I have a love-hate relationship with this townhouse.
After my ex left, the kids and I had to move in with my parents for nearly a year as I waited for my divorce to get finalized and child support to start coming regularly. At the time, I made too much to qualify for any assistance (daycare or otherwise), but not enough to afford to support the four of us. While I worked full time at a decent-paying job, I just couldn't afford living expenses plus full-time daycare costs for three kids.
It was demoralizing to say the least.
There is no worse feeling in the whole world than knowing that you can't provide for your children. It's a precarious place - wanting to work and be self-sufficient, but being unable to do so.
I could've quit my job and pulled the kids from daycare. It would've been easy to chuck what little I had left to stay home with my kids and collect support from the state. But for me, working full time never was optional. I needed it to hold onto a sense of purpose - to maintain my dignity. So, instead, I kept working, swallowed my pride and moved back home. And I will forever be grateful to my parents for lending me a hand during that awful year.
After the divorce papers were filed, it took a good while for the child support direct deposit to kick in. Somehow a payroll department error resulted in my ex's wages being garnished for a few months, but there was no wire transfer to the state's child support clearing house. The result was that he paid, but for weeks and weeks, I never saw a dime.
When the mess was finally resolved, the child support money finally put me back in the black, albeit barely. I was finally not operating at a deficit. I managed to scrape up enough to get a place of my own and began pouring over the rental ads. As I read the listings, I wondered if I'd find something big enough that I could afford.
And then I found it.
I loved this townhouse the first time I saw it. Three bedrooms, one-and-a-half baths, big yard on a cul-de-sac. Even though a major highway ran through the back yard, I couldn't see it past the big, flowering crab apple tree or the kick-ass sledding hill just out my back door. Finding a place I could afford in a great school district on a quiet street was a dream come true.
I regained my freedom here. I established a stable home for my kids here. And I began to write here.
While I was (and still am) immensely proud of getting here, I'll admit that there are times when being here doesn't feel so great.
Whenever I visit my family and friends in their single family homes and watch their kids play in long driveways and gorgeous rec rooms, I feel a little painful twinge, wishing I could provide the same setting for my crew. Walking in their yards among various plantings and vegetable gardens, I'm green with envy. How I'd love to plant flowers in dirt that wasn't borrowed and weed flowerbeds that I planted, rather than inherited!
But the hardest part of living here has been knowing that some of my own neighbors look down at me and my kids because of this place. We are one of just two families who rent on a street lined with single-family homes. I know what they're thinking when they refuse my friendly wave: low income, low life.
My townhouse neighbors do nothing to dispel the perception of transient, low-income renters who don't give a shit. While they're nice people, they let their cars leak oil all over the street, allow their kids to run around the yard with dirty faces and Spaghetti-O-stained clothes, and leave their pizza delivery sign attached to their truck - often illuminated - all night long in the driveway.
I'm painfully aware that I'm often painted with the same brush.
I imagine the chatter, "Harumph, a single mom with all those kids. Wonder if they even have the same father." I can deal with it, but I don't want the kids to have to. Someday soon, they're going to become aware of life's haves and have nots. And I don't want them to be treated differently because of someone else's perception. I don't want their friends' parents to refuse play dates because I can't afford my own white picket fence - or have to share my driveway with a broken down Chevy Cavalier.
So, while I'm still grateful and proud of rebuilding my life here in this townhouse, I'm eager to move on. I'm thrilled that together Mark and I were able to save up enough for a much bigger house on an even quieter street, where my kids can roller skate in a long driveway and sleep in rooms they can call their own. I'm eager to dig my hands in my own dirt and plant flowers I know I'll enjoy for years and years. And I'm hopeful to have a neighborhood where I fit in instead of stick out.
Sometimes when I think of moving, I get a little emotional. I'm full of excitement and anticipation for this new chapter. And I'm relieved - and a little amazed - that I've survived the one I'm wrapping up.
I know I won't miss sharing a house, but I will miss the satisfaction and sense of accomplishment I got writing that rent check each month.
I did it. I survived. Hallelujah.
~ ~ ~
Beginning Thursday, I'll be without Internet access for nearly a week due to the move. If I can figure out how to Tweet from my phone, I'll try to give a few play-by-play updates. Until then, I'm signing off and will return sometime late next week. Take care!
It's always darkest before it goes pitch black.
Just when I thought things couldn't get worse, we were told on Thursday that we would most likely not be able to close on our house this month. We were told to make alternate plans - plans that would involve storing our belongings and moving in with my parents indefinitely.
After holding it together for the past month, I finally broke down and cried. Well actually, I sobbed.
Day after day of 'maybe this'll be the day' had taken it's toll. I had lost all hope and with it any shred of optimism I had left. I was emotionally spent and all I could think of was this:
But then, late Friday afternoon, we got the call we'd been waiting for. Our final approval had gone through. We were cleared to close and that date would be the following Thursday.
You'd think we'd be excited. You'd think we'd be bouncing off the walls, but weeks and weeks of waiting and wondering had effectively sucked all joy out of it.
We've had a bottle of champagne sitting in the fridge since the first week in April. We thought we'd pop it on May 8 - our first scheduled closing date. When that day came and went, the bottle got pushed to the back of the fridge with various containers of moldy leftovers.
Last night, I considered digging it out. But instead of popping the cork and making a toast, all I could think to do was use it to bash my brains in.
Ultimately, I left it there, next to a Tupperware of old mac and cheese, and just went to bed.
For now, it's time to focus on the task of moving. Maybe we'll use the champagne when we spend our first night in our new home. Maybe we'll pull it out after the last box has been unpacked.
Though, the way I feel right now, it won't be for toasting. Instead, I'll probably just use it to ice down sore muscles.
Overdue.
You know what all this waiting is like?
It's like being a big, huge pregnant lady who's 2 weeks overdue.
We're miserable in our current state and so anxious for the next stage that we just can't stand it. We know this can't go on forever, but there's seriously no end in sight. We keep thinking, today's the day, every single day, but ultimately it isn't.
It just keeps dragging on and on and on.
The good news is that our landlord has finally moved on. He's got a new girlfriend, uh, I mean renter for our townhouse. The sad and sorry break up seems to be almost behind us, but it wasn't without drama.
As you'll recall, when I gave my landlord notice to leave, he acted shocked and hurt, backing me into a semi-defensive, it's-not-you-it's-me mode.
Seriously, this place is great. We love living here, really we do. It's just we're ready to move on and own our own house.
There was also an uncomfortable encounter in the grocery store.
Hi, Jess. You're looking well. How are your moving plans coming?
Um, good thanks. Look, I've gotta run. You take care now, okay?
Then he even tried to coax us back by buying us dinner.
In an effort to make as few waves as possible, every time he asked to show our place, I obliged. As a sign of thanks, he showed up on our doorstep one night with a pizza and 2-liter of root beer. I thanked him profusely and gushed on how he really didn't have to go through the trouble. To which he replied:
If you guys want to still stay here through the end of the summer, you can.
And there was even yet another angry telephone hang up, this time over who'd pay for carpet cleaning. He hung up on me when I told him I'd clean and vacuum the place, but would not have the carpets shampooed.
Yeah, this move can't come soon enough.
So we continue to wait. Like the big, fat preggo, we're constantly nesting -- actually just talking about nesting in the new house -- and looking at the calendar wondering when this all will end.
At least these preggos can drink.
It's like being a big, huge pregnant lady who's 2 weeks overdue.
We're miserable in our current state and so anxious for the next stage that we just can't stand it. We know this can't go on forever, but there's seriously no end in sight. We keep thinking, today's the day, every single day, but ultimately it isn't.
It just keeps dragging on and on and on.
The good news is that our landlord has finally moved on. He's got a new girlfriend, uh, I mean renter for our townhouse. The sad and sorry break up seems to be almost behind us, but it wasn't without drama.
As you'll recall, when I gave my landlord notice to leave, he acted shocked and hurt, backing me into a semi-defensive, it's-not-you-it's-me mode.
Seriously, this place is great. We love living here, really we do. It's just we're ready to move on and own our own house.
There was also an uncomfortable encounter in the grocery store.
Hi, Jess. You're looking well. How are your moving plans coming?
Um, good thanks. Look, I've gotta run. You take care now, okay?
Then he even tried to coax us back by buying us dinner.
In an effort to make as few waves as possible, every time he asked to show our place, I obliged. As a sign of thanks, he showed up on our doorstep one night with a pizza and 2-liter of root beer. I thanked him profusely and gushed on how he really didn't have to go through the trouble. To which he replied:
If you guys want to still stay here through the end of the summer, you can.
And there was even yet another angry telephone hang up, this time over who'd pay for carpet cleaning. He hung up on me when I told him I'd clean and vacuum the place, but would not have the carpets shampooed.
Yeah, this move can't come soon enough.
So we continue to wait. Like the big, fat preggo, we're constantly nesting -- actually just talking about nesting in the new house -- and looking at the calendar wondering when this all will end.
At least these preggos can drink.
Welcome to Limboland.
This past week has been the ultimate test of patience. Our yet-to-be scheduled house closing has been pushed back another week - to the last week of May.
The holdup? The appraiser needs to verify that some painting work was done (it was) and give the underwriter the go ahead to finalize the loan. This task should take a total of 5 minutes, excluding the time it takes to drive over there.
The problem? He's been out on vacation this past week.
Mark and I tried to nudge the process along, offering to help by taking photos of the freshly painted soffits. We even asked if there was anyone else in his office who could step in, but were told that unfortunately only the original appraiser can verify that the work was done. (Ethics be damned!)
So while we sat here all week, wringing our hands and growing gray hair, I've been imagining our appraiser -- probably a big-bellied, bald guy named Lou, Don or Carl -- sitting on a sunny beach, sipping mai tais.
We're told Lou gets back to work on Monday and that there's a slim chance we could close this week Friday or next week Tuesday. Though... realistically, it may be late next week.
It's all getting a little too close for comfort. There's so much in the air. We can't confirm a mover, child care or even begin forwarding our mail. While we've packed some (quite a bit actually), we're at an impasse, unable to pack anything we'll need for the next week and a half.
I've never been a very patient person, but this process has forced me to relax and let go. We can't always control what happens to us, but we can control how we react to it. Rather than stress out, freak out or check out, I've tried to maintain a sense of humor and focus on the little things I can do - not what I can't do.
It very well may be the only thing keeping me sane.
The holdup? The appraiser needs to verify that some painting work was done (it was) and give the underwriter the go ahead to finalize the loan. This task should take a total of 5 minutes, excluding the time it takes to drive over there.
The problem? He's been out on vacation this past week.
Mark and I tried to nudge the process along, offering to help by taking photos of the freshly painted soffits. We even asked if there was anyone else in his office who could step in, but were told that unfortunately only the original appraiser can verify that the work was done. (Ethics be damned!)
So while we sat here all week, wringing our hands and growing gray hair, I've been imagining our appraiser -- probably a big-bellied, bald guy named Lou, Don or Carl -- sitting on a sunny beach, sipping mai tais.
We're told Lou gets back to work on Monday and that there's a slim chance we could close this week Friday or next week Tuesday. Though... realistically, it may be late next week.
It's all getting a little too close for comfort. There's so much in the air. We can't confirm a mover, child care or even begin forwarding our mail. While we've packed some (quite a bit actually), we're at an impasse, unable to pack anything we'll need for the next week and a half.
I've never been a very patient person, but this process has forced me to relax and let go. We can't always control what happens to us, but we can control how we react to it. Rather than stress out, freak out or check out, I've tried to maintain a sense of humor and focus on the little things I can do - not what I can't do.
It very well may be the only thing keeping me sane.
Keeping an eye on the prize
This has been one of the most stressful weeks I've had for a long time.
Thankfully, the kids have been amazingly well-behaved (Crowbar's not calling his daycare friends 'stupid asses' anymore, which, you know, is good.) and every one's managed to stay healthy, despite all the swine flu hoopla.
The house-buying process however, has been less than enjoyable. And it's factored heavily into the tolerability index this week:
Early in the week, we were told that there was a possibility we wouldn't be able to close in early-to-mid May, like we'd expected. We were told there was an outside chance we wouldn't be able to close until sometime in June.
Uh... remember this? Yeah, we're homeless after May 31.
So we went through all the possible scenarios of when we might close and move, including the dreaded Plan X which involved having a moving company load our stuff on a truck and hold it while we shack in a hotel. There's no way we're staying here another month.
While moving late in the month shouldn't be a huge deal, it is, considering we're planning to host our wedding reception at our new house on June 20. I'd really like to be in and relatively unpacked before guests arrive.
So what's the hangup? We were told that our lender (all lenders, actually) is backlogged with loans and refinance requests. Thanks to low interest rates and the first-time buyer tax credit, there's a lot of activity in the pipeline. Couple that with cautious lenders who scrutinize every prospective buyer and you've got a bottleneck.
Luckily, on Wednesday, we learned our loan was in the process of being underwritten and we could expect to get our new closing date sometime next week. Geeked with the news, we made another excuse to drive by and gawk at the house.
I call it 'keeping an eye on the prize.'
We'll drive by slowly in our blue minivan and drool out the windows. We envision our cars parked out front and our kids playing in the lawn. We wonder out loud when they'll change the sign from 'Accepted Offer' to 'SOLD."
As Mark studies the bare patch in the front, desperately in need of TLC, he lets out a dreamy sigh.
Do you think anyone would mind if I jumped out and raked a little?
I reach over and take his hand.
Some day, honey. Some day.
Thankfully, the kids have been amazingly well-behaved (Crowbar's not calling his daycare friends 'stupid asses' anymore, which, you know, is good.) and every one's managed to stay healthy, despite all the swine flu hoopla.
The house-buying process however, has been less than enjoyable. And it's factored heavily into the tolerability index this week:
Early in the week, we were told that there was a possibility we wouldn't be able to close in early-to-mid May, like we'd expected. We were told there was an outside chance we wouldn't be able to close until sometime in June.
Uh... remember this? Yeah, we're homeless after May 31.
So we went through all the possible scenarios of when we might close and move, including the dreaded Plan X which involved having a moving company load our stuff on a truck and hold it while we shack in a hotel. There's no way we're staying here another month.
While moving late in the month shouldn't be a huge deal, it is, considering we're planning to host our wedding reception at our new house on June 20. I'd really like to be in and relatively unpacked before guests arrive.
So what's the hangup? We were told that our lender (all lenders, actually) is backlogged with loans and refinance requests. Thanks to low interest rates and the first-time buyer tax credit, there's a lot of activity in the pipeline. Couple that with cautious lenders who scrutinize every prospective buyer and you've got a bottleneck.
Luckily, on Wednesday, we learned our loan was in the process of being underwritten and we could expect to get our new closing date sometime next week. Geeked with the news, we made another excuse to drive by and gawk at the house.
I call it 'keeping an eye on the prize.'
We'll drive by slowly in our blue minivan and drool out the windows. We envision our cars parked out front and our kids playing in the lawn. We wonder out loud when they'll change the sign from 'Accepted Offer' to 'SOLD."
As Mark studies the bare patch in the front, desperately in need of TLC, he lets out a dreamy sigh.
Do you think anyone would mind if I jumped out and raked a little?
I reach over and take his hand.
Some day, honey. Some day.
On my honor, I will try...to watch HSM3 99 times.
Last night Mad Dog and The Deuce graduated from Brownies to Junior Girl Scouts. There was a little ceremony in the gym, complete with a color guard, oaths and, of course, Girl Scout cookies.
We stood at attention as 50 little girls marched in, carrying American flags. We recited the pledge of allegiance and we watched as our girls crossed a little wooden bridge decked out in silk flowers, symbolizing a crossing over from one Girl Scout milestone to another.
Oh, and we laughed our asses off.
The ceremony marked the end of a year full of bowling alleys and roller skating parties -- with no legitimate service projects to speak of.
Perusing the official Girl Scout website, I see badges for activities like:
On my honor, I will try:
To serve God and my country,
To help people at all times,
And to live by the Girl Scout Law.
Mark, my ex and I sat in the back row, snickering.
Really? How did that outing to watch High School Musical 3 serve our country? When during all those games of ski-ball did they help anyone? (Besides themselves to more cotton candy.)
Now, don't get bent out of shape.
I can imagine that leading 16 eight-year olds is a tough job. I can also appreciate that at this age, creating camaraderie and teaching respect and honesty are important. And, I also understand that scouting provides fun outlets for kids who may not be able to do fun activities like these. But I guess I was hoping for a more balanced experience. Instead of going to the movies, they could've gone caroling at a nursing home or planted flowers or visited a recycling center.
The girls will be changing schools after we move and we plan to sign them up for that school's troop next year. I can't help but wonder if the new leader will take the service aspect more seriously.
And if she does, and has the girls out on the side of the road picking up litter instead of visiting a water park, what will my kids think?
I guess only time will tell.
We stood at attention as 50 little girls marched in, carrying American flags. We recited the pledge of allegiance and we watched as our girls crossed a little wooden bridge decked out in silk flowers, symbolizing a crossing over from one Girl Scout milestone to another.
Oh, and we laughed our asses off.
The ceremony marked the end of a year full of bowling alleys and roller skating parties -- with no legitimate service projects to speak of.
Perusing the official Girl Scout website, I see badges for activities like:
- Careers
- Caring and Sharing
- Healthy Habits
- Math Fun
- Manners
- Penny Power
- Watching Wildlife
My girls earned patches for:
- Going to the Zoo
- Movie Night
- Rollerskating
- Bowling
- Sleepover Fun
On my honor, I will try:
To serve God and my country,
To help people at all times,
And to live by the Girl Scout Law.
Mark, my ex and I sat in the back row, snickering.
Really? How did that outing to watch High School Musical 3 serve our country? When during all those games of ski-ball did they help anyone? (Besides themselves to more cotton candy.)
Now, don't get bent out of shape.
I can imagine that leading 16 eight-year olds is a tough job. I can also appreciate that at this age, creating camaraderie and teaching respect and honesty are important. And, I also understand that scouting provides fun outlets for kids who may not be able to do fun activities like these. But I guess I was hoping for a more balanced experience. Instead of going to the movies, they could've gone caroling at a nursing home or planted flowers or visited a recycling center.
The girls will be changing schools after we move and we plan to sign them up for that school's troop next year. I can't help but wonder if the new leader will take the service aspect more seriously.
And if she does, and has the girls out on the side of the road picking up litter instead of visiting a water park, what will my kids think?
I guess only time will tell.
No pressure whatsoever.
Okay, I'm out of the closet. My boss knows about my blog. (Hi, B!)
It was inevitable.
At work, my cohorts in the department are exploring the uses for social media in business communications. As such, they're all venturing out into the world of Twitter, Facebook and blogs, trying to learn these platforms and determine if we can/should be using them professionally.
While I'm not officially on the social media team, I'm interested in Twitter out of a desire to stay on top of trends in communication (professionally) and prepare myself for when the only way I can communicate with my kids is through a hand-held device.
So, I Twit - oh, wait Tweet the lamest Tweets that ever were -- not because I'm some egomaniac who actually thinks that anyone cares what kind of pizza crust I like -- but because I think I'm going to actually need it to know where the heck my kids are someday.
This video perfectly portrays the ridiculousness of some of the Tweets out there and reminds me of something I heard once:
Nobody cares about you as much as you do.
Though, on the blog side, I've got to admit that I'm kind of impressed by how many people are reading my blog, despite the fact that my own mom doesn't read it.
But I don't get too worked up over it. I write this blog for me -- not really for any perceived audience -- though now knowing my boss and a few more co-workers may venture over here from time to time, I do feel a little nervous.
I'm not worried about them reading what I write. I never talk about work really, uh, except for here and here -- but what I say is really very benign and, hopefully not career limiting in any way.
Nah, I'm more concerned about their reaction to how I write...overusing ellipses...favoring italics over quotation marks -- and strewing dashes all over the place -- I know. It defies logic. As a professional communicator, why do I routinely abuse the English language when I'm off work? Deep down, I think I'm lashing out against the choke hold of AP Style we're required to use on the job.
So, am I afraid of my boss reading my posts and Tweets? No. I'm just afraid of coming into work Monday to find my weekend blog post printed and copy edited on my chair.
It was inevitable.
At work, my cohorts in the department are exploring the uses for social media in business communications. As such, they're all venturing out into the world of Twitter, Facebook and blogs, trying to learn these platforms and determine if we can/should be using them professionally.
While I'm not officially on the social media team, I'm interested in Twitter out of a desire to stay on top of trends in communication (professionally) and prepare myself for when the only way I can communicate with my kids is through a hand-held device.
So, I Twit - oh, wait Tweet the lamest Tweets that ever were -- not because I'm some egomaniac who actually thinks that anyone cares what kind of pizza crust I like -- but because I think I'm going to actually need it to know where the heck my kids are someday.
This video perfectly portrays the ridiculousness of some of the Tweets out there and reminds me of something I heard once:
Nobody cares about you as much as you do.
Though, on the blog side, I've got to admit that I'm kind of impressed by how many people are reading my blog, despite the fact that my own mom doesn't read it.
But I don't get too worked up over it. I write this blog for me -- not really for any perceived audience -- though now knowing my boss and a few more co-workers may venture over here from time to time, I do feel a little nervous.
I'm not worried about them reading what I write. I never talk about work really, uh, except for here and here -- but what I say is really very benign and, hopefully not career limiting in any way.
Nah, I'm more concerned about their reaction to how I write...overusing ellipses...favoring italics over quotation marks -- and strewing dashes all over the place -- I know. It defies logic. As a professional communicator, why do I routinely abuse the English language when I'm off work? Deep down, I think I'm lashing out against the choke hold of AP Style we're required to use on the job.
So, am I afraid of my boss reading my posts and Tweets? No. I'm just afraid of coming into work Monday to find my weekend blog post printed and copy edited on my chair.
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