Do you hear that hysterical cackling?

For years we never stopped to buy those balloons; our childhood just didn’t include such frivolity.  But every week I hoped and yearned and when the priest talked about the sin of coveting, I thought of those balloons.

Then one day, for no special reason, my father pulled over at that curb and bought us each a piece of magic on a string.  Mine was a big red puppy dog.  But I had no experience with balloons and strings, and in an instant mine slipped through my hands and floated up to the trees.

Watching Nathan shave off Finnian’s hair was like watching that red puppy dog balloon disappear.  With each curl that rolled off the razor and plopped on the floor, my last child’s babyhood floated farther and farther out of my reach, until it was just a tiny red speck amidst the clouds.

And then, in a final blink, it was gone, and I cried like that four year old with her face to the sky at the edge of the park.

AFTER

Moving Night

Recently we were discussing the issue and I asked Finn why he wasn’t ready to use the potty.  After all, Dora uses a potty; Diego uses a potty; Hannah Montana uses a potty!  He replied with the most patient, reserved-for-complete-morons look: 

“Mommy, I love to sit in poop!”

How do you argue with that one?

The other day we went to The Dump to buy furniture for the dump.  (Stay with me now.)

As we got out of the car, Finn said he had to use the potty.

Nathan and I looked at each other and for a split second we considered that this might be the turning point.  Then we both got distracted by a really cool leather sectional and the moment passed.

Three minutes later the stench in the air made it clear we had made a mistake.

Crap.

Finn came this close to taking his first big boy dump at The Dump while buying furniture for our dump.

This about sums it up!

And so the nutmegs lived happily ever after in the six bedroom dream home with cathedral ceilings, french doors, open living space, gas fireplace, three full baths, two and a half car garage, floor to ceiling windows…

Not.

Crazy lady rescinds the sale, jerks who bought little palace won’t budge on the closing date, Nathan and Meg spend endless hours scouring the net for home they can afford and then Nathan finds it. 

The most dispicable home in all of Pennsylvania.

In the most delightful neighborhood in all of Pennsylvania.

And it’s cheap.

Really cheap.

And now it’s ours.

Here’s how I explain it to people:  If a famous person was the previous owner of this house,  it would have been Homer Simpson.  And he would have consulted Liberace on design.  

After we bought it, the realtor went through with a previously scheduled open house to which I sent my sister Jodi to check it out. 

Once she’d seen it the poor girl avoided me for hours.  She couldn’t think of anything nice to say.  When I finally cornered her, all she could say was, “I’m speechless.”

That bad.

The first floor had five rooms, all tiled in a different tile, each uglier than the next.

Most of the house was painted in one shade of puke gold or another with a ghastly faux finish including the kitchen cabinets.

The entire house was trimmed out in molding that you would expect to find in Versailles only it was cheap and ugly.  And some pieces were just missing.

Why try to tell you when I can show you!

A better shot of the spray-painted ceiling and check out the trim.

Groovy kitchen into family room.

Gold, Gold, and more Gold.

Speaking of trim…

And I haven’t even mentioned the outside of the house.  That’s a whole post of it’s own!  (Think rocket launch.) 

To be continued…

And I’m the first on the left.  (The one who hasn’t posted in months.)

Why do I have that miserable look on my face?  Because my date was a dud. 

Albeit a very nice dud.

He gave me a desk blotter as a gift.

Enough said.

So I’ll be back full swing on Monday. 

Promise. 

The whole story.

With pictures.

Here’s a preview…

Don’t even try to think of something nice to write in comments - that’s a gold spray-painted ceiling you’re looking at.

To be continued…

Check out my hot date!

Yesterday we had a moment.  Finn found me in the kitchen and said, “Me robbed the ligger.”

I made a mad dash to the bathroom hamper, dug under the stinky towels to find the vodka was still where it belonged and in tact. I asked Finn to try again.

“Me ropped the ligger.”

“Dropped?  You dropped something?”

“Yes.  The ligger.”

“What’s a ligger?”

And here is where my two-year old proved he is brilliant.  Hands on hips, eyes rolled to the ceiling because he has the thickest broad in the world for a mommy, Finn yelled:

“THE REMOTE!”

A synonym.  My brilliant kid found a synonym. 

Damn, that gene pool is good.

Last weekend fell short of spectacular: I discovered my new job was a huge scam to rob me blind, the crazy lady we bought a house from had a nervous breakdown and rescinded our sale, and my aunt’s legs stopped working.

I’ve spent the past three days at the hospital waiting for my aunt to be taken to emergency spinal surgery which finally happened last night and she’s resting comfortably today, hopefully with her mobility in tact.  Time will tell.  And yes, every time a nurse gives her that morphine I ask for some.  I’m so boringly predictable.

As for the job, que sera sera, which translates to mean life can really suck rotten eggs sometimes.  But I’m over it.  I’m not bitter.  Really.

And now, since we’ve sold our house and shall be homeless in approximately fifty-four days, we’ll be house hunting this weekend.  We do however have a backup plan to Fifth and Arch.  We live very close to a train station with a large parking lot.  We thought maybe we’d pay the fifty cents a day for a parking space and just put a POD on it.  We could even pay for two and put the kids in one.  Oh, Hell.  Let’s spring for three spots and we can have a little backyard.  We’ll park the grill and the swing set.  Maybe we could cut our rent down by stacking two PODS on top of each other.  Then we could have an upstairs and a downstairs.  We’ll just add a contingency to the sale of our house: sellers will need to use the bathroom for up to six months following closing date.  Problem solved. 

I think I’ll paint the downstairs POD a light blue - I hear it makes a small space look bigger.  With some pops of red, of course.

I’m nothing if not an optimist. 

The cup is only half empty because it’s vodka and I keep chugging it.

I have value!

I’m a goddamn niche!

I’m a maven, hear me roar!

The Motrin ad didn’t offend me and I’m a major baby wearer. The Febreze ad however that suggests I can’t play tennis or go out to lunch unless my house is spotless really pisses me off!

Beware. Auditory cursing involved.

Did I also mention that my kids are all sick?  Every one of them is couching and has a soar throat.  And Finn has a rash.  Do you get a rash with the swine flu?  If only the swine flu made you oink.  Then I wouldn’t have to panic with every sniff and cough. 

On the upside, I should get back to regular blogging because I won’t be leaving the house for the next six months.  And you guys won’t even laugh at me for wearing this mask.

Just the same, even computers are very germy things, and I don’t recommend wiping them down with Purell because then some of thhhe kkeyss ssticck.

My only hope is that the swine flu does not infect saints.  Or the families of saints.  If so we’re good.

Things have just been mounting up lately, starting with my Aunt’s broken back (yes, from the fall which the hospital ER Doctor said was fine and turned out to be broken,) to my mom’s continuing health battles, to Nathan’s ten day trip to Spain during which time I sold our house, killed our dog, bought a new house and took a new job. 

And to top it all off, Finn has managed to cover his entire trunk with chewing gum.

I’m moving in 69 days.

Yesterday UPS delivered the remains of my dog in a cardboard box and I said, “Oh, I hope it’s something fun for me!” when I opened the door.

Strange people are going to be cooking their dinner in my beloved kitchen.

Suddenly the lawn needs mowing.

I still have to keep the house clean for the millions of inspections scheduled.

I have to pack up a house stuffed full of junk and Nathan has just started his summer bar shifts which makes his work week around 75 hours long.  And it’s all his junk.

I can’t even remember what the new house looks like.

Did I mention I have to start a new job?

Finn is covered in bubble gum and I’ve already tried a bath, rubbing alcohol, putting him in the freezer and Goof-Off.

Any advice?  (Remember, I’ve got pills and alcohol covered already.)

I believe that human beings have an infinite capacity for love, but I also believe that we only have the capacity for one true love.  Nathan is my one true love and if he were to dump me for some stupid bimbo I wouldn’t even try to love another the way I love him.  I would just marry for money.

It’s the same with dogs - you can own twenty dogs in a lifetime but you can still only have one true love.  For both Nathan and me Ezra was the one.

We lost our one true love, after a very quick demise, at 4:42 a.m. on April 13th.  She died cradled in five sets of arms, her deep brown eyes looking at us with gratitude for a life well lived and well loved.

She was our first baby, a second mother to our children, my Ethel.

I miss the click of her nails on the hardwood.

I miss warming my feet on her soft belly in the night.

I miss scratching her favorite spot - the spilled milk white between her eyes and over her nose. 

I miss her snoring.

I’m not at all embarrassed to admit that I found a soulmate in a dog.

For the past thirteen years I’ve cried all my tears into the thick nape of Ezra’s neck.  And now I have all these tears and no neck.

I don’t know how to be without her.  I know there will be other dogs (dogs with money,) but there will never be another Ezra.

Just the person I want designing my wardrobe: a repressed, frigid, self righteous, emasculating Republican.

Buying from her line is like a third vote for her sugar daddy:

I can think of a few people who will be lining up to get their pink cardigans and petal pushers though!

Oops.  Scratch that one!

Hold Me Tight

I think every woman should spend a little time with Tiny on the first day of spring, as we contemplate the slow dawning of bathing suit season, and learn to embrace it. Throw away those skirt suits and tankinis people, squeeze into a too-small speedo and shake it like you own it.

And please post it on You tube so I can laugh my flabby ass off at you at least twice a year.

For six months the blood continued to pump through my veins merely for the arrival of those letters.

Now the yellowed stationary is bundled together with a satin ribbon that probably has a sentimental memory attached to it if only I could remember. Each letter feels as fragile and soft as the skin on an old woman’s neck and the ink is slightly blurred from all the folding and unfolding.

I’ve lost the desire to fold and unfold those letters now. I haven’t opened them to visit those memories in years, and I certainly don’t want my children to find them when I’m gone and feel even the slightest pain over my love for a man other than their father.

But can I throw them out? At the thought my heart starts to thump and beads of sweat dampen the little hairs on the back of my neck. Instead I move the linen tablecloth and the crocheted baby sweaters and the little box of baby teeth and I bury my treasure of vanity at the bottom of my now orderly chest.

Why can’t I let go of words that have scattered from my life like sunlit dust?

Because when I occupy the darker, lonelier corners of my life those tissue paper memories are my proof that I am lovable, that I have been loved fiercely by another, and they are tied up with my hope that somewhere in another dusty chest someone is cherishing a bundle of carefully folded love letters signed by me.