them, every weld on my antique sled was fractured, our autistic son's loft bed was demolished, bookcases broken; the list is amazing. We would have been better off to have left it all and just bought new, the damage was so extensive and distressing, especially to the kids who had watched the unpleasant driver and crew destroy their things during the loading. The driver even "lost" our list of high value items the packers left for him---twice! We have to keep supplying from our official copies.
All I can say is, when it comes to moving, even corporate moves, document everything! Take videos before, during, and after. And if you have a problem with a truck driver from the minute he steps into your house, send him "packing!" The amount of damage he can do to your stuff is truly formidable, and just not worth it. We should have simply had the company send another driver, even if it delayed our move, and save ourselves a lot of pain.
Even if they really pay out on everything, we still get to do all the leg work to replace our stuff. As I said yesterday, what made me think that moving to upstate New York would be a good idea? It wasn't fun at all! It's awfully pretty, though.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Hope this year is calmer than last year!
It has been interesting moving to New York. What possessed me to think that moving across country again was an outstanding idea? "It'll be fun" falls somewhat short of the mark. We have had so many things happen since my last blog I'm not sure I have time to fit it in here, so here are the high points.
There are a lot of swimming pools in Plano, where it is hot and people love to see their money literally evaporate. This is why the water company charges so much--- to help people evaporate their money via their swimming pools. Rats like water, too. This is very inconvenient for people who like swimming pools but not rats. . . How, you may ask, do I know how much rats like water? My next door neighbor who, coincinentally, owns a swimming pool, was explaining this to me during a hair-raising story about the huge juvenile rat climbing her back screen door! Apparently Mr. Rat or one of his relatives decided it gets a bit cold in the winter and began searching for a nice place to wait out the cold. Like maybe my attic. Only the stinker tried to come in through the chimney and fell into the metal base of our gas fireplace.
The kids came unglued hearing the uncommonly loud, frantic scrabblings of the critter as he tried, unsuccessfully, for simply hours, to escape from his unexpected prison. Did I mention this, of course, happened on a Saturday afternoon? Once we realized the obnoxious guest wouldn't make it out on his own, I called the husband, safely ensconced in Boston, for advice. It went like this.
Me: "There is a bird in our chimney, the R-A-T kind." (This was for the benefit of our autistic son, who can cope with a bird in our chimney but would come unglued about the R-A-T. Thank goodness he wasn't listening, because even though he is in kindergarten, his spelling is e-x-c-e-l-l-e-n-t-.)
Husband: "Have you tried lighting the fireplace?"
Me: "How would you enjoy the sounds and smells of slow roasted rodent?"
Husband: "Don't light the fireplace."
Me: "You are, as always, absolutely right. I won't even think of lighting the fireplace."
Husband: "What happens if you just leave it there?"
Me: "Did you actually want to sell the house when we move? Or shall we rent it out to the Ripley's Believe it or Don't Museum as the house haunted by the most overpowering odor on record to date?"
Husband: "We have to get the sucker out of there."
Me: "Again, you are so right, my brilliant husband. I am open to suggestions as to how to get the sucker out of there before he drives our youngest into an insane asylum with sensory overload."
Husband: "We should call someone."
Me: "I did call someone. That someone is YOU."
This conversation is not noted for it's depth or problem solving venue. I eventually called every exterminator I could find until I located one who, providentially, would come at the drop of a hat because he, too, has a six-year-old son that, even without special needs, would go nuts with a rat in the chimney. Bless his heart!
The exterminators showed up at 8:30 on a Saturday night. Boy were we glad to see them! After dinking around with the chimney, poking through my attic, and thoroughly freaking out our most unwelcome guest, they confirmed that we had a really big BIRD in our chimney. Only he was in between the wall and the flue and we would have to take the fireplace apart inside to get him out.
Two hours later we reached the conclusion that the fireplace cannot be reliably dismantled from the inside. Time to call a bricklayer to take my chimney apart at midnight on a moonless night from outside the house to try to catch a really riled BIRD.
I, brilliant and desperate mother that I was, mentioned that we had just watched Ratatouille about 70 times (thanks again to my youngest) and that it was a shame we couldn't just drop a rope between the wall and the chimney flue and let the sucker climb out. The exterminators said they didn't have a rope. One of my personal passions is to always be prepared for everything, so I helpfully ran out to my car and returned with 30 feet of rope. We then went up to my attic, located a likely spot and appropriate weight, and lowered a rope between the wall and chimney (another 1/2 hour). They then set some traps, just in case my crazy lady idea worked.
As you can imagine, I didn't get to sleep very early. At 1:30 in the morning I swear I heard scrabbling and scrapings right over my head, and a trap snap. Unfortunately, the scrabblings continued. At 2:15, the second trap went off and the attic became surprisingly quiet. At which point, still unable to sleep, I ventured bravely forth, up the rickety ladder, back into the attic with a flashlight and baseball bat.
The biggest rat I ever saw was dead in one of the traps. Eighteen inches from nose to tail. I went back downstairs and fell asleep right away. When I called the exterminators the next morning, they were gratified and surprised that the whole whacked-out stunt had worked. Not as grateful as I was! The nice exterminators gave me all the credit for the idea, but they sure worked their bottoms off to execute the plan. . .and the villain.
Now I live in a neighborhood with almost no swimming pools. A cute herd of deer ran in front of our car last night. And the coyotes were barking at 1:00 a.m. I just saw a red-tailed hawk with a very large rodentish animal yesterday. I don't think these predators will let a rat near the house. One can only hope.
This move has made me realize a couple of important things. Here is the short list.
1. There is never enough time to get rid of all your junk. My advice is to get rid of some every day, don't wait until you have to. Hindsight is 20/20. On the bright side, I actually have a basement in New York. A really full basement.
2. Goals are great. Don't post them on the wall, though, because it is really depressing to see how short of the mark you really are every day. Especially if you are an incurable optimist whose vision is 20/20 only in hindsight.
3. A good truck driver will show you which of your items is really breakable. A bad one will prove it to you!
4. Don't be too attached to your stuff. Yes, you can take it with you. But if you get the driver we got, it will probably be in lots of tiny pieces. Or big pieces.
Well, duty calls. In low, medium, and high voices.
There are a lot of swimming pools in Plano, where it is hot and people love to see their money literally evaporate. This is why the water company charges so much--- to help people evaporate their money via their swimming pools. Rats like water, too. This is very inconvenient for people who like swimming pools but not rats. . . How, you may ask, do I know how much rats like water? My next door neighbor who, coincinentally, owns a swimming pool, was explaining this to me during a hair-raising story about the huge juvenile rat climbing her back screen door! Apparently Mr. Rat or one of his relatives decided it gets a bit cold in the winter and began searching for a nice place to wait out the cold. Like maybe my attic. Only the stinker tried to come in through the chimney and fell into the metal base of our gas fireplace.
The kids came unglued hearing the uncommonly loud, frantic scrabblings of the critter as he tried, unsuccessfully, for simply hours, to escape from his unexpected prison. Did I mention this, of course, happened on a Saturday afternoon? Once we realized the obnoxious guest wouldn't make it out on his own, I called the husband, safely ensconced in Boston, for advice. It went like this.
Me: "There is a bird in our chimney, the R-A-T kind." (This was for the benefit of our autistic son, who can cope with a bird in our chimney but would come unglued about the R-A-T. Thank goodness he wasn't listening, because even though he is in kindergarten, his spelling is e-x-c-e-l-l-e-n-t-.)
Husband: "Have you tried lighting the fireplace?"
Me: "How would you enjoy the sounds and smells of slow roasted rodent?"
Husband: "Don't light the fireplace."
Me: "You are, as always, absolutely right. I won't even think of lighting the fireplace."
Husband: "What happens if you just leave it there?"
Me: "Did you actually want to sell the house when we move? Or shall we rent it out to the Ripley's Believe it or Don't Museum as the house haunted by the most overpowering odor on record to date?"
Husband: "We have to get the sucker out of there."
Me: "Again, you are so right, my brilliant husband. I am open to suggestions as to how to get the sucker out of there before he drives our youngest into an insane asylum with sensory overload."
Husband: "We should call someone."
Me: "I did call someone. That someone is YOU."
This conversation is not noted for it's depth or problem solving venue. I eventually called every exterminator I could find until I located one who, providentially, would come at the drop of a hat because he, too, has a six-year-old son that, even without special needs, would go nuts with a rat in the chimney. Bless his heart!
The exterminators showed up at 8:30 on a Saturday night. Boy were we glad to see them! After dinking around with the chimney, poking through my attic, and thoroughly freaking out our most unwelcome guest, they confirmed that we had a really big BIRD in our chimney. Only he was in between the wall and the flue and we would have to take the fireplace apart inside to get him out.
Two hours later we reached the conclusion that the fireplace cannot be reliably dismantled from the inside. Time to call a bricklayer to take my chimney apart at midnight on a moonless night from outside the house to try to catch a really riled BIRD.
I, brilliant and desperate mother that I was, mentioned that we had just watched Ratatouille about 70 times (thanks again to my youngest) and that it was a shame we couldn't just drop a rope between the wall and the chimney flue and let the sucker climb out. The exterminators said they didn't have a rope. One of my personal passions is to always be prepared for everything, so I helpfully ran out to my car and returned with 30 feet of rope. We then went up to my attic, located a likely spot and appropriate weight, and lowered a rope between the wall and chimney (another 1/2 hour). They then set some traps, just in case my crazy lady idea worked.
As you can imagine, I didn't get to sleep very early. At 1:30 in the morning I swear I heard scrabbling and scrapings right over my head, and a trap snap. Unfortunately, the scrabblings continued. At 2:15, the second trap went off and the attic became surprisingly quiet. At which point, still unable to sleep, I ventured bravely forth, up the rickety ladder, back into the attic with a flashlight and baseball bat.
The biggest rat I ever saw was dead in one of the traps. Eighteen inches from nose to tail. I went back downstairs and fell asleep right away. When I called the exterminators the next morning, they were gratified and surprised that the whole whacked-out stunt had worked. Not as grateful as I was! The nice exterminators gave me all the credit for the idea, but they sure worked their bottoms off to execute the plan. . .and the villain.
Now I live in a neighborhood with almost no swimming pools. A cute herd of deer ran in front of our car last night. And the coyotes were barking at 1:00 a.m. I just saw a red-tailed hawk with a very large rodentish animal yesterday. I don't think these predators will let a rat near the house. One can only hope.
This move has made me realize a couple of important things. Here is the short list.
1. There is never enough time to get rid of all your junk. My advice is to get rid of some every day, don't wait until you have to. Hindsight is 20/20. On the bright side, I actually have a basement in New York. A really full basement.
2. Goals are great. Don't post them on the wall, though, because it is really depressing to see how short of the mark you really are every day. Especially if you are an incurable optimist whose vision is 20/20 only in hindsight.
3. A good truck driver will show you which of your items is really breakable. A bad one will prove it to you!
4. Don't be too attached to your stuff. Yes, you can take it with you. But if you get the driver we got, it will probably be in lots of tiny pieces. Or big pieces.
Well, duty calls. In low, medium, and high voices.
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