Moved. Or, Why I’m Wearing My Fat Jeans, When I Didn’t Even Have a Baby

(Not that I should blame moving — it’s probably lack of willpower, Mountain Dew, and my love-hate relationship with running that are responsible for the fat jeans. The sad thing (besides self-loathing and reluctance to see old friends who jogged with you in your less-fatter days) is that my fat jeans are only two sizes bigger than my regular jeans. I gave up on “skinny jeans” two kids ago.)

The Kitchen is the Heart of the Home, or will be when I get my laptop set up.

I love our new house. I love having my three girls sit at the island bar while I cook. I feel especially lucky to relocate my family to this house and this Seagull Fountain paradise in such scary economic times. I confess I often feel impatient when I hear about the subprime mortgage mess (WHY did anyone think that was a good idea?). But as we packed up last week, I glanced through the paperwork from our last house. We can’t go casting any dumb-home-buyer stones, though luckily we’ve made much better choices this time around.

Not that it’s perfect. First we didn’t have keys for five days after closing. Then we didn’t have electricity or water for twenty-four hours. Then we didn’t have hot water, because Dick would not be able to find his head if it were not screwed on to light the water heater pilot-light even if I promised exotic connubial favors. (My mom says we women can do these things, and of course we can. But then why get married?)

And now we have INTERNET. You might think that ten days without internet would be a character-building experience. And you might be right, if by character-building you mean LISTENING TO SUSAN ASKING WHY? WITHOUT ANY HOPE OF DISTRACTION. Also, the house is now cleaner and less cluttered than it will ever be again. Now that I have internet, I can go back to seeing with my Blogging Eyes (WHAT mess?) and hearing with my Blogging Ears (WHAT screaming?).

The House Where the Scared Dog Peed Everywhere

I hope to live here for the next 40 years (and not just because moving is hell). As long as we can tame the dog pee (in Susan’s bedroom) and the black widow spiders (in the basement window wells), the dog hair (everywhere), the mutant sticker bushes (in the vegetable plot), and the unbroken blanket of dog poop (in the backyard), we’ll be happy here for a very, very long time.

And the neighbors? Well, I guess I can’t blame them

When I accepted that we’d have no electricity or water our first night, I went next door, where my neighbor was sitting on her front porch. We’d met briefly the day before, when she and another friendly lady from across the street came over to check us out. My parents and grandparents, who helped us move (THANK YOU!), had suggested that we run a hose and extension cord from the neighbor’s house, so we could plug in a lamp and flush the toilet overnight.

So I went over, re-introduced myself, made the small talk, and then said, “I’m here to ask the first of many favors, I‘m sure.” She got a panicked look in her eye and said her husband wasn’t home yet. Ah! The old blame-it-on-the-grouchy-spouse gambit! I didn’t even mention the water; I thought I’d start small, feel her out about the extension cord. So I was a bit offended when she said, “Well, how long would you want it?”

Dude! I wasn’t planning to run a generator and syphon off water for my marijuana plantation. In reality, I would’ve plugged in one lamp for a few hours and flushed one toilet, like, five times. You’d think most neighbors wouldn’t begrudge you a 60-watt light bulb and a few gallons of water.

But I realized I probably didn’t represent myself very well when I said it would be the first of many favors. Because, like most women, I’m really not good about asking for or accepting help. I might joke about you coming over to wash my dishes or I might say Sure, bring me dinner after I have a baby, but the truth is that I’d rather stick my head in the oven than let you get close enough to see just how dirty it really is.

Now that I know my neighbor doesn’t get that I’m really not a moocher (which she totally should have, after knowing me for six minutes), it’ll probably be five years before I even ask for a cup of sugar. Unless I run out of Brownie Mix, in which case it might be two years.

This Is Real Life.

That’s what Sally said as she swung on the ancient (and quite possibly unsafe) swingset my mom installed in our backyard. There’s something about living in your own house that makes you feel all grown-up and mature. It doesn’t have to be a fancy house, though I would recommend that you pay attention when people say that real estate is all about Location, Location, Location. Though for me that just means Not On A Street Full Of Drug Dealers.

And my next-door neighbor? She sent her daughters over with cookies on Saturday night, and yesterday she said her twelve-year old would be happy to babysit for me anytime. I think this just might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

Jane

Oh, I wanted to say that if you commented, emailed, or phoned in the past week, Thank You! Now that I’ve got internet and such, I’m excited to see what everyone’s been up to lately.