hard sell

The Realtor is coming today.


Coming to walk through my house and give her educated opinion on whether we have a chance in hell of selling it in this terrible market. Coming to go from room to room making notes on windows and crown moulding and hard wood floors. Coming to examine comps on houses that have sold in the neighborhood, looking at square footage and lot size and number of bedrooms and bathrooms.


We have a history with her. She helped us buy and sell our very first house, a house I thought we'd never see. Now she's coming to play her unwilling part in our cliched little story, hopefully able to help us sell this, our second house - the house I thought I'd never leave.


And I don't even know where to start as far as what I feel about this. I don't want to leave this house. It's my dream house. I can't get out of this house fast enough. It's been totally ruined for me. I'll find some way to keep it. I can't keep it up on my own. It's too big for me and the boys. It's not fair to ask the boys to move again. Back and forth, over and over...like a metronome gone mad.


I'm going to be very limited in options as far as where we'll live. I'll need to buy, what with three kids and three big dogs. We'll need to stay right in the same neighborhood, smack in the middle of the three schools the kids will go to next year. I'll be back working full-time. They'll have to get themselves to and from school. A lot will change.


There's a little bungalow for sale two blocks away. I've gone to look at it and dragged friends with me for second opinions. It's smaller, but it's perfect. It's been on the market for a couple of months, with the price continuing to drop. Finally, it went up for lease. I drove by it several times a day, bargaining with the fates. If the house was still available when we sold ours, it would be an omen of sorts. A very small sign that things were maybe going to look up even slightly.


Thursday I went from room to room in our house, cleaning and rearranging things, trying to make the house look its best. I walked through, trying to see it from an impartial person's view, trying to get some idea of what she would see.


But all I could think of was what she wouldn't see. The landscaping I've planned for two years that I was going to start this spring. The Painted Lady paint job that I have pictured in my head, right down to the smallest trim color. The mosaic tile on the fireplace that I've imagined since the first day we saw the house. A happy family eating dinner out on the sun porch. She wouldn't see any of these things. But I would. In my head. Forever.


When I couldn't take it anymore I took the kids to see a movie. On the way home we drove past the bungalow.


There's a sale pending sign in the yard.

The Thursday Three

Maybe it's been American Idol, maybe it's the fact that my iPod has been running constantly lately, maybe it's even the Paul McCartney/Heather Mills financial judgment, but whatever the reason I've had the Beatles on my mind lately.


I adore the Beatles and always have, so this is not a bad place to be. Some of my very favorite songs ever are Beatles songs, and god knows there are enough amazing ones to choose from. Seriously, what percentage of their songs is considered "classics"? Very, very high. Which makes me a complete misfit to list


Beatle's Classics I Don't Really Like


1. I Want to Hold Your Hand. Love the sentiment. Love the message. Just don't like the song. Don't know why. And it's not that I don't like their bouncy, upbeat songs, because I do. Just not this one.



2. Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Heart's Club Band. There are so many other songs in this collection that are, to me anyway, so much better (She's Leaving Home, A Day in the Life). I realize this is an iconic song for an entire generation. But I'm still not crazy about it.



3. Yesterday. Please direct all hate mail to my email address rather than showing up on my front doorstep. I'm well aware that this is one of the most beloved Beatles songs around, but it leaves me cold. They did so many really poignant things that didn't seem to be trying quite so hard. It's pretty enough, I guess. It just doesn't move me.


Which Beatle's songs don't move you?

oh, nuts

I have just had my butt kicked from one end of our ER to the other for the last two days. I've worked 24 out of the last 32 hours and at this point I'm not sure if I could tell the difference between strep throat and a tubal pregnancy. There are fourteen straggly teenagers screaming at video games downstairs, one twelve year old at a birthday sleepover of his own and one smelly ten year old sleeping sideways on my bed.


My brain is shot. I want sugar.


Specifically, I want cookies. Peanut butter cookies. Soft, chewy peanut butter cookies with little pieces of nuts in them. Warm would be even better. Cold would still work. Peanut butter is one of my favorite security blanket foods. And cookies are another. Together they are the perfect combo.


What's your favorite comfort cookie? Do tell.

soundtracks

My poor kids are not having an easy time. And it's manifesting itself in ways that are both completely expected and totally...not.


Sasquatch, who I expected to retreat to his room and not come out until Christmas, has been very open with me about his feelings and emotions.


Gumby, who I expected to be kind of clingy and weepy, has been sort of standoffish and more than a little mouthy.


Surfer Dude, who I expected to rant and rage, has steadfastly refused - tears in his eyes - to talk about the situation at all.


So much for my superhero mind reading powers.


Then we have the intangibles and the soundtrack.


Sasquatch will be turning sixteen next Sunday and has been obsessively planning his party for a week.


Gumby has been on a building jag and has created a kind of whip out of a light saber handle and a multi-colored jump rope.


Surfer Dude went to a birthday party over the weekend and got one of those heavy rubber balloons on a rubber band that you bounce against your hand. I'm very familiar with the sound, because he's also gotten really clingy and follows me from room to room.


It's Spring Break. And we're all here. And when I say we're all here...I mean we're all here. (Until we figure out what to do with the house the FG is out in the studio). So this is what I hear all day-


Gumby: (cracking the whip). Snap! Snap! Ow! (when he accidentally hits someone) Yelp! (when he accidentally hits a slow dog) You jerk! (when he nails one of his brothers on purpose). Snap!


Surfer Dude: (hitting the balloon). Wham! Wham! Wham! Do you want to come and sit with me, mom? Wham! Wham! Are you in the bathroom? Wham! Wham! Do you want to make pancakes? Wham! Wham!


Sasquatch:(obsessing) Do you think twelve kids is too much for the sleepover (Wham! Wham! Snap! Yelp!) because we had ten last year and it seemed to go okay (You jerk!) and everyone is bringing their TV's and gaming systems (Snap! Snap!) and you don't even need to buy food because if you'll just give me money (Yelp!) we'll walk to the store and buy snacks and is Tuesday okay with you (If you don't put that blessed thing down right this instant I'm going to have a nervous breakdown!) oh wait so and so will be out of town on Tuesday (Wham! Wham!) how about Wednesday no wait a minute Wednesday isn't good either (You jerk!) so what do you think I should do? Snap!


I think Snap! has a nice ring to it, don't you?

code pink redux

The clock is winding down on my pity party and I'm about to rejoin the land of the living. I promise. I really have been keeping up with all of your blogs - I just haven't been commenting like I usually do. But in the meantime, this "oldie but goodie" is for you, Mya. Talk about timing...


During the years I was popping out babies, I always hoped there would be a girl in there somewhere by the time I was done. This desire was based on lots of notions that may or may not be true, but I really hoped, each time that EPT turned blue, that there would an innie at the end of nine months instead of an outie. And as we know, it just wasn't meant to be. I reside in Boyville, a run-down suburb of Testerone Town, where the air is permanently filled with the funky smell of wet toilet seats and well-hidden science experiments. There is no pink in my house unless it's mine, and when my kids misbehave I tell them to expect a Malibu Barbie playset for their next birthday as penance. Works like a charm.


And the thing is...it's okay. It really is. Somehow, over the years, the need for a daughter has gone away. I adore my stinky boys, no matter how much I bitch about them, and am grateful every day of my life that I have them around. I can overlook that sometimes when I'm removing forbidden dirty dishes from bedrooms, and listening to the repetitive whap whap whap of a soccer ball against the wall for hours on end, and when I'm being forced to watch people get to new levels of video games I don't give a rat's ass about and pretending to look interested. It really is okay with me that I don't have a girl.


Part of it is seeing what's going on with my friends and family who do have girls. It really is a different world out there and I'm not sure I'm cut out for it. I have a couple of surrogate daughters I can borrow for a few hours when the mood strikes, but when the estrogen levels get too high I can just send them on their way. I'm well schooled in boy drama, but girl drama, even though I am one, confuses me.


We've had a run of attempted suicides at work the last few weeks and they've all been girls. Girls who have broken up with their boyfriends or been dissed by a "best friend" or wanted badly to get their parent's attention somehow. Beautiful, intelligent, well-loved girls. Girls who come in on stretchers in a blare of sirens. Girls who are unconscious while their hysterical parents stand at the bedside and give police reports. We haven't had one succeed yet, but it's always in the back of my mind, taunting me. Most of the time they aren't even awake when we ship them to ICU or, god help me, peds, but I just want to shake them and ask them what the hell they were thinking. I at least want to share my personal mantra with them, maybe even at the top of my lungs...


There is no man on Earth worth dying for unless you gave birth to him. Period. If you don't have children (or sons) feel free to delete the second half of the sentence and I still stand by it. We had a grown woman with four small children come in OD'd with a note that thanked her cheating husband for finally giving her a reason to kill herself. WTF? This is how you pay him back? I believe in the Roseanne Barr theory - Stay alive and really make 'em suffer. Or here's a thought...be a dignified human being and get on with your life. Model that behavior for your kids. I'm not saying that all females get sucked into this destructive behavior, that's not my point at all. It's the internalization of feelings vs. the externalization that I'm talking about.


Now I'm the first to admit that I've never had a girl patient come in saying she'd been hit with a baseball bat because her friends wanted to see if it would hurt. Never had a girl patient cut by broken glass when she tied a brick to ceiling fan blades to see what would happen. Never once had a girl patient who ate a lit pack of matches on a dare. But we get a lot of boys (and very often men, sadly enough) who seem to think this is all par for the course. And while I think they're idiots I have enough boy experience to almost understand the thought process (or lack thereof).

But the girl drama? I just don't get it. At all.

Sunday Slacker

Just because I'm the laziest blogger in the world, I'm posting a rerun. Hopefully, most of you haven't read this one from last June.



Working in an Emergency Room and before that in a trauma ICU, I'm on a first name basis with Some Dude. Much like Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, he's everywhere, at all times, but unlike these postive icons Some Dude seems to have a more nefarious agenda.



Let me give you a scenario.



Patient comes into the ER with three gunshot wounds and a pocket full of cash. Lots of cash. More cash than I'll be seeing this pay period.


ER Doc: What happened?


Patient: I don't (deleted) know what the (deleted) happened. I was just (deleted) hangin' with my (deleted) boys.


ER Doc: And...


Patient: And then Some Dude (deleted) shot me. Shot me in the (deleted) (fill in the blank). I wasn't doin' a (deleted) thing.



ER Doc: Why do you have all this money in your pockets?



Patient: What (deleted) money are you talkin' about? (deleted) Some Dude must've been tryin' to (deleted) set me up. Make me look bad to my (deleted) boys. Only thing I had in my (deleted) pocket before was my grandma's (deleted) bible and now it's (deleted) gone.



Here's another example...


Guy comes in with an alcohol level off the charts and he's just been jumped. Reeks to the heavens and belligerent to boot.


ER Nurse: What happened?



Belligerent guy: What the (deleted) are you talkin' about (deleted)? I was on my way to (deleted) prayer group and Some Dude jumped on me and kicked my (deleted) (deleted).



ER Nurse: Was it someone you know?


Belligerent guy: (deleted), I never saw the dude in my (deleted) life. He just came out of (deleted) nowhere and (deleted) me up. And you know what else he did? He (deleted) stole my brand new bottle of Vicodin I just (deleted) got filled. Guess you need to (deleted) give me a new one, (deleted).


Not only is Some Dude everywhere, but he has a big family, too. This Dude gets around, as does That Bitch. Often they travel as a gang to prey on the unsuspecting innocent walking to church at three in the morning with one pocket full of cash and the other full of crack, meth or ammunition. As in, "I was mindin' my own business when Some Dude kicked me in the head and then This Dude took my money and then That Bitch drove off."


If you see any of these people I'd advise you to steer clear. Evidently, they're capable of anything. Whatever you do, protect your Bibles and your Vicodin.

and I live in a small town...

This was a Bunco week, but to tell the truth I wasn't too excited about it. I wasn't thrilled about breaking my news to the eight out of eleven other gals who didn't know. We go way back, but I'm finding that there is no real casual way to let this particular cat out of the bag. It's like when you're pregnant and dying to tell someone, but the right moment doesn't come. ("Will that be cash or charge?" "Why yes, thanks, I am pregnant!")


The situation was complicated because we were breaking tradition and not playing at someone's house, due to a home remodeling project gone wild. We were meeting at the local bowling alley instead to do a kind of Lebowski Bunco, which is a horrifying thought in itself and I need to get it out of my head as fast as possible. The thought of standing up in a loud and boisterous bowling alley full of frat boys and spilling my guts didn't do a lot for me, so I decided ahead of time not to. I would catch up with them all later somehow and bring them up to speed. That was the plan, anyway. I should have known better.


When four separate people asked me what the hell was wrong with me, I almost caved. But I didn't. After the bowling most everyone headed to the attached bar. I ducked out and went home, arriving just in time to watch everything in my bedroom that didn't belong to me move out. Do I know how to party or what?


It's taken me the better part of today to put together the pieces of what happened in the bar after I left, but I've finally got it all figured out. All it took was five phone calls and a lot of non-lice head scratching. But here's what took place after I went home - taking my "secret" with me. One of the gals left to go meet someone else in another restaurant. My good buddy Elly Mae, who knows more about this whole situation than any decent human should have to, was having a drink and minding her own business when another of our bunch leaned back on her stool and mouthed "oh, my god, are they getting a divorce??" and EM was left open mouthed and wondering where the hell that came from.


I'll tell you where that came from. The friend who left to go the other restaurant was sitting with a friend there when an acquaintance of hers came up to the table and started chatting. The acquaintance said Hey, don't you know RC? and my friend said Sure do, and the acquaintance, who works with the FG, said Did you hear they're getting a divorce? and my friend said No way and the acquaintance said Way and then my friend picked up her blackberry and texted her best friend in the Bunco bar and said Oh my god, are they getting a divorce?, at which point that friend collared Elly Mae knowing that she would have the full scoop of dirt, and nailed her squirming little body to the wall.


(It kind of reminded me of that college party I was at all those years ago where a guy I'd never met before was telling me all about this couple he had been on a ski trip with who were embarrassing the rest of the group with their, uh, nocturnal noises. I'm not sure which of us was more horrified when we both realized the vocal man in question was my boyfriend at the time who had told me he was going skiing with "the guys". Oops).


There are no secrets in a small town. And that's something this LA girl is learning fast.