Bah Humbug!

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School’s out and I should be giddy with festive thoughts and freedom. Instead I’m…blah.

I’m not feeling the Christmas love yet.

Sigh.

The basement’s leaking and we haven’t had a rain-free day in, like, forever. Our staff just learned that bad things (very bad!) will happen when we go back to school in January–gulp!

I don’t even feel like going shopping. (This is serious!)

My problem? Last year’s Christmas was so super-duper special, nothing can match it–not even a drift wood Christmas tree or the 19 pound turkey my sailor brought home. (That’s right–he’ll be roasting an animal that’s considerably bigger than the dog.)

I’m trying to remember that the upside of not getting an exciting Christmas complete with my sailor’s return from Afghanistan is having him around, safe and sound, all year.

Terrible Tuesday :(

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We had a rare non-rainy day and I decided to go for a walk. I need peace, and nature is supposed to soothe the troubled soul, right?

We just learned our home requires some renovations. The initial estimate was enough to make me feel a bit sick. Then the contractor warned it could be higher once they get in there and really investigate.

Now, our house is nothing special–just a little 1940’s bungalow. I like it because it’s cute and cosy and it has character. (In my part of the world, a 1940’s house is considered a heritage or character home.) However, recent events are turning me against the family castle.

Because nothing that sucks ever happens in isolation, more badness was on its way.

My boy was invited to a friend’s house to hang out, play some video games and perhaps watch a movie. He wasn’t able to go and was a bit disappointed because he had to miss it.

Being the supportive mom I suggested he have the gang over to our house another night. (He never invites people over.)

“No.”

“Why not?” I asked, adding (because I’m in the hate cycle of my love/hate relationship with our home.) “Don’t you like our house?”

“No.”

Violating the rule not to ask a question if you don’t want to hear the answer, I asked. “What? Are you ashamed of our house, or something?”

“Yup.”

I was surprised (still am) how much that hurt my feelings.

Sigh–I’m going to need more nature walks to salve this.

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Viva Las Vegas!

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I’ve just finished my first work week after Spring Break.

It rained constantly. Not just gentle sprinkles, but round up the animals and load them on the arc deluges.

I’m beat. My throat is sore. I’m coughing. My poor working woman’s body is achy.

The only thing that’s 100% is my appetite. I’ve eaten all the Rogers Chocolates I bought last week. (I picked up a lot of chocolate! Honking, big, “family sized” bars–vanilla milk chocolate, butter caramel, dark chocolate mint…) Last night I polished off half a pizza, eating it so fast I got a burn on the roof of my mouth. Ouch!

I don’t know why I’m eating so much. I’m not (especially) stressed, I’m not even extra hungry, but I can’t resist food.

I need a vacation. A real one, not just a quickie over the border one day visit to a Washington outlet mall.

Last year we went to Vegas. I’d share all the juicy details, but, well, what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.

It was hot and sunny. Wandering along a public street sucking on a huge margarita felt so foreign and so naughty that we couldn’t stop grinning at each other over our thick straws.

I have a wonderful family, a super duper little dog and a good job. I’m luckier than most.

A little sunshine would go a long way to making me believe it.

When Your Basement Floods…

035015I spent the days leading up to Valentine’s Day making plans with a man–a group of men, actually.

Not sailors, but contractors.

We weren’t talking red or white wine, French or Italian food. We were deciding how much of the walls needed to be removed, whether the carpet was salvageable and where to store all the stuff in the basement while the reconstruction work is happening.

I wasn’t reassured to hear, “This could go on for months.”

After a night of heavy rain on pre-existing snow, our basement flooded. It was just a couple of inches of water in the unfinished, cement-floored area but had soaked into the carpet in the rest of the space. I’ve learned that just a couple of inches is all it takes.

Although the upstairs wasn’t damaged, the entire house is damp and the insides of all the windows are drippy. The pot plants are loving it. The rest of us, not so much.

Big loud dehumidifiers and fans have been running continuously since the water was discovered, but the house still smells like the inside of an abandoned boat house.

We’re waiting for word from the insurance company. Will they cover the damage, or won’t they? It’s the big question at the front of my mind.

They sent a team to examine, interview and photograph, but we won’t hear until sometime next week whether all those fat premiums we’ve been paying for years will actually get us anything.

In the meantime, the work downstairs continues.