This old, odd, outstanding house

On Tuesday, our house will officially be on the market. From that point forward, it's up to us to keep the home clean and smelling like an Old Yankee Candle, while the bricks and mortar attempt to strut their 20's-era charm and mojo to win over onlookers and ogglers.

Let's cross our fingers that they oggle... and linger... and ooh and ahh and fall in love, like we did a little over three years ago.

But just like Buttafuoco and Fisher, relationships lose their luster. And although we still really, really, really do love this home, it's time to move on. For many a reason. Let me show thee...


Laminate faux marble counter tops. These designer-imposter surfaces speak all for themselves. And right now I hear them whispering, "We're not fooling anyone!" 

People in the early 1900's apparently had no shoulders. Because I have to turn every one of my hangers to a 45 degree angle in order to fit my clothes in my closet and shut the door.

One, yes only ONE, sad porcelain throne, people! 'Nuff said.

This is a random, second-story porch only accessible through Mac's room. If we move his bed out of the way first. I'm sure he would appreciate this perfect escape route as a teenager, but right now it's littered with leaves and the stares of our neighbor's children at eye-level since their father built a large tree house on our property line. Speaking of which...

Ahh...so nice of them to give us this beautiful view from our peaceful backyard. And so appropriate in the city. Because we really do appreciate your 7-year-old daughter perching 12 feet directly above us to throw orange peels at our dog while she watches us grill steak.

I know, I know. All old homes have their quirks. And I do appreciate most of them. But what is this light fixture? I've tried finding a replacement globe in stores, online, in the trash (kidding), but nothing fits this prehistoric contraption. We even bought an entirely new sconce, but the old knob and tube wiring is too complicated to figure it out. So granny's etched berries it is.

Something in this room just doesn't fit. Oh, maybe it is the 1994 after-market octagon window that was shoved in adjacent to the bedroom closet door. Makes sense. No need to put it in a more desirable, aesthetic location. The corner will do.

And I digress...for today. Enough of poking fun at this nearly 90-year-old abode. Because as I sit here in this still, cozy home writing and posting, I'd rather reflect on the one million reasons why it will be hard to leave this house. That post is for tomorrow.

Standing tall on the wings of Jaime's dreams

In a few months, I must don the following glittery Charlotte Russe shoes as part of my bridesmaid ensemble for my fabulous to-be sister-in-law's slow demise -- I mean, wedded bliss.

Six-plus inches of razzle-dazzle is all that will lay between my steadfast soles and the unforgiving, compacted hard earth come mid-November, folks. And I'm scared. But please do know that I looooove these blingy shoes; I heart sparkles and paired with the flowy, black tea-length dress all us gals will be wearing, the wedding photos are sure to turn heads. If my stumbling down the aisle doesn't first.

Thus, to help absorb the potential for disaster within that wobbly six-plus inches of additional height, I need to learn to walk like a super-model. And fast. So I bought some "professional" super-high, high-heels in which to practice. Daily. At work.

(Yes, I totally took a photo of my own foot. Ewe.)

Let me just say ... Blisterfest 2011. I mean, how do women walk in these things? There's no "heel, toe" when you are this high up in the air. I feel like I'm bouncing down the hallways like a little girl trying on her mother's shoes for the first time. Is there some secret I never learned as a pre-teen girl? Some magical trick that my junior high friends forgot to teach me in order to now walk strong and "own it" like other women I see out on the streets in fantastically tall shoes? (Thanks a lot, Sharon.)

I may be crazy, but I'm going to lay part of the blame for my swollen tootsies on the fact that I have abnormally small feet for my height - I wear size 7 shoes and am nearly 5'8". Less square inches on which to steady myself. And, I'm convinced that smaller-sized shoes will have a greater incline between where your toes go and the heel.

...I really think I'm right on this one.

Anyway, practice apparently makes perfect, so I will do whatever I can over the next two months to ensure that I'm not the dorky old mom getting the "OMG" stares as I attempt to strut down the runway...errr, aisle. But until then, I will continue to curse that perfectly lady-like Shania broad. Because man, I DON'T feel like a woman.

Smorgasbord

Smith's Deli. Noodles. The Elevator. Bar Louie. Barrio. Gumby's.

We can't stop eating out. It's an epidemic in our household, and I just don't know how to curtail the issue.

Pizza? At least once a week.
Take out? Routine.
Sit down and eat and spend way too much? Every weekend.

Why? Because it is just so darn easy. And relaxing. And we don't have the time to cook.

Well maybe we have the time. We could certainly try to make the time. But it takes some prime time to prepare a meal, and when I finally get home after working and picking up the kiddo, the last thing I want to do is throw on an apron. And I'm hungry now. Like really, really hungry. N.O.W.

Brian insists that I keep granola bars in my bag at all times so I can take the edge off of my hunger as needed. Because I will turn into a super grouchy Gremlin as the night wears on, if dinner is postponed. If you are sitting with me in a traffic jam on I-71 past 6:30pm, you better hope that Mr. Quaker has a yummy chocolate chunk treat within arm's reach. Or I will shut down.

I thought that having a child would push us to gather around the table more often. And we do; the table is just among a few dozen others at some local eatery. We are also very lucky to have some great, healthy options around town. Or if we feel like being bad, we at least bring something nutritious for Mac on the side.

Which is a funny thing. Because we prepare nearly gourmet food for Mac daily. We have to take his lunch to school (daycare) each day, and I ensure all food groups are present in his home-made meals. Sometimes Brian and I will be in the kitchen together at 10pm for an hour pulling together the boy's meal for the next day. Food just for  him. And let me tell you it is a lot of food. Mac eats more than the preschoolers in his building. The teacher's all laugh about it. He's a garbage disposal already, at the tender age of 15 months.

So would we save time by going to the grocery store once per week, planning out meals for each day, making them as soon as we get home—for all three of us to enjoy—and then using leftovers for Mac's lunch the next day? Quite possibly.

But it's not nearly as fun as grabbing some Jeni's ice cream after enjoying a meal together on Shoku's front patio.