Dream House

My husband and I decided to indulge our real estate fantasies yesterday by attending a few open houses in our neighborhood.  As it happens, we found our dream house.  The only problem is there are 3 of us in our family, and it probably is only big enough for 2.

For starters, all the positives:  It’s a midcentury modern ranch house in Arlington that has been completely renovated – from top to toe, stem to stern.  The renovation is utterly beautiful – top of the line materials, appliances, lighting fixtures, flooring, etc., etc.  It’s swoon-worthy.

And it’s only slightly over $1M for about 1300 square feet of living space.

Say whaaaaat?

Yup, that’s our neighborhood right now – houses flying off the market for $1M plus. For those who think real estate is still struggling to make a comeback after the Great Real Estate Bubble of 2007, they clearly haven’t visited Arlington, Virginia.  Our area is on fire right now.  And with everyone around me moving, I want to, as well….

When we got home after our Sunday afternoon excursion, I gave my husband my sulkiest, big eyed look for approval to consider buying this wonderful old rambler, not that we can afford it, we can’t – and he did agree it was just beautiful and perfect.  No stairs to speak of (a good thing, given our aging knees), a real garage, all new everything – we could die in that house and everything would still be new! Of course, that implies an earlier than desirable passing on our part; worst case, everything in the house would be middle-aged and only in need of a facelift when our estate got settled to pay off Medicaid in 2035.

In any event, David gave me his “my god, I am a patient soul” look and, nodding his head, stated the obvious (to him):  the house was “the right house at the wrong time.” 

Blast.  Once again, that man is trying to save me from myself!

Here’s the thing, though:  I am getting restless. There are things in our house right now that I just don’t like – some of my own making – like the scratches on the stainless steel door of the refrigerator that I put there(by accident) when I removed my daughter's pre-school artwork 5 years ago with a knife (the old tape was like glue on that door).

For example, I want to renovate our original-to-the-house (1964)  ensuite bathroom if only so that the shower head stops dripping and I can sleep through the night again.  And I want new sparkling, unscratched kitchen appliances, specifically a refrigerator without big scratch marks and an oven that doesn’t have grease build-up impossible to “self clean.” 

I also want new granite counters and a new tile backsplash, just because there are prettier ones out there.

No, I don’t do DIY.

As my wonderful husband well knows, when I whip myself into a fever-state like this, it takes something serious to snap me out of it – like a tuition bill, or the risk of unemployment, or a notice letter from the IRS.  So my husband threatened to retire this morning.

Oh, hell, a girl can dream, can’t she?

 

 

 

The Beautiful Mind

My husband absolutely hates it when I wake up in the morning and want to discuss my dreams.  It’s almost as if the B movies of my subconscious will lure him into some altered state of reality that is either a) too boring or b) too scary…so he politely declines my offer to repeat, to the extent I ever can, the blow by blow of a particular dreamscape.

As I’ve gotten older, however, my dreams have become more “vivid” and, sometimes, I vocalize or act out the dream, which awakens me immediately.  I’ve been known to talk in my sleep (a lot) and occasionally, hit something, like my husband or the headboard.  The headboard usually leaves a bruise; David, not so much.

Last night, I had a very complicated dream about which, for the life of me, I am unable to reconstruct the narrative.  This is not unusual.  Feelings stay with me – or particular “scenes” -- but rarely the whole dream-state story, unfortunately. 

I do remember this:  I was with old and new friends and my husband, of course, and my daughter, who was very little in the dream, maybe 6.  We were staying someplace – on vacation? – in a warren of serially-connected rooms, like a railroad apartment.  One room featured a fireplace, with a golden glow from the fire.  Another room had people and lots of pillows.  In the dream, my daughter and I walked away from the pillow room and laughing people and down a hallway toward our room, and I saw the face of a thirtyish man with sandy hair, a thin face and dead eyes staring at me through a window or reflected in a mirror.  He had a gun.  He pointed it.  A warning.  I looked away, took my daughter’s hand and walked quickly away into our room, locking the door.

We fell asleep.  Suddenly, I woke up and the stranger with the dead eyes was in the room.

I screamed.  Loudly.  Twice.

This got my husband’s attention.  Even though startled, he still had the composure to say my name soothingly, grabbing my hand and calming me into consciousness.  For a few minutes, I didn’t say anything but just held his hand.  I closed my eyes and dared myself to remember the terrifying face.  I couldn’t.  And then suddenly, all I could think of was the Woody Allen movie where he plays tennis with the Grim Reaper – that’s sort of how silly I felt, and how disturbed. 

After about 5 minutes or so, my husband pulled his hand away from mine, eager to return to sleep.  I pet my dog, Shasha, and within a few more minutes, I too fell unconscious.

This morning, I read a story in the New York Times about the deep brain research called direct brain recording which “listens to the brain’s internal dialogue in real time.”  Researchers hope this will ultimately lead them to better understand and treat traumatic brain injury, epilepsy and other chronic brain conditions that affect memory and reasoning.  One doctor acknowledges in the article that researchers “know so little” about the brain.

The brain is the greatest mystery of all, the key to our spiritual being and the navigator of the pragmatic self.  It fascinates me, and if I could do it all again and spend time getting a serious STEM education, I’d love to be a brain specialist.  And when I have weirdo dreams that cause me to punch my husband or talk loudly or scream, I’m grateful.  It reminds me how miraculous our challenging and beautiful mind truly is.

Ok, enough of that.  Didn’t have the best sleep last night.  Think it’s time for a nap.

Too Damn Quiet

My wonderful husband and I spent the 4^th of July weekend at our small cabin in the woods.  The first two days were cool, breezy and mosquito free.  We sat on our deck; he smoked his cigars, I read a book or magazine.  We didn’t talk much—didn’t need to, I guess – and even Shasha, our typically barky little Shit-Zhu, was relatively relaxed.

Then it hit us.  It was too damn quiet.

You never really think about how noisy kids are even when they are subdued.  But they are:  it’s like their force field vibrates with the unbridled energy of youth, constantly producing a soft hummmmmm that is always, always part of the surface of things.  Add to that loud laughter, sulky complaints or the occasional shouting match common to kids of all ages, and you realize how mighty their maelstrom of sound truly is.

When that sound reaches a roar, adults close their eyes, sigh and hunger for what they’ve lost:  Peace.  Silence.  QUIET.

Until they find it again, when the kids are gone…for days…and that silence starts to feel…edgy.

Now my husband might disagree with me about this:  he craves and, in fact, needs periods of quiet; really noisy noise makes him borderline uncomfortable, which is why I’ve not always understood his affinity for Jimi Hendrix, for example.  Not a complaint about Hendrix – I like much of his stuff – but some of his music is really, really noisy.  (Which I think was the effect he was going for, of course).

As for me, I like “loud” and always have – loud music, loud TV, loud laughter, loud talking.  This is, in part, because my hearing isn’t what it used to be.  Loud gets my attention and keeps me moving.  And then, of course, I'm also from New York originally (which explains a lot, my husband would say).

Sometimes, though, silence is important too – particularly when I’m feeling angry or frustrated and need to think things through.  Generally speaking, though, the noisier a household is, the better – it feels alive.

Back to our cabin weekend:  it was much too quiet without our daughter’s ambient sound shaking us out of our semi-stupor.  When it was time for us to go home, I was ready. 

So home we are now, and settled back into our routines.  As I sit today writing this, I realize that I need some joyful noise in my life while my daughter is away at camp.  My husband must need some too, as he’s just suggested we go to a neighborhood pool for a swim after work.

Splish, splash.  The slap of David’s hand hitting the water hard so that it squirts into my face. Intentionally.

Kids squealing in the background.  A mother telling her son to “knock it off.”  Yes!!   

That will do nicely…for now.

 

Growing Pains

This morning I did something that I shouldn’t probably have done.  I called my daughter at camp.

As I explained in my post yesterday, my daughter’s summer camp is about building independence, self-reliance AND team-building/leadership skills in teenagers through non-academic learning, like cooking breakfast for 60 people, let’s say.  When we dropped Jinny off at the camp on Sunday afternoon, she looked…well, frankly, uncertain. So, even though the camp directors were pretty specific about giving kids – especially those who have never attended the camp – time to adjust before calling, I couldn’t help myself.
 

One of the camp’s directors answered the phone.  I introduced myself and asked for my daughter.

 “Hi there, nice to hear from you, Jan – but you have called on the emergency line.  Which we need to keep open for…emergencies,” he said.

I stammered and stuttered. “I’m sooo sorry.”

“No problem.” 

He gave me another number, asked me to wait a minute before calling it, then hung up.  I did as instructed.  The phone rang and was answered.  I paused and said, “Hello?”

“Hello.”

“Hi, this is Jinny’s mom.”  Pause, uncertainly, “Can I speak with her?”

“Yes, of course…I answered the phone a moment ago,” the director acknowledged as if I was a child who needed patience and repetition in order to “get it.”

“Yeah, that’s right,” I muttered. 

Suddenly, I heard my daughter’s sweet, melodic voice in the background as he explained that I was on the line.

“Hello.  Mom?” asked my daughter, sounding uncertain and a little concerned.

“Hi, sweetheart, how are you?”

“O-kaaaaay.”  Now she sounded impatient and a tad annoyed, like I was checking up on her (which, of course, I was).

“I won’t stay on the line because I know breakfast is almost over and you have stuff to do.  Is everything ok?  Are you sleeping ok?” I said, breathless after the rush of words.

“Yes, Mom.  Everything’s fine.  And yes, last night I slept ok.  Not so much the night before.”

“Oh….”

“But I’m fine, Mom.” She sounded like she wanted to get off the phone fast.

“Are you making new friends?” I asked, oblivious to her desire to hang up.

“Yes….”

“Great.”

“Yup.”

“Dad and I miss you and love you.”

“Yup.”

“I guess I better let you go?”

“Yup.”

“I’ll call again soon.”

“Ok.”

I didn’t have the heart to remind her about reading one of her summer school assignment books while she was there.  Or that I had written her a note for every day this week (at my friend’s suggestion) and wondered if she’d read one. (My daughter hates to read.  Anything.) 

“Ok, then,” I said, a little crestfallen.  “I guess it’s time to say bye, sweetheart.”

She clearly hadn’t read my Monday or my Tuesday notes. 

“Ok, bye.  Love you, mom.”

Click.

I immediately called my husband to give him a status report on our daughter, and he quickly suggested that I stay off the phone until this weekend.

So, on Thursday, I’ll FedEx a care package for Saturday delivery, filled with candy, seaweed snack, a digital camera and some more notes that likely won’t get read.  On Sunday, I’ll call again. 

The growing pains are mine.

 

 

 

Camp Girl

My daughter is spending her first full day today at a camp in Pennsylvania which is located on a farm and dedicated to the development of confidence and leadership skills in teens.

Jinny looked pretty terrified (in her very subdued, shy way) as we pulled away from the place where she will live outdoors for 21 days.  My husband reassured me (as tears dribbled down my cheeks) that within an hour or two of our leaving she’d have bonded with at least 2 kids just like her.

I have to say, the next few weeks are certainly going to be an adventure for our somewhat (nah, really) pampered gal.  She is sleeping on an Army style cot in an Army-style, elevated tent with rough wooden floors and spiders in evidence. 

She will learn to live without her iPad or iPhone for the first week – which is like putting my kid on a starvation diet. She will learn things she’s never done before, like picking vegetables and fruit from the garden, forking hay in stables, or gathering eggs from a gaggle of pecking chickens which the “Mentor Kids” – returning veterans selected to be “peer mentors” to the camp “newbies” – swear are “monsters.”  She’ll also scrub out bathrooms occasionally, wash her own clothes, and learn how to prepare meals for about 80 camp kids and counselors as part of her "crew's" work assignments during her session.

I hope these skills are fully transferable to the home environment.

But it’s not all work.  There’s lots of play too – from art and music and games and sports and horseback riding to science and water sports and excursions and lots more that I can’t even remember.  If I could magically eliminate all bad bugs from the planet and move my memory foam adjustable magic bed into a cabin, I too would spend 3 weeks as this camp.

Most important, however, will be my daughter's discovery of how best to use her “downtime” without portable electronics at the ready.  I’m hoping she’ll write her father and me a letter or two, or learn how to play some hard card games with her tent buddies.  Or just relax and maybe even take a nap or two without feeling like she’s wasting time she could otherwise be spending on her phone, texting.

We miss her already.  We hope she has fun.  We suspect she'll develop a crush or two.  And we know she’ll be a different girl in subtle and important ways when she comes home.

 

The Carcass and the Caucus

It’s been fascinating to hear and read all about the utterly surprising fall from grace of Eric Cantor, Republican of the great city of Richmond, VA.  I’m guessing House Speaker John Boehner hit the Chianti pretty hard last night as he contemplated a Tea Party takeover of his caucus.  Now it begins – the hard right v. the harder right as Cantor “wannabes” swarm the carcass and jockey for position to be the next Majority Leader of the House.

While it’s true that I did, for a moment, dance a little jig in my family room upon learning of Eric Cantor’s defeat, I also appreciate that it can’t be good for the Grand Ol’ Party…or, in the near-term, for the country.  Good luck getting anything done for the remainder of this congress, and most likely, until 2016.   So much for the Dreamers and any chance at immigration reform.  So much for any compromises on a jobs bill.  Cantor was possibly one of the few willing to play “let’s make a deal,” if only to make Boehner look less effective.  (Honestly, I don't think they ever liked each other, but learned to live together, as it were, for the sake of the children...er, caucus.)

Who's going to want to stick his or her neck out now to pass legislation that's important for securing the nation's recovery from the Great Recession and two wars -- especially when that person could become the next Speaker of the House? 

So what do we have to look forward to?  Ever more toxic politics and stagnant growth as the radicalization of the Republican Party proceeds apace. With no agenda but “no” while decrying the evils of “big government,” we’re once again about to see Tea Party governance at its best. 

I’m sorry, but radicalism is never good for a country.  Ever.

Let’s say a little prayer while Mr. Cantor brushes up his resume for that open teaching positioning at Randolph Macon College (“Randy Mac” for those of us who went to school in our great Commonwealth – and that was not necessarily a term of endearment) and plots his return to power.

God help America. 

10 Things I'd like to do This Summer

The lazy, hazy days of summer are nearly upon us…a good time, it strikes me, to allow my goal-oriented self the luxury of compiling a “to do” list.  So, herewith, my objectives this summer:

1.       Lose 20 pounds (LOL)

2.       Read the 6 books in my iBook library that are sitting, unread

3.       Enjoy quality time with my daughter that doesn’t involve shopping at Aeropostale, Abercrombie or American Eagle

4.       Enjoy quality time with my husband that doesn’t involve watching “Top Gear” or Formula One racing on ESPN or NBC’s cable sports station

5.       Get at least 1 massage (enough said)

6.       Successfully make French Onion soup from a complicated recipe in my large coffee-table book, The Art of French Country Cooking

7.       Begin – and finish -- a bathroom remodel (Ummm, this won’t happen.  But I can wish.)

8.       Learn how to play the guitar (I’m already on page 14 of “How to Teach Yourself to Play the Guitar” – and I haven’t even watched the DVD!)

9.       Relax at our cabin (not so easy when you have to clean it thoroughly whenever you leave because it’s “for sale”)

10.   Relax at the beach  (not so easy when your daughter brings 2 friends and the beach we’re staying at doesn’t have a life guard)

Even though this list seems a wee bit whiny, I’ll enjoy trying to tick off every one of the items, succeed or no.

I’ll keep you posted.