- Post photos. Do you really want to waste your time showing me a place I could have said "no" to by seeing the photos?
- When posting photos, post photos of the INSIDE. Yes, the outside is nice too, but I couldn't care less what the trees in the yard look like - or the swimming pool either, for that matter. I want to see the inside, particularly the kitchen and the bathroom(s).
- Don't tell me to drive by it first and then call you. I can use Google Earth to view the neighborhood and do a virtual drive-by. If I call you, I'm interested
- We're in a RECESSION. In one of the worst housing markets in 60 years. Don't ignore me. If I call you, I'm interested. Don't make it difficult. Don't play games. Don't take 5 days to get back to me. If you want to rent it, act like it.
- Don't rave about the fabulous new kitchen, remodeled things or amenities and not include photos. That's like telling me I've won the lottery but forgetting to tell me how to claim it (sort of)
- I've worked in real estate - I know the goofy terms people use when there is nothing else to say about a place. "Plush carpeting" and "sparkling pool" do nothing for me. Carpeting is carpeting. Pools sparkle if there is sunshine out. Tell me something not obvious.
- Bonus points if you include the square footage in your listing - this eliminates me having to call you to ask, wasting both of our time if your 3-bedroom rental is only 900 square feet. Yes, I realize you can cram 3 bedrooms in that amount of space. Unfortunately, I'm not interested in cramming 4 people and all of our stuff into that space. Thanks anyway.
- If your rental doesn't include something major - like, oh, a refrigerator - raise the rent $50/month and buy one for crying out loud
- Don't act like there are renters banging down your door. They aren't. Promise.
- Include an e-mail address. It's much more efficient for both of us to ask/answer initial questions (you know, the ones you forgot to answer in the listing - like whether or not there are W/D hookups and how big the place is) via e-mail. Goes back to me not wanting to waste your time or mine.
- Do NOT, under any circumstances, tell me that my husband needs to come see it as well. We'll survive if only one of us has seen it. He rented the place on Malibu Palms (ghetto). I rented the Hobbit Hole (short ceilinged basement apartment). We're still married. End of story.
- Don't make me wait until your open house. I won't be in town then. If you want to rent the place, rent it. If you want to only show it to people at one time, say it in your listing. I'll cross it off my list. There are hundreds of other options.
- Know what the neighborhood rental rates are. Don't think that because I'm from out of town I won't find out your house/unit is overpriced.
- Don't ask me how many children will live in the house, how old I am (you can get that on the rental application) or if I'm Mormon (you know, since I'm moving from The Frontier and all). It's technically illegal, and I really would rather not give a complete stranger my entire life's story before deciding on a house. You will get all the necessary information. You can't deny me housing as a result of my answers anyway. In return, I won't ask you about the crime rate, what the neighbors are like(specifically) or other things you aren't required by law to disclose. I have my sources.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Tales from the House Hunter
In case you ever decide to post a rental listing, let me give you some advice.
Monday, April 27, 2009
Living in a Dream
It's officially official. We're moving. To San Diego. In 4-9 weeks, depending on which member of our household you ask (Himself will tell you 4 weeks, as that is when he needs to report to work; I would tell you 9, based mostly on an ill-contrived fantasy that I might actually have time at that point to find a decent place to live, pack and get my own job affairs in order).
That said, we've ramped up our housing search among the land of sand, sun and large-scale economic disasters.
I spent several years in the real estate industry - all of them devoted to marketing, messaging and customer satisfaction. I worked in the industry at the height of the craziness, and we still required our agents to call customers back within 24 hours - no exceptions. Even if they were crazy. Even if we were sold out. Even if there was no way that they could purchase a $500k condo on an $80k salary. No exceptions.
So it baffles me that we cannot get a SINGLE realtor to call us back. Not one. Granted, the commissions on a rental are much smaller than the commissions on a sale, but come on - it's 2009, the height of the worst economic downfall in 90 years, in a state where the foreclosure rate is among the nation's highest. Houses, even rental houses, aren't exactly flying off the shelf these days.
It's not just because we're out of town, because Himself couldn't get a single agent to call him back when he WAS in town. Not one. And yet, the same listings keep reappearing day after day - taunting us with their promise of fabulous living accommodations - if only you can doggedly pursue the rental agency, realtor or owner.
The market is SATURATED with houses - for sale and for rent. There are so many that the rental rates have decreased by an average of $300-$500/month over the last 12 months across the board.
Apparently, however, no one in real estate has received the memo.
Aggravation.
That said, we've ramped up our housing search among the land of sand, sun and large-scale economic disasters.
I spent several years in the real estate industry - all of them devoted to marketing, messaging and customer satisfaction. I worked in the industry at the height of the craziness, and we still required our agents to call customers back within 24 hours - no exceptions. Even if they were crazy. Even if we were sold out. Even if there was no way that they could purchase a $500k condo on an $80k salary. No exceptions.
So it baffles me that we cannot get a SINGLE realtor to call us back. Not one. Granted, the commissions on a rental are much smaller than the commissions on a sale, but come on - it's 2009, the height of the worst economic downfall in 90 years, in a state where the foreclosure rate is among the nation's highest. Houses, even rental houses, aren't exactly flying off the shelf these days.
It's not just because we're out of town, because Himself couldn't get a single agent to call him back when he WAS in town. Not one. And yet, the same listings keep reappearing day after day - taunting us with their promise of fabulous living accommodations - if only you can doggedly pursue the rental agency, realtor or owner.
The market is SATURATED with houses - for sale and for rent. There are so many that the rental rates have decreased by an average of $300-$500/month over the last 12 months across the board.
Apparently, however, no one in real estate has received the memo.
Aggravation.
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
The Tax Man Cometh
Being a Type A, slightly-more-than-a-little-neurotic person, I file my taxes the minute I get the last piece of paperwork in the mail. Which is usually ... oh the first of February.
I will also confess that I am generally the person who watches the 10 o'clock news on Tax Day and makes guffawing noises at the poor people in line to have their taxes postmarked by 11:59 p.m. Seriously people, you can't plan ahead enough to get your taxes in on time? It's not as if Tax Day ever changes. It is, and forever will be, April 15.
Lesson learned: Do not mock those whom you do not wish to join.
I knew the 2008 tax filing season was going to be a huge disaster right after receiving my W2 from The Factory last tax season - two months late, complete with the wrong state identification number. Once The Factory metaphorically collapsed, it only promised to get worse. Therefore, it was without any great shock that I did not receive a W2 from The Factory - neither did The Boss respond to any inquiries. (She did respond to my accountant, and told him she must have had the "wrong address" (ha!) - funny, it's been 2.5 months since she called and ... nothing).
I began the 2008 tax odyssey in February. February 17, as a matter of fact, which is the earliest you can begin pursuing tax preparation if you are missing a W2 that includes half of your income for that year.
It began with taking a very old friend up on his offer to give me tax advice (I'm sure he now regrets it, although he was more helpful than any of the other four tax accountants I'd spoken with prior to him - all who assured me that The Boss WOULD INDEED send a W2 because "she has to." Of course, that is assuming that this woman even cares about not breaking the law, which she doesn't.) Two months, four calls to the IRS (which garnered 4 separate answers), a dozen e-mails, 20 hours of effort (on his and my parts), 4 hours of number crunching and several headaches and bury-my-head-in-the-sand-and-hum moments later, I was ready to file.
Good thing too, since it was late evening on April 14 by this point. See, it wasn't just the missing W2, it was the fact that I had received only 6 pay stubs for 12 paychecks over six months. Combined with the fact that my pay rate changed 4 times. Combined with the fact that there was no discernible pattern to the withholding from any of the paychecks. Combined with my general lack of tax-aptitudeness. See the problems? Plus, the IRS recommends not filing until April 15 if you are missing any critical documents.
Of course, the missing W2 means the IRS won't let you e-file. For the record, I have not filed a paper return since 1997 - a year in which I made $3,500 and filed the short form. This of course means I should be forgiven for the insanity that ensued on tax day - and all mocking should be done lightly.
As it turns out, I'd have to pay to download the files I'd prepared (but couldn't file) online, so I had to print out the summary and then fill out the 1040 form and all the appropriate addendums as well as the state of Utah's ridiculous new "easy file" tax form (I seriously want to know which legislator thought it was a good idea to make us copy our W2 information over to the state's form rather than just sending the W2s in - mistakes galore will abound, I'm sure). That took several hours.
Then there was the matter of what to include with the tax forms. The IRS, in all it's brilliant booklet-producing wisdom, isn't exactly clear on that subject. So I called the only person I know who still files his taxes via the mail - my father. He
laughed at me, until I reminded him that it had been 11 years since I had had to mail in anything.
Then I was ready to send them in - right? Except, no - did you realize when you file a joint return that both of you have to sign it? Yeah, neither did I. Not an issue - except Himself worked until 8 p.m. tax day and didn't arrive home until nearly 9 p.m.
Himself arrived home, signed the forms, and then I realized I didn't have a single envelope (or stamp) in the house. I drove to the grocery store on the way to the post office with the automatic machine that gives postmarks until midnight every day of the year (only 3 in line there v. 5 times that at the post office tax party downtown). Of course, the grocery store had no envelopes. The drug store next door closes at 9. I finally found a store, relatively on the way to the post office (more or less) that had envelopes. Mission accomplished.
Then I went to weigh and purchase stamps for my two tax filings ... only to find out the automated postage machine won't do transactions less than $1. Wouldn't you know it that my postage added up to 1 cent shy of $1? I had to buy an extra postmarked stamp just to mail my envelopes. A tax on a tax for the taxes of sorts, I suppose.
I got home just in time to catch the 10 o'clock news, where they featured all the goofy people at the post office trying to get their taxes in on time.
This time, however, there was no guffaws, only sympathy, from my living room. As it turns out, not everyone who greets the tax man on tax day is actually procrastinating.
I will also confess that I am generally the person who watches the 10 o'clock news on Tax Day and makes guffawing noises at the poor people in line to have their taxes postmarked by 11:59 p.m. Seriously people, you can't plan ahead enough to get your taxes in on time? It's not as if Tax Day ever changes. It is, and forever will be, April 15.
Lesson learned: Do not mock those whom you do not wish to join.
I knew the 2008 tax filing season was going to be a huge disaster right after receiving my W2 from The Factory last tax season - two months late, complete with the wrong state identification number. Once The Factory metaphorically collapsed, it only promised to get worse. Therefore, it was without any great shock that I did not receive a W2 from The Factory - neither did The Boss respond to any inquiries. (She did respond to my accountant, and told him she must have had the "wrong address" (ha!) - funny, it's been 2.5 months since she called and ... nothing).
I began the 2008 tax odyssey in February. February 17, as a matter of fact, which is the earliest you can begin pursuing tax preparation if you are missing a W2 that includes half of your income for that year.
It began with taking a very old friend up on his offer to give me tax advice (I'm sure he now regrets it, although he was more helpful than any of the other four tax accountants I'd spoken with prior to him - all who assured me that The Boss WOULD INDEED send a W2 because "she has to." Of course, that is assuming that this woman even cares about not breaking the law, which she doesn't.) Two months, four calls to the IRS (which garnered 4 separate answers), a dozen e-mails, 20 hours of effort (on his and my parts), 4 hours of number crunching and several headaches and bury-my-head-in-the-sand-and-hum moments later, I was ready to file.
Good thing too, since it was late evening on April 14 by this point. See, it wasn't just the missing W2, it was the fact that I had received only 6 pay stubs for 12 paychecks over six months. Combined with the fact that my pay rate changed 4 times. Combined with the fact that there was no discernible pattern to the withholding from any of the paychecks. Combined with my general lack of tax-aptitudeness. See the problems? Plus, the IRS recommends not filing until April 15 if you are missing any critical documents.
Of course, the missing W2 means the IRS won't let you e-file. For the record, I have not filed a paper return since 1997 - a year in which I made $3,500 and filed the short form. This of course means I should be forgiven for the insanity that ensued on tax day - and all mocking should be done lightly.
As it turns out, I'd have to pay to download the files I'd prepared (but couldn't file) online, so I had to print out the summary and then fill out the 1040 form and all the appropriate addendums as well as the state of Utah's ridiculous new "easy file" tax form (I seriously want to know which legislator thought it was a good idea to make us copy our W2 information over to the state's form rather than just sending the W2s in - mistakes galore will abound, I'm sure). That took several hours.
Then there was the matter of what to include with the tax forms. The IRS, in all it's brilliant booklet-producing wisdom, isn't exactly clear on that subject. So I called the only person I know who still files his taxes via the mail - my father. He
laughed at me, until I reminded him that it had been 11 years since I had had to mail in anything.
Then I was ready to send them in - right? Except, no - did you realize when you file a joint return that both of you have to sign it? Yeah, neither did I. Not an issue - except Himself worked until 8 p.m. tax day and didn't arrive home until nearly 9 p.m.
Himself arrived home, signed the forms, and then I realized I didn't have a single envelope (or stamp) in the house. I drove to the grocery store on the way to the post office with the automatic machine that gives postmarks until midnight every day of the year (only 3 in line there v. 5 times that at the post office tax party downtown). Of course, the grocery store had no envelopes. The drug store next door closes at 9. I finally found a store, relatively on the way to the post office (more or less) that had envelopes. Mission accomplished.
Then I went to weigh and purchase stamps for my two tax filings ... only to find out the automated postage machine won't do transactions less than $1. Wouldn't you know it that my postage added up to 1 cent shy of $1? I had to buy an extra postmarked stamp just to mail my envelopes. A tax on a tax for the taxes of sorts, I suppose.
I got home just in time to catch the 10 o'clock news, where they featured all the goofy people at the post office trying to get their taxes in on time.
This time, however, there was no guffaws, only sympathy, from my living room. As it turns out, not everyone who greets the tax man on tax day is actually procrastinating.
Monday, April 20, 2009
What have you been up to?
Alas, the Tax Man story is going to have to wait another day.
As of late, I've felt like a rotten friend. I've neglected good friends, right and left, in a quasi-attempt to save my own sanity. It didn't help that in Sunday School with my parents on Sunday we talked about being more giving of our time and talents. Then I just felt even more rotten.
An old friend asked today, "what have you been up to lately?" My answer was, "Oh, you know, more of the same..." it's fundamentally true, the fact that my "more of the same" is not everyone else's version of "more of the same" cannot be helped.
Himself travels to Expensive Beach Community this week to make a final decision on his promotion/transfer offer, at which point we will know if we will be:
Meanwhile, back at the ranch (er '70s Palace), I have been cleaning, sorting, organizing and buying Rubbermaid containers at an alarming pace in anticipation of our third move in 2 years. This, of course, is with a wonderful "helper" always in tow, who finds piles and open containers abhorant and must find reasons to scatter their contents over two levels and 5-7 rooms as quickly as possible. Always with a gorgeous smile and delightful chatter so as to forget the truly exhausting work of following behind her.
Add to that a rather complicated, potentially serious tax issue that took me several weeks to figure out, document and file; general job insanity for both Himself and I; major financial setbacks in the land of Sara's medical bills - those of the thousands of dollars variety; and, of course, the still-continuing morning sickness and chronic cramping and fatique in the land of pregnancy (Second trimester, what? Oh yeah, I'm one of those people for which the second trimester means absolutely nothing).
Woodstock and I fled The Frontier this weekend in complete defiance of adult responsibility in order to do absolutely nothing at The Parentals. It was lovely. However, it served to make me feel like an even worse friend/neighbor/church member. I often wonder if truly charitable people just forgo their own constant balancing act, let things crash down and have enough faith they'll be taken care of if they focus on others. It flies in the face of my pratical nature, but maybe it would absolve me of some of the guilt.
Really though? I just want to know if we're moving and when. This weekly holding pattern is going to drive me (and everyone around me) insane.
And that, my friends, is what I've been up to - see? Same old, same old.
As of late, I've felt like a rotten friend. I've neglected good friends, right and left, in a quasi-attempt to save my own sanity. It didn't help that in Sunday School with my parents on Sunday we talked about being more giving of our time and talents. Then I just felt even more rotten.
An old friend asked today, "what have you been up to lately?" My answer was, "Oh, you know, more of the same..." it's fundamentally true, the fact that my "more of the same" is not everyone else's version of "more of the same" cannot be helped.
Himself travels to Expensive Beach Community this week to make a final decision on his promotion/transfer offer, at which point we will know if we will be:
- Definitely moving (98% probability)
- Moving in May (75% probability)
- Moving in June (25% probability)
Meanwhile, back at the ranch (er '70s Palace), I have been cleaning, sorting, organizing and buying Rubbermaid containers at an alarming pace in anticipation of our third move in 2 years. This, of course, is with a wonderful "helper" always in tow, who finds piles and open containers abhorant and must find reasons to scatter their contents over two levels and 5-7 rooms as quickly as possible. Always with a gorgeous smile and delightful chatter so as to forget the truly exhausting work of following behind her.
Add to that a rather complicated, potentially serious tax issue that took me several weeks to figure out, document and file; general job insanity for both Himself and I; major financial setbacks in the land of Sara's medical bills - those of the thousands of dollars variety; and, of course, the still-continuing morning sickness and chronic cramping and fatique in the land of pregnancy (Second trimester, what? Oh yeah, I'm one of those people for which the second trimester means absolutely nothing).
Woodstock and I fled The Frontier this weekend in complete defiance of adult responsibility in order to do absolutely nothing at The Parentals. It was lovely. However, it served to make me feel like an even worse friend/neighbor/church member. I often wonder if truly charitable people just forgo their own constant balancing act, let things crash down and have enough faith they'll be taken care of if they focus on others. It flies in the face of my pratical nature, but maybe it would absolve me of some of the guilt.
Really though? I just want to know if we're moving and when. This weekly holding pattern is going to drive me (and everyone around me) insane.
And that, my friends, is what I've been up to - see? Same old, same old.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Pause and Thank
Today's post was going to be about my nearly hysterical tax adventures (or mis-adventures), but then something profound happened, so you'll have to wait (I know you are counting the minutes) for that.
Over the last six months, I have been heard, more than once, saying, "I am so grateful for this economic crisis," which on it's face sounds like I've lost one too many brain cells. While I undoubtedly have lost more than one too many brain cells, I truly AM grateful for the economic crisis - for reminding me of just how blessed I am. I mourn for those who are victims of the topsy turvy "never-quite-sure-what-to-expect-next" chaos, for those who are biting their nails at how on earth they are going to get through the next day, month, week, for those who find themselves suddenly unemployed. I've been there. I've also been on the "spend too much and think too little" end, and I'm happy to have found a relative balance.
But today, I was profoundly reminded of how blessed every single one of us are. I was standing on the sidewalk, in 40-degree, windy, threatening-to-snow weather downtown. A colleague and I were chatting following a networking lunch of cheese and chocolate fondue. A woman, clean, but obviously distressed, carrying a baby in a Snugli draped with a small blanket - diaper bag over her shoulder - approached us.
She timidly said, "I'm so sorry to bother you. I lost my job and was evicted from my apartment a few days ago. I'm on a waiting list for a shelter and an apartment with vouchers, staying at the Motel 8. I was supposed to move in today, but the people in the apartment I'm getting didn't move out, and I am scrambling to find $35 to pay for another night at the hotel. Do you have anything you can spare? I called my ex-husband, and he won't help."
I will admit, I'm a bit jaded and terribly practical - too much so for my own (and others) good. But that baby. I didn't care what happened, it just broke my heart. I stood looking at her, tears nearly pricking my eyes, and I handed her the last $4 in cash I had from my wallet. Then I said, "I have an extra clean blanket in my car, would that help?" (Winter isn't over yet - I always have a blanket in the car during the winter). Her face lit up and she said, "Oh yes - I'm so worried about my baby in this cold."
I asked if I could see her baby. There he was, 4 months old, snuggled up in the Snugli under the small blanket with a pacifier, unaware that anything was wrong. He was beautiful. She wrapped the larger blanket around him. I wanted to hug her, sob and drag her out to buy a can of formula, but it wasn't really practical, given the circumstances.
When she departed, I told my colleague, "I don't normally do things like that, but oh, that baby!"
Right then, I remembered again just how fortunate I am. I have a more than adequate home. I know how I'm going to pay the rent this month. There is food - nutritious, fresh and abundant, in my pantry. I have a job. Himself has a job. I have a family. I have reliable transportation. There are people who love me.
I uttered a silent prayer on my way back to the office. "Heavenly Father, thank you for reminding me of how truly blessed I am, for giving me someone to help today, even just a little, and help me never to know what it feels like to not be able to provide the basic necessities for my children."
I'm hugging Woodstock extra close tonight and delighting in the aerobatics of her little sister, who seems to be quite content to kick my bladder repeatedly. May they never have to wonder where they will sleep at night. May I always be able to provide shelter, a bed, warmth, food and love.
May we not take for granted those things which place us among the most wealthy in the world.
Over the last six months, I have been heard, more than once, saying, "I am so grateful for this economic crisis," which on it's face sounds like I've lost one too many brain cells. While I undoubtedly have lost more than one too many brain cells, I truly AM grateful for the economic crisis - for reminding me of just how blessed I am. I mourn for those who are victims of the topsy turvy "never-quite-sure-what-to-expect-next" chaos, for those who are biting their nails at how on earth they are going to get through the next day, month, week, for those who find themselves suddenly unemployed. I've been there. I've also been on the "spend too much and think too little" end, and I'm happy to have found a relative balance.
But today, I was profoundly reminded of how blessed every single one of us are. I was standing on the sidewalk, in 40-degree, windy, threatening-to-snow weather downtown. A colleague and I were chatting following a networking lunch of cheese and chocolate fondue. A woman, clean, but obviously distressed, carrying a baby in a Snugli draped with a small blanket - diaper bag over her shoulder - approached us.
She timidly said, "I'm so sorry to bother you. I lost my job and was evicted from my apartment a few days ago. I'm on a waiting list for a shelter and an apartment with vouchers, staying at the Motel 8. I was supposed to move in today, but the people in the apartment I'm getting didn't move out, and I am scrambling to find $35 to pay for another night at the hotel. Do you have anything you can spare? I called my ex-husband, and he won't help."
I will admit, I'm a bit jaded and terribly practical - too much so for my own (and others) good. But that baby. I didn't care what happened, it just broke my heart. I stood looking at her, tears nearly pricking my eyes, and I handed her the last $4 in cash I had from my wallet. Then I said, "I have an extra clean blanket in my car, would that help?" (Winter isn't over yet - I always have a blanket in the car during the winter). Her face lit up and she said, "Oh yes - I'm so worried about my baby in this cold."
I asked if I could see her baby. There he was, 4 months old, snuggled up in the Snugli under the small blanket with a pacifier, unaware that anything was wrong. He was beautiful. She wrapped the larger blanket around him. I wanted to hug her, sob and drag her out to buy a can of formula, but it wasn't really practical, given the circumstances.
When she departed, I told my colleague, "I don't normally do things like that, but oh, that baby!"
Right then, I remembered again just how fortunate I am. I have a more than adequate home. I know how I'm going to pay the rent this month. There is food - nutritious, fresh and abundant, in my pantry. I have a job. Himself has a job. I have a family. I have reliable transportation. There are people who love me.
I uttered a silent prayer on my way back to the office. "Heavenly Father, thank you for reminding me of how truly blessed I am, for giving me someone to help today, even just a little, and help me never to know what it feels like to not be able to provide the basic necessities for my children."
I'm hugging Woodstock extra close tonight and delighting in the aerobatics of her little sister, who seems to be quite content to kick my bladder repeatedly. May they never have to wonder where they will sleep at night. May I always be able to provide shelter, a bed, warmth, food and love.
May we not take for granted those things which place us among the most wealthy in the world.
Wednesday, April 08, 2009
One of These Things Is Not Like The Other
Sometimes I wonder if I'm the only one who feels just a little out of place in nearly every scenario.
With Baby Girl on the way, I fit less and less in with my single friends (of which I still have a fair number) - because, let's face it, while Woodstock is adorable, not everyone wants to hang out with someone else's kid, and babysitters are incredibly difficult to come by, even though I only need one once in a blue moon. Add in a second kid, and it just multiplies exponentially. And, if I'm having man problems, they're no longer the kind I can just discuss at will with a girlfriend.
I've never felt like I "fit in" with Stay-at-Home-Moms. In some people's minds I'm a horrible mother, because I'm not a SAHM but it is what is necessary for our family, and I have peace regarding that decision. And this might give me double-strikes, but while I ADORE Woodstock, I don't need to talk about her (or kids in general) all that often. I have a much greater need to talk about other things and do other things. Like see Wicked (not that I bought tickets) or The Marriage of Figaro - not that I know anyone within an hour's drive of me who wouldn't laugh me out of The Frontier for wanting to see an opera.
Ironically, I feel even less like I fit in with the so-called "Mommy Blogger." I have zero desire to be crafty, to give others parenting tips or to be a mompreneur. Probably because I have a regular job, and can't fathom wanting more than ONE job. And I don't have all that many "mom" stories.
In that same vein, I no longer fit in with the "career types," because I honestly only care enough to keep my skills up-to-date and marketable. Yes, I know I could consult on the side and make good money, but I'm a wife, a mother and pregnant on top of being a full-time employee - do I really have to put in any more effort at the moment to do anything beyond survive?
I also don't know what it's like to feel so exasperated with my child that I just want to escape. Because I get to spend so little time with Woodstock, every moment is cherished. Of course, it helps that she is by nature sweet-tempered and easy going, and I realize that is a blessing. A BIG ONE. I can appreciate that others feel that way, but while I OFTEN want to escape, it's usually wanting to escape housework, expectations, work and adulthood, rarely because Woodstock is driving me nuts.
I've also come to realize lately that I have zero hobbies, and I'm not terribly into "typical women" activites. I don't own my own house, so decorating is out. I don't like to shop. I sleep through 98% of any movies I try watching. I'm a pop culture flunkie, and not all that sad about it. I scrapbook as a mental release, but it's a rather solitary activity. I read, but not Jane Austen or Twilight or the likes. I don't have a sister down the road to pal around with. I love to hike - and can easily take Woodstock on my back (even pregnant), but can't reasonably say I feel safe going alone, and serious hikers don't want kids along, even when carried in a backpack. Understandable, but hard when one's spouse works every-other-weekend.
But the real matter is the dark issue that lurks just under the surface all the time - it's always been there, but over the years it has progressed to near-crippling levels. The "label": Generalized Anxiety Disorder. We rarely have had anyone over in nearly 2 years - not because we don't like it, but because my anxiety is so bad I am a wreck before, during and after. I'm on eggshells all the time - about the state of the house, about prepping for/keeping track of little kids, about my near-obsessive need for order. It's bad enough that to control it I've had to purposely lead a more solitary life. And all the while, I feel like a terrible friend.
It's funny what kind of introspective things pop up when one is mentally preparing for what seems like an inevitable move. It's almost like I have to clean out my head before I can even think about tackling the mess that lurks in the four walls of the 70s Palace.
With Baby Girl on the way, I fit less and less in with my single friends (of which I still have a fair number) - because, let's face it, while Woodstock is adorable, not everyone wants to hang out with someone else's kid, and babysitters are incredibly difficult to come by, even though I only need one once in a blue moon. Add in a second kid, and it just multiplies exponentially. And, if I'm having man problems, they're no longer the kind I can just discuss at will with a girlfriend.
I've never felt like I "fit in" with Stay-at-Home-Moms. In some people's minds I'm a horrible mother, because I'm not a SAHM but it is what is necessary for our family, and I have peace regarding that decision. And this might give me double-strikes, but while I ADORE Woodstock, I don't need to talk about her (or kids in general) all that often. I have a much greater need to talk about other things and do other things. Like see Wicked (not that I bought tickets) or The Marriage of Figaro - not that I know anyone within an hour's drive of me who wouldn't laugh me out of The Frontier for wanting to see an opera.
Ironically, I feel even less like I fit in with the so-called "Mommy Blogger." I have zero desire to be crafty, to give others parenting tips or to be a mompreneur. Probably because I have a regular job, and can't fathom wanting more than ONE job. And I don't have all that many "mom" stories.
In that same vein, I no longer fit in with the "career types," because I honestly only care enough to keep my skills up-to-date and marketable. Yes, I know I could consult on the side and make good money, but I'm a wife, a mother and pregnant on top of being a full-time employee - do I really have to put in any more effort at the moment to do anything beyond survive?
I also don't know what it's like to feel so exasperated with my child that I just want to escape. Because I get to spend so little time with Woodstock, every moment is cherished. Of course, it helps that she is by nature sweet-tempered and easy going, and I realize that is a blessing. A BIG ONE. I can appreciate that others feel that way, but while I OFTEN want to escape, it's usually wanting to escape housework, expectations, work and adulthood, rarely because Woodstock is driving me nuts.
I've also come to realize lately that I have zero hobbies, and I'm not terribly into "typical women" activites. I don't own my own house, so decorating is out. I don't like to shop. I sleep through 98% of any movies I try watching. I'm a pop culture flunkie, and not all that sad about it. I scrapbook as a mental release, but it's a rather solitary activity. I read, but not Jane Austen or Twilight or the likes. I don't have a sister down the road to pal around with. I love to hike - and can easily take Woodstock on my back (even pregnant), but can't reasonably say I feel safe going alone, and serious hikers don't want kids along, even when carried in a backpack. Understandable, but hard when one's spouse works every-other-weekend.
But the real matter is the dark issue that lurks just under the surface all the time - it's always been there, but over the years it has progressed to near-crippling levels. The "label": Generalized Anxiety Disorder. We rarely have had anyone over in nearly 2 years - not because we don't like it, but because my anxiety is so bad I am a wreck before, during and after. I'm on eggshells all the time - about the state of the house, about prepping for/keeping track of little kids, about my near-obsessive need for order. It's bad enough that to control it I've had to purposely lead a more solitary life. And all the while, I feel like a terrible friend.
It's funny what kind of introspective things pop up when one is mentally preparing for what seems like an inevitable move. It's almost like I have to clean out my head before I can even think about tackling the mess that lurks in the four walls of the 70s Palace.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Second Helpings
I have a secret worry. Not one of those all-consuming worries that keeps you up at night, but a little annoying nag that whispers to you just to reassure you that there is still something to worry about.
I'm worried at how Baby Girl will feel being second. Not that she will be (or is currently) any less important than her older sister (or brother), but she is the second girl - while her coming-home outfit will be her own, she will be facing a closetful of her sister's hand-me-downs (not that Woodstock isn't wearing hand-me-downs, because she dooes). Her birthday will be close to, but not on, the birthday shared by Woodstock and I. Just close enough to be "almost" - and lumped into the same 3-week-span of birthday madness shared by Woodstock, Grover and myself. She will not have my middle name as Woodstock does - even though we technically didn't name her after me. Most of all, I worry because while I'm head-over-heels-in-love with this baby already, it's a different sort of feeling than I had while pregnant with Woodstock.
I know every parent worries if they will have enough love for the second child - and that every time, they are met with a resouding "yes" - but I worry how to make Baby Girl feel special, that she is just as much an individual, and just as loved, as Woodstock is. I'm sure it will happen, but right now, I can't seem to fathom how.
I'm worried at how Baby Girl will feel being second. Not that she will be (or is currently) any less important than her older sister (or brother), but she is the second girl - while her coming-home outfit will be her own, she will be facing a closetful of her sister's hand-me-downs (not that Woodstock isn't wearing hand-me-downs, because she dooes). Her birthday will be close to, but not on, the birthday shared by Woodstock and I. Just close enough to be "almost" - and lumped into the same 3-week-span of birthday madness shared by Woodstock, Grover and myself. She will not have my middle name as Woodstock does - even though we technically didn't name her after me. Most of all, I worry because while I'm head-over-heels-in-love with this baby already, it's a different sort of feeling than I had while pregnant with Woodstock.
I know every parent worries if they will have enough love for the second child - and that every time, they are met with a resouding "yes" - but I worry how to make Baby Girl feel special, that she is just as much an individual, and just as loved, as Woodstock is. I'm sure it will happen, but right now, I can't seem to fathom how.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Two Little Girls
This morning we took Woodstock to look at "her baby". She was all excited until she realized it would involve me lying on a table and not holding her (lately she has become very much a "mama's girl"). She squealed in delight at her first view of the baby - the baby's profile, and then promptly went back to her plastic Easter eggs and books.
The tech drug the ultrasound out as long as possible before she got down to the nether regions to discover "the parts." She asked us again if we wanted to know. At this point, I was practially begging her to tell me. Last time? Knowing wasn't such a big deal until the day of the ultrasound. This time, it's consumed me for the last 13 weeks.
Everything looks good. Hard to get a clear shot of the heart since I have an anterior placenta and she is currently transverse breech, which would explain why I rarely feel any movement - Baby's not big enough to kick through the placenta and is sideways. Here's hoping Baby decides to move head down in the next 12 weeks.
I also discovered ultrasounds are painful after 10 weeks of anti-clotting shots. Shouldn't have been a surprise since wearing pants is also painful, but I had to keep reminding the tech that while pushing harder got the baby to move into the correct position, it was also enough to nearly send me into orbit for the pain.
And as it turns out, Woodstock is getting a sister.
We couldn't be happier. Woodstock celebrated by taking a nap after the whole thing was over. It's exhausting for an almost-19-month-old to sit for 45 minutes, after all!
(Of course, you could have just read this post from April 2007 - it says essentially the same thing).
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Beach Vacation, Anyone?
First, I'd like to formally welcome Anna Katherine, the newest member of the extended blogging family to the world. Congrats, Oliver & Kristin!
That aside, now that I've had several days to contemplate the eternities, er, rather contemplate yet another hundreds-of-miles-away move to a new city/state, I'm feeling a bit more settled. Don't get me wrong - packing, moving, unpacking, new doctors, new hospital, new digs, etc. exactly two years after the last major move (and less than a year after the Hobbit-Hole-to-70s-Palace move) is not, in the least bit, exciting. Just thinking about it exhausts me. My only consolation is that this move will involve company-provided movers, meaning THEY can lift the thousand-pound washing machine out of the basement. Poor washer. They weren't made to move this often. The neighbors, however, are cheering, I'm certain ... helping us move twice in the span of a year is a little taxing.
We have NOT formally accepted the offer yet - and won't until month's end - after Himself and I (separately, due to an already planned-for-trip I have for business) do some snooping around for housing and such. However, we are 95% certain that The Beach (expensive housing and all) will be our new home come late spring/early summer. We've been making up Pros list, so as to negate the Cons list that I already had in place before we even had any formal offers about moving.
-70 degrees. Year-round. Okay, not quite, but almost. No Frontier snow, but also no crazy Desert summers. 300 average days of sunshine. A girl could get used to that, especially since the move also comes with water nearby.
-I've actually been there (Himself has never even been to the state, at least one of us has spent a fair amount of time there). This is a bonus, given that I at least can personally vouch for the weather, the food, the things to do, and the public transit.
-Lots to do - Sea World, the zoo, outdoors things, the beach ... and the economy means that "locals" get jaw-dropping discounts.
-A single commute. Himself would be commuting, which means we can centralize our housing search in proximity to his job. I got the full green-light to telecommute and keep my Frontier job. This also adds to the list:
-Have I mentioned the weather? Because it snowed 11" last week in our corner of The Frontier. Apparently, the calendar forgot to remind Mother Nature that it is now Spring and all wet stuff should come in the form of rain. Woodstock and I built a snowman Monday for crying out loud.
-Better place for visitors. Who really wants to visit The Desert unless it's the middle of a deep freeze? No one I know - well, except for Heidi, but she's from there, so that doesn't count. Even my city-adverse father said, "Hey! The Beach would be a much better place to come visit, and it's closer."
-It is, in fact, closer to The Parentals than The Desert (mine, anyway, it will still involve an airplane to Himself's). Okay, truly? Mileage-wise it's about 50 miles further. Time-wise, it's a few minutes closer, due to interstate-only travel (this is, of course, pending you don't leave during California's infamous day-long rush-hours). It doesn't really matter. Family is excited about new pending vacation spot.
It's really happening. I could be the resident of another state within 2 months. Woodstock could be living in her third house in 20 months. Poor kid. I promise we'll slow the moving down when you're in school.
That aside, now that I've had several days to contemplate the eternities, er, rather contemplate yet another hundreds-of-miles-away move to a new city/state, I'm feeling a bit more settled. Don't get me wrong - packing, moving, unpacking, new doctors, new hospital, new digs, etc. exactly two years after the last major move (and less than a year after the Hobbit-Hole-to-70s-Palace move) is not, in the least bit, exciting. Just thinking about it exhausts me. My only consolation is that this move will involve company-provided movers, meaning THEY can lift the thousand-pound washing machine out of the basement. Poor washer. They weren't made to move this often. The neighbors, however, are cheering, I'm certain ... helping us move twice in the span of a year is a little taxing.
We have NOT formally accepted the offer yet - and won't until month's end - after Himself and I (separately, due to an already planned-for-trip I have for business) do some snooping around for housing and such. However, we are 95% certain that The Beach (expensive housing and all) will be our new home come late spring/early summer. We've been making up Pros list, so as to negate the Cons list that I already had in place before we even had any formal offers about moving.
-70 degrees. Year-round. Okay, not quite, but almost. No Frontier snow, but also no crazy Desert summers. 300 average days of sunshine. A girl could get used to that, especially since the move also comes with water nearby.
-I've actually been there (Himself has never even been to the state, at least one of us has spent a fair amount of time there). This is a bonus, given that I at least can personally vouch for the weather, the food, the things to do, and the public transit.
-Lots to do - Sea World, the zoo, outdoors things, the beach ... and the economy means that "locals" get jaw-dropping discounts.
-A single commute. Himself would be commuting, which means we can centralize our housing search in proximity to his job. I got the full green-light to telecommute and keep my Frontier job. This also adds to the list:
- Reduced childcare costs (I will only need someone one day/week for meetings)
- I get to be AT HOME with Woodstock and Baby X. Time will only tell if I'll stay sane being at home and working, but ... for now ... I'm thrilled.
- Flex time. The Beach is an hour behind The Frontier, meaning I'll get off earlier, but telecommuting also means I can work whatever hours I want. Meaning a mid-day trip to the Farmer's markets in La Mesa on Fridays is not out of the question.
- Ironically, it means an increased ability to meet people. No, I won't be in an office, but a flex at-home schedule gives me the option of meeting SAH and WAH moms as well, if we pick the right neighborhood.
-Have I mentioned the weather? Because it snowed 11" last week in our corner of The Frontier. Apparently, the calendar forgot to remind Mother Nature that it is now Spring and all wet stuff should come in the form of rain. Woodstock and I built a snowman Monday for crying out loud.
-Better place for visitors. Who really wants to visit The Desert unless it's the middle of a deep freeze? No one I know - well, except for Heidi, but she's from there, so that doesn't count. Even my city-adverse father said, "Hey! The Beach would be a much better place to come visit, and it's closer."
-It is, in fact, closer to The Parentals than The Desert (mine, anyway, it will still involve an airplane to Himself's). Okay, truly? Mileage-wise it's about 50 miles further. Time-wise, it's a few minutes closer, due to interstate-only travel (this is, of course, pending you don't leave during California's infamous day-long rush-hours). It doesn't really matter. Family is excited about new pending vacation spot.
It's really happening. I could be the resident of another state within 2 months. Woodstock could be living in her third house in 20 months. Poor kid. I promise we'll slow the moving down when you're in school.
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