Thanksgiving Recap: Quick Shots

Here are the highlights.

TWO TURKEYS (!!) lovingly crafted by the Turkey Nazi Master, Carl.

(only some stuffing with chestnuts and raisins, so as not to scare off those seeking the utmost in stuffing tradition). For those not in the know, it is best to vacate all areas occupied by the Turkey Master while turkey is in progress. Those choosing to disregard this warning in effort to give stuffing advice or offer basting assistance imperil life and limb. It is best to simply clear out and let the magic happen.

My totally freakin-cool pumpkin apple soup with chives and bananas on the side (inspired by a friend at Friends Thanksgiving) served IN A PUMPKIN (inspired by Alton Brown). I am so fancy.

My new niece, Ava. Also, my take-the-picture-now face. I was holding the mask aside and holding my breath so I didn't steam my cough germs down onto the baby's perfect non-diseased-riddled face. Despite my purple-puffy eye circles, I am quite blissful at this moment. November has been an exhausting month-exhausting, delightful, and endlessly amazing.

The first snow of the year!

Apparently, Ava made her great entrance at the precise moment that the snow started to fall.

Wendy insisted on going outside and licking flakes out of the air for as long as I could park my preggo hipposaurus butt on the cold front step.


Also pictured: the Great Dark Blur. Commonly known as Duke the Un-Photographable. He was enchanted by the snow as well. Later, he was enchanted by the random turkey and stuffing scraps dropped surreptitiously near his nose by guests. It was a good holiday for Dog, too.

BUT WAIT!

What about the extra $12,000??

This is the part of the show where someone notices the announcement for the talent show, where the prize is exactly $12,000. Then we enter this talent show, dance around with jazz hands, and win Win WIN!

Stay tuned for the glitter-fabulous conclusion to our homeownership escapade!

With A Little Help From Our Friends...

This is how it all went down.

We went to court, and The Man says that we are right, contracts do exist for a reason, and yes, we are entitled to buy our house when we have a contract of sale and $72,000 invested. (YAY!)

However. In order to get Farmer Insane to agree that the sky is blue without going through a bunch more legal junk, we made a crappy deal where he gets more money. Also, one of the other faces of The Man also dictates that in order to buy the house, we must pull off some magic tricks around the property to make it habitable and worthy in the eyes of The Man.

This is the part in the show where we momentarily despair, and the cutest of us all buries her face in her hands, wailing, "How are we ever going to paint the entire barn and come up with an extra $12,000 in just three weeks?"

(What does barn paint have to do with the habitability of our house? IF YOU KNOW, PLEASE TELL ME.)

Ever intrepid, and not easily daunted by The Man, we decided that this is all totally doable. Crossing our fingers and hoping that our collective sarcasm and offensive sense of humor has charmed and not alienated everyone we know, we put out a call to our friends and family to come for a barn painting party (or, as my propaganda-minded cousin Dylan put it, a "labor festival"). We promised beer, punch, and pie to those willing to lend a hand. And, my dudes, people came.

All weekend, we were like the Amish-except with blasting stereos and paint sprayers. Folks pitched in and helped a neighbor to make this happen:

BEFORE

AFTER

We are talking about eighteen adults (plus five enthusiastic kids) and approximately 6000 square feet of painting covered in two days. (The lovely Mary even painted the birdhouse white and green to match.) People just rock. Or they really like pie and free beer. Mostly, they rock.

I sit in awe and gratitude at the kindness that came our way this past weekend. Thank you, friends, from every corner of our hearts. If you need a cup of sugar, or help moving, or help hiding incriminating evidence, or someone to feed your terrifying exotic pets while you are away-you know who to call.

Between Us and Mr. Insane

I haven't been writing much lately. Most of the stuff that's actually going on with me right now, the stuff I want desperately to write about, I shouldn't. Law suits that I'm not sure would be great to talk about online. Serious family upset that is not my story to tell, and too touchy to air publicly, anyway.

I can tell you about this, though. Or, at least, I think I can. I don't know. Let's see if I can get myself sued.

One of the many ongoing awkward aspects of our current living situation (you know, the situation where a guy is wrongfully trying to throw us out) is the pony that the owner keeps here.

This guy has a whack job very curious notion of what it means to take care of an animal. He goes for weeks-sometimes months-without cleaning the pony's stall. Keeps her in this disgusting environment for weeks on end, though there is a paddock for her to graze in not twenty feet away. Waters her in an algae-coated bucket. Gives us the delightful choice between complicity in a serious case of animal abuse and the potential fallout of turning our landlord in for it.

Over the years that we have been here, Carl has taken it upon himself to put her out to munch on grass and get some sun from time to time, and clean her stall when it gets really really bad. As things became kind of testy between us, the whack job owner of the pony and property responded to Carl's interference (and apparent rude condemnation of the owner's mad pony care skills) with a padlock on the stall door. He claimed at one point that he doesn't want her to be out to graze because of "West Nile Virus." He also claimed that giving her apples and carrots will cause her to "get founder." He says these things with the stubborn-old-German-man tone in his voice that suggests his absolute knowledge of all things, and indicates that we can just go to hell.

I think this man is insane. (What is that that I just did? Libel? Slander? Well, it's too late now. He's evil too. And probably a closet cross dresser with a baby chicken f**king fetish.) (No offense to cross dressers. I like you folks. You're fun.)

This is where the awkwardness has come in. We are leasing our home from this insane person. We were supposed to buy it this year. Things over the past two years went from fine to tense to outright hostile, and now he is doing his best to get us removed from the property. And oh yeah, we're not sure he's stable. We're not sure we won't come home to our stuff on the lawn and our doors and windows boarded over.

This year, I poked around with some animal PA rescue/advocacy groups, to see if there is something they could do, but with no luck. Carl and I constantly stew in a soup of our own guilt-I mean, we have visions of late-night rescue missions, with ski masks and horse trailers, where we liberate the poor thing and...I don't know...what? Drop her off at the animal shelter? Spirit her to Canada where she will be taken in by kindly Canadian pony herders? Get her adopted by circus folk?

Wendy and I feed her handfuls of grass and apples (I checked with some relatively sane horse people that I know-Hi, B!-apples are in fact okay for horses) from time to time when chicken f**ker the owner isn't around. I haven't really known what else to do about it without making the already bad situation between us and Mr. Insane more confrontational. And possibly get our cats abducted and made into cat sausage over a fire somewhere.

Well, it doesn't get much more confrontational than a guy wrongfully trying to get my family evicted. Awkwardness solved!

I don't know if you know any other six-month pregnant chicks, but we are totally willing to get confrontational right back. Last month, after emailing and calling a few different entities, I finally emailed the right person at the local SPCA, and a humane society investigator showed up the next day! Like an avenging angel! Well, not really. But still-

HOORAY! JACKPOT!

This benevolent protector of creatures everywhere had a badge and a bucket of reassurance that I had done the right thing by contacting him. He didn't take the pony away to her new life as a little girl's best friend, like I hoped he would, but he did issue a warning and threaten fines and whatnot.

Mr. Insane cleaned the pony stall, put the pony out for a week...

...and then stopped.

*****to be continued*****

Dear Cuppey-Cake,

We had an eviction hearing to go to on a Thursday, and on that following Sunday, you brought home a piano. A. Piano. Before we found out if we were to be evicted this month. (We were not. Maybe next month.)



You are stubborn like-

irrational like-

utterly confident in your righteousness like-

Some kind of daughter of yours. They like the piano. They like playing it together. It is very sweet.


I suppose that I should say that they are, in these ways, like you-but you are still responsible. Hey, don't look at me, buddy. I'm not the one brazenly shoving a piano into our already over-cluttered home when we might have to move it out again in three weeks because it was free. I shall remind you-we already have three extra (ugly and free) couches in this house. THREE! THREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!

Upon considerable contemplation, I have decided that you are more charming than exasperating in this matter. I will not punish you, as I originally planned, by learning to play the entire book of Joyful Christian Children's Hymns that we found in the bench. I think a smashed finger, smushed elbow, and strained back are punishment enough. Not to mention Marc's horrendously ripped shorts, which I won't, because of the PTSD I am experiencing after practically inserting my head into said shorts whilst reaching for the rolling thingie beneath the piano, every bone in both hands perilously close to being crushed...my face moments away from the a high probability of sharing a sharting incident, as he valiantly sweat and strained and quivered, trying to not drop the whole piano on me.


Ahem. Like I said. Charming. I have decided to rule this one "charming." I have actually decided that I like the piano, and you may just be insane.

However. I do require your assistance in putting back all of the stuff that you moved out of the way to make room for the piano. I am pregnant, so I shouldn't really be moving stuff. I'll learn how to play the score of Oliver and some choice Disney tunes while you do that, k?

Love you!
Mean it!

~Mo

When Our Dryer Breaks...

(*cue emotional music*)

...I tell him that it is not an emergency. Because it's not. We still have heat and water. And light. Our food is still cold. The internet still works. We can deal, for a while, without a dryer.

And actually, we have alternatives. These alternatives come with a whole box of springless clothespins that we found here in a wooden box.

Solar and wind! Harness the awesome POWER! Also, free. Harness the awesome freedom from having to buy $60 dryer parts!!!

Do you like how the clothes line is right next to the old outhouse?

Right now, I don't know why we haven't done this the entire time. (Mo, its called WINTER. And also LAZINESS. Oh right. Thanks.) Maybe in a few weeks, I'll change my tune about this. I will decide that trying not to drop the wet laundry into the freshly mown grass clippings while yelling at Duke to get out of the basket through a mouthful of old-tymey clothes pins is a pain in the ass.

I don't know.

Maybe I won't. Look, call me kinky, but sometimes I dig playing 40's housewife. (With a college degree and the legal right to open my own bank account.)

I have to be honest here-I don't really smell the sunlight in my clothes, or anything. I hate to break it to you all, but dryer sheets do not smell like the actual outdoors. A whiff of my authentically line-dried PJs does not evoke spring rain and wildflower meadows. Unless you count the pollen accumulation, which I don't, because I don't have allergies.

Wendy thinks that we don't need a fixed dryer, either, because this gives us a capital excuse to go outside.

"Come push me on the swing."
"Meh."
"Don't you have laundry to hang, woman?"

******************

Dear Baby Jesus,
I just wrote a whole blog entry about laundry. Please send me more employment soon.
Love,
Handmade Apron Fetish in PA.

Rain, Rain, Wash it Away

Last night, it rained.

We have had the windows open in our bedroom for the past few nights, and the windows in the hallway, too. The breeze is intoxicating, after a winter of being sealed in for warmth...after months of stale heat and dark mornings.

Carl and I have not been sleeping very well. We are neck-deep in this land war with the man who was supposed to sell us our house this year. On the surface, it is all paperwork. Title companies and signatures and loan requirements and certified letters crossing each other in the mail.

On the surface, it is an cold game of chess. The pieces are made mostly of paper, teetering fortresses of files and insubstantial, pale figures that ride through the edges of the playing field...cardboard-cutout knights who can save you or slay you with one slash of a pen. They make a move move; we make a move. Pretty cut-and-dry. No dramatic scenes in courtrooms. No impassioned speeches. No winning of talent shows to raise $20,000 in a weekend. In the end, we will shuffle the right piece of paper and win, or we will run out of moves.

Under the surface, it is not so simple.

Our roles seem to change with every new development, and it is hard to know where we really stand. Are we the Kings and Queens today? Or are we the pawns? It turns out that the uncertainty is the same. You can't see the whole board, no matter who you are, and it isn't as easy to sacrifice the castle when you've planted the gardens there, yourself.

At night, we snuggle into bed with Wendy, secure for the moment in the company of each other. We know that this, really, is our home. Me and Carl and Wendy and Erin. Wherever we are. We know that. But we don't sleep. We have restless dreams. Carl wakes up and roams the house in the wee hours, and I take forever to drift off. I lay with my mind turning it over and over, staring at the columns of numbers in my head...

the savings account
plus the profit from this job he's on now
minus the income taxes that he owes
minus the appraisal fee
minus the bills
plus my tax return
plus the first installment on his next job
minus the lawyer's deposit
plus next month's teaching hours
minus the closing costs
...does it equal a house?
...if we add it up right, do we get to stay?

Last night, it rained, and I slept.

I half-woke sometime during the storm, and I almost got up to close the windows. Instead, I listened to the rain. I breathed in the clean air. I threw my arm across Wendy and rested my hand on Carl's back. The ink ran from my hovering math problems. The numbers smeared...blue droplets streaming away from melted paper-mache palaces...

Then, I slept hard, all the way through til morning, with no dreams.

Net Worth of Summer Vacation

This is a PRE VACATION entry that did not post. So I am posting it now, on August 20th.

In Culture:
-I began reading Audrey Nefeneger's The Time Traveler's Wife last Tuesday at three in the morning, and finished reading it around noon last Friday. I have already said this to her, but I'd like to thank Steph for lending this to me. It monopolized my whole week (I missed out on a lot of sleep and socializing to read this book) and destroyed me emotionally. And now I find out that there is going to be a movie!! Win.
-I also read three terrible Anita Blake vampire hunter novels. Bad writing. Drained many brain cells. Loss.
-I became addicted to True Blood. Also drained many brain cells, but the writing is much better. Delightful waste of time. Win.
Speaking of movies, Harry Potter. Need I say more? WIN.
Cultural score: net 2

On the job front:
-I have applied to the seven English teacher jobs that are available within a 20 mile radius and do not involve flack jackets and the city. I have heard back from one of them for an interview. Win.
-This interview will take place in the middle of my vacation. I must drive five hours back from the other side of PA for a twenty minute interview. Loss.
Job score: net 0

Home and Garden:
-The mortgage company is going to give us a mortgage! This should be a Win, right? No.
The owner of the house that we have lived in for five years has decided that he is not going to honor the part of the contract where he said that he would sell us the house. We are talking to a lawyer. Motherfucking Fuckballs. Loss.
-The...um...tomatoes are tomatoing? Win.
-Ooh, I have a good one. Wendy and I have had an amazing month of us-time. We go to the park, we play in the baby pool, we hang out in the yard. It has been awesome. Have you ever wondered how long you have to pretend to be something before you actually become that thing? You hope that at some point, all the pins will fall in and everything will click. You hope that the fleeting moments of beauty that you know this thing can be will actually gel into a whole solid truth that you can really get your arms around. Okay, the you in this scenario is really me, and despite all of the stress of the house situation and the job situation and every other situation going on around here, this past month has been a revelation built of dandelions and butterfly-print bathing suits.
Home score: net 3 (+1 for tomatoes and +2 for truth and beauty.)

Summer Vacation net score: Stocks are up 5.
BUY BUY BUY!

I'm off to Pennsic now. (like five minutes ago, actually) I am planning to take a few minutes to blog via cell phone. Ta for now, all!

Couch Wars

Again, the couch:house ratio is out of balance. Last weekend, we scored a giant Ikea job that will not fit in Steph and Ryan’s apartment, and put it in our living room. As is our practice, we have retained the old couch-i.e., shoved it in the Christmas tree corner of our living room-while we bond with the new couch. The new relationship with the younger, prettier model might work out. In that event, we will have the old couch as a fall-back. While we deal with our commitment issues, we have two couches in our living room. The new(er) one in the picture is the discontinued Ekescog model, as we discovered online. It turns out that I could have just looked at one of the slipcover tags, instead of fruitlessly combing through Ikea’s annoying website for an hour. Dur. (Also, do you like the My-Size Barbie legs poking out, Wicked-Witch style? Me too.)

Couch time is usually family time. Carl and I attempt to watch grown-up TV, and Wendy wedges herself between us and demands Dora or Max & Ruby every thirty seconds. We think that making screeching noises, planting her head in my armpit and lodging her big toe between Carl’s ribs provides her with a sense of security. It reminds her of the baby-hood she spent in our bed.

The periodical double-couch situation provides the novel option for both adults to lie like broccoli at the same time while watching The Daily Show. In theory, one of us will get a whole couch to ourselves. A beautiful whole five minutes, baby-toe free!

For the proprietor of The Toes, this set-up precipitates an ultimate conundrum: which parent can I monopolize most effectively? Can I do both at the same time? How can I effectively streamline my attention-gleaning strategies to maximize cuddle-time while disallowing cross-cuddling, thereby assuring my genetic dominance over this genetic pool?

Wendy: Daddy, read it again.
Daddy: I want to go over and cuddle Mommy.
Wendy: Actually, I want to cuddle Mommy.
Mommy: You can cuddle Mommy too.
Wendy: But I want Daddy to stay on that other sofa.
Mommy: Mommy wants both of you to cuddle me.
Wendy: Only Wendy.
Daddy: That's not fair.
Mommy: What if I cuddle Daddy over there?
Wendy: That's my Daddy, not your Daddy.
Mommy: True. Also Irrelevant.
Wendy: Daddy is my best friend.
Daddy: Wow. That’s nice.
Mommy: Don’t let her play with your emotions. That’s how she gets you.
Daddy: But-can’t we all just cuddle on the big couch?
Wendy: *flings body across Mommy* NOOOOOOOOO! I DON’T LIKE DADDY!! ONLY MOMMY!!
Mommy: It wouldn’t hurt so bad if you steeled yourself against her wiles.

Living with a two year-old is kind of like having a jealous sibling. If you and your sibling were both under five and negotiated territory deals with third world country war lords.

In Which I Use My Wifey Voice

Carl: There's this canoe on Craig's List. It's only two hundred dollars.
Me: You know, we could really use two hundred dollars for other things that are not canoes. Like closing costs.

Carl: But. I want a canoe. I've wanted a canoe for a long time.

Me: You know what you've also wanted for a long time? A house.

Carl: But...two hundred dollars is a really good price for a canoe. Don't you think that I work hard and deserve a canoe for the purpose of much-needed rest and relaxation?

Me: I love you and I know that you deserve rest and relaxation. You know where you can rest and relax? A house. That you own.

Carl: .........You're really not going to help me justify this one, are you?

Me: Nope.

Carl: Damn.

*two days later*

Nana: I thought that if you wanted some fishing time or something, I would volunteer my services.

Carl: That would be awesome. Yes. When?

Me: We have a new canoe, don't we.

Carl: .............*grin*

I would say that I need to work on the inflection of sour disapproval, but I know that he heard it. And I don't really mind. (Except that we really do need to be saving the dough for house stuff right now. Frack.)