Gets to be 4 o’clock, I’m more than happy to let the kids watch PBS Kids. Am I a failure? Shouldn’t we be at the park, or library or something? We do plenty of that — orthodontist appointments, playing at the park, then walking home when it’s nearly dinnertime, running by the library or the store. Some days I just am toast and so are they.

I don’t know what the line-up is now for afternoon PBS kids’ programming, they changed the sked. It used to be something like “Arthur,” “Maya and Miguel,” “Cyberchase” and… something. “Ruff Ruffman”? They are ga-ga mad for Ruff Ruffman. I kind of like him, too. His corny jokes and all. Now it gets to be 6 o’clock, PBS Kids is over and still, no word from my kids. Being a neglectful mother, I’m thinking, good, more time for me to get dinner ready, or have another glass of wine. (Sad, really, me giving up booze re: heart issues. I like a glass of wine.)

A couple of weeks ago I popped into the office. They were in front of the TV, absorbed, and wouldn’t tell me what they were watching.

“Just sit down,” Wacky Boy says.

“What’s the show?” I ask.

“It’s the one show,” Wacky Girl says, eyes glued to the set. “With the two guys. You know.” (Irritated.)

Me: “No, I don’t know.”

“Shhh!” (both kids, in unison.)

You know which show it was? Are you guessing?

That’s right. It’s This Old House. (Which I thought was canceled, but in the 1907-2007 time warp that is My Old House, it’s still on.)

“Oh, this is the good part,” Wacky Boy murmurs. They’re demolishing a kitchen. He’s right, it is the good part. I am a sucker for a good demo, just ask my husband. (Who hissed at me at one point, “No. More. Demo’ing while I’m at work. Got it?”)

My husband walked in at this point.

“What are you guys watching?”

“Just sit down, Dad,” Wacky Boy says.

“Is it…” he starts.

Wacky Boy, gesturing madly, “No talking.”

This afternoon they were both watching PBS Kids again; Wacky Boy was home sick with a cold, which didn’t deter him much from being a maniac. The rest does him good — it means he’s not using the couches as trampolines.

“Good,” his sister tells him. “It’s Monday.”

“‘This Old House,'” he says. “Ready?”

Ready? We’ll be doing some modest landscaping in the front, more radical in the back, patio, two retaining walls, so this family can really enjoy their home, now let’s take a look at this bush out front. No, let’s not. It’s a beautiful bush — lush and green.

“They’re going to chop it down!” I say, horrified. (But not, because, you know. I’ve watched the show before. And I’ve been talking with realtors for the last week. We are now in negotiations because they want to sell our house for $12 and I think it’s worth more. I think it’s worth $15, minimum. “The market is so smooshy right now! You’ll be lucky to get $12 for it.” Argh.)

You think it looks healthy, from the outside, this bush, but the inside, look. (Obviously, it is healthy, it’s huge and verdant.) (They rip the bush apart.) All. Dead. Wood. (I think if you click on that link above you will see the bush in question.) It blocks the house! You can’t see anything out front but the bush! It must go.

“It’s not dead, it’s frickin’ healthy,” I say. “What do they know?”

Wacky Boy, satisfied, “Yep. They’re taking it down.”

Honestly, people who don’t know gardening have no busy selling houses or doing big exterior remodeling jobs. I spit on them.

We started packing up our house and paring down after Hurricane Katrina. Because you just never know when a hurricane is going to tear through, even in placid Portland, Ore.

Naw, it was because my girlfriend R, an old friend of my sister’s and mine, lost her house in New Orleans and almost everything in it. She, her husband and her kids were okay, and sometimes, that’s enough. But they lost all their stuff, see? No stuff! So I packed up roughly half of my house and sent it to them. I had too much stuff, anyway.

R’s sister, C, wrote Diary from Louisiana entries about their experiences for my blog, so their friends would have a place to find them and know what was going on in their world. You’ll find the posts here, here, here, here, here, here, here and also here.

Me at the post office, mailing another three boxes: “You got a rate for ‘We’re in Deep Shit, Louisiana, please help’?”
Post office guy: “Nope. I wish we did.”
Me: “Gimme book rate.”

I mailed them towels, dishes, toys, toothpaste, toiletries, videos, books, sheets. Basically anything that would fit into a box, didn’t weigh too much, and that I could tape shut and not have the box break open. My sister and our friends mailed them some stuff, too, and some people kicked in a little money.

That is what you call “love in a box,” my friend.

They shared it all out, then they sent us a King Cake for Mardi Gras, and a thank you note. A thank you note! This undid me. I love Southern girls. They are thoughtful, even in the time of a crisis. I have not heard from them in awhile and I miss them. They are nice girls, you’d like them.

So what I’m saying is, how can I have so much junk to pack? We are anti-junk here. We’re not compulsive shoppers, we share the love, we don’t have any excessive habits. I am a little intimidated by how much we have to pack — dishes, towels, plastic dohickeys, toys, clothes, books…

Hockey God, on packing: “I’m not opposed to throwing it all in boxes and just taking it to the new place. I’ve done it before.”

That was just what I needed to hear. So if I’m not blogging much? It’s cuz I’m packing.

Do you want to talk about ugly dropped ceilings? Soffits? My overgrown garden and yard? How to fix up a house and sell it? How to make an offer on a new house, way across town, even when you haven’t sold the old house yet? Oh, let’s talk about that here and now. (For the rest, head over to my new post on Grasshopper, “Where You See Corn, Your Realtor Will See Weeds.”)

We put a contingent offer on a house today. A big house, a fancy house that is way across town where I have never lived before. It has woods and greenspaces nearby, and is 10 minutes from my husband’s work.

Ten minutes. It takes him an hour and a half sometimes to get home now. (Usually it’s a mere 45 minutes.) (I count the minutes.) (The kids count the minutes, and fall apart.) (Usually because I’m attempting to make dinner and be a good little homemaker, to make his commute worth his while.) (I should make him martinis, don’t you agree?)

Ten minutes away? We could have nooners.

That is, f we weren’t too busy unpacking all 847 boxes of our junk.

We could have a nooner right now (it’s 2:10 p.m., but whatever) if we weren’t shell-shocked by the four-page list our realtor laid on us of everything we need to do. It includes, but is certainly not limited to:

* Ripping out the carpet in our room, Wacky Boy’s room, the stairs and the hallway.
* Cleaning. “Sparkly clean! Really, really sparkly clean!” (Will ponder this.)
* Clean up garden, tear down cornstalks, prune, weed, edge.
* Put up “light, airy” curtains and valances.
* Relocate the neighbor and her appliances which she is fond of leaving in her driveway.
* Relocate the cats because They Stink.
* “Sparkly clean!” This means you, windows.
* Re-do grout on sinks and shower.
* Buy a new doormat.
* Buy a new door.
* Install the new door. (Hockey God hates hanging doors. Hockey God just checked with the neighbor, who is a whiz at installing doors. Neighbor will install door.)

Gotta motor, more later…

Love,

Miss Sparkly Clean

* Planet Nomad is BACK and enjoying her new house.

* We’re next.

* I am getting excited about moving, but not so excited about weeding the yard and cleaning.

* When people say, “You need to put a little elbow grease into it,” do you think, “Perdon?” I do.

* I mean, “elbow grease”? What the heck?

* I’m taking the kids to my mom’s for the day, they are ecstatic. So is she. Move across town means longer drive to Grandma’s. My mom lives 20 minutes away right now, we’re pretty spoiled. She and my sister came over for dinner last night — we had Thai take-out so we could keep packing and working on projects. It will be a big change living across town from them — we’ve always lived nearby each other, with a few short exceptions here and there. My sister, “We’ll drive over, don’t worry.” (Yeah, cuz I’ll be holding her niece and nephew hostage, heh heh.)

* Webkins is fun for hours and hours and hours if you are a 5 or 8 year old.

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(More from the travel files — wm)

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My former roommate, praying loudly at the breakfast table, circa 1992

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Thirteeners and Usual Suspects,

Did you miss me half as much as I missed you? I don’t know if that is possible, cuz I missed you a lot! We were on vacation, through Oregon, Idaho, Utah, Wyoming and Colorado. It was fun. It was fantastic. It was so much fantastic fun that I am having trouble settling back in to “real” life and instead, am dreaming of this 13… (more…)

(I wish we were still on the road. WM)

We’re not skiing, duh, it’s August 6th. But we did drive through Utah today. Their rest areas are impeccably clean. The cliffs and rocks really do look like something out of a road runner cartoon. We saw a police road block.

me: What, did someone drink a Coke?
Hockey God: heh heh heh. (more…)