Morphing into Mama

This Should Tell You How Hot It Is Here

What I Did My First Week of Summer Vacation

After dropping the children off at preschool/daycare on Monday, I decided to celebrate my very first day of summer vacation with a grande nonfat latte.  After an hour or so of leisurely sipping, I felt energized and headed of to pilates class.  After a rigorous workout, I traded in my sneakers for flip flops and went for a pedicure.  As my toes were scrubbed and polished, I browsed through the latest issue of People while chatting on the phone with a friend.  Feeling relaxed and refreshed, I took my pretty toes home to fetch them the fancy sandals they now deserved and change into my favorite Prada sundress.  Then, I got back in the car and raced to meet the girls in the Bu for a lite 3 martini lunch.  Once I'd sobered up enough to drive, I went home to take a nice long nap.  I awoke around 5 o'clock, which gave me just enough time to pick up the kids, drop them off at the sitter's and head over to a champagne Botox party.  Then . . .

[sound of record scratching]

Wait a minute.  That's not what I did this week.  Well, I did drink a latte, but the rest of it?  Uh, no.  I don't own a Prada sundress -- I don't even know if she makes sundresses -- and since we bought this house, the only pedicure I'm gettin' is the one I give myself. 

I must have gotten myself confused with one of those Real Housewives of Orange County, which I watched for the first time on Monday morning.  It was the most embarassing, stupid show I have ever seen -- even more so than Nick and Jessica -- and I couldn't take my eyes away from it.  Not even for a second.  Then, an hour later, it was over, and I felt kinda sick.  You know, the kinda sick you feel after you've eaten a glazed donut.  While you're eating it, you think, "This is the best thing EVER!"  But as soon as you take that last bite, and the sugar is coursing through your veins, you start to feel slightly woozy as a rock forms in the pit of your stomach.  So, I had to turn off the tellie and do something productive for fear I might suddenly grow a bad nose job and stripper boobs. 

For my first task, I went outside pulled weeds and trimmed trees.  Then I decided to paint our back hallway because its current dark color makes it feel like a bat cave, and as I told Husband, "It's a hallway.  How hard can it be?" 

You're shaking your head at me, aren't you?  That was Husband's response, too.

You'll be shaking your head even harder when I tell you that the back hallway has 3 doors and is primarily wainscoting.  So, you see, it turns out painting the hallway is much, much harder than it looks, which is why I've been up late every night this week sanding, wood puttying, and priming.  It's only been a week into vacation, and I'm totally fucking exhausted.

Maybe those Orange County housewives ain't so dumb after all.

Holy Shit! It's A Christmas Miracle!

“Well, Merry Christmas, Honey!  Hope it fits!” said Husband as he slid over the papers for me to sign.

“Holy shit.  I can’t fucking believe this.  This is unreal!  Can you believe this?  We got it!  We got our house!  Our fucking dream house!  They fucking accepted our offer!  Oh, Honey, this is such a kick-ass Christmas gift!  God bless us everyone.” 

Okay, so that last part I didn’t actually say, but I am so elated, I almost could have.  After two depressing years of searching and thinking we would never, ever be able to buy a house anywhere in or around California, we’re actually buying one.  For a good price.  And it’s not just any house.  This is, in fact, our dream house.  It’s a five bedroom, 2 bath Craftsman that has been redone.  That’s right, people, it’s not some dilapidated piece of crap that needs to be torn down so a real house can built like everything else we saw within our price range.  No.  We can actually move into it and live in it!  Isn’t that amazing?  Are you just dying?  I know I am! 

The kitchen has been – redone.  The bathrooms have been – redone.  The hardwood floors have been – refinished.  The garage has been – redone.  And when I say “redone,” I don’t mean 1980’s Miami-Vice-inspired redone.  I mean Craftsman-character-maintained redone.  Plus, it has a new heating system, new electrical, and all new copper plumbing.  And it has a full basement – something completely unheard of in California. 

The fifth bedroom is downstairs and is large enough to be a family room.  The living room has a floor to ceiling fireplace.  The dining room and living room have built-ins.  I mean, I could just go on and on and on . . . but I’m probably already boring you, so I won’t.

How did this miracle come to be?  Well, I have no idea.  All I can say is that it feels almost mystical.  Was it God, the Universe, Allah, Buddha, or mere coincidence?  Frankly, I don’t know.  But who or whatever brought us this Christmas miracle, I’d just like to say, “THANK YOU!”

God bless us everyone. 

There.  I said it.

See MIM Try to Buy a House

“Hello?”

“Hi.  We were at the open house today on Fair Oaks, and we’d like to put in an offer.”

“How much were you thinking?”

“Well, we’d thought we’d start with the asking price of $700,000.”

“Oh, well we already have two offers at $732,000, so to even be considered your offer would have to be at least $750,000.”

“750?” 

“Yes.”

“Uh-huh.  Well, according to public record this house was last bought on August 1 of this year for $570,000.  Now you’re telling me that just because you slapped some paint on the walls and installed a Home Depot kitchen, I’m supposed to offer you nearly $200,000 above what you paid for it only 3 months ago?”

“We don’t own the house, Ma’am.  An investor does.”

“Really?  Because when I asked your assistant who owned the house, she started fidgeting like her thong was suddenly too tight.  Hmph.  Well, then you must work exclusively with this ‘investor’ since every time I see your name on a house, it’s got new paint and that same Home Depot kitchen.  Not to mention the same prop furniture you use to make it seem like someone really lives there when clearly no one does.”

“Ma’am –“

“So now you want me to pay seven hundred AND FIFTY THOUSAND dollars for a three bedroom house of only 14oo square feet on a busy street with a bus line, and schools I can’t send my kids to if I actually want them to learn how to read and write?”

“Are you –“

“All I’m trying to do is give my kids a home that’s a step above the squalor we’re currently renting while you and your 'investor' try to wring every cent out of my honest hardworking husband.  Well, you can take your fucking Home Depot kitchen and suck my [BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEEP], and my Husband’s [BLEEP, BLEEP], and shove that house up your ‘investor’s’ [BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEEP, BLEEP]!  Fuckwad.”

[The preceding was censored for extremely explicit language.  This is, after all, a friendly parenting blog.  Additionally, some of the dialogue occurred only after MIM hung up the phone.]