So instead, here’s our annual family photo, and the puppy, who refused to sit for a group shot, and links to some of my stories of 2011, if you’re interested.

With my wish for you and yours: May 2012 kick 2011′s ASS.

Happy New Year!

1. That time I went to the Habs game in Vancity (and we WON)
2. Charlie Sheen is cuckoo, we watched American Idol (and vowed to never again after that country-singing carrot-topped kid won), and other general happenings
3. That time I blogged about Max Pacioretty – incidentally the most-read post on the blog EVER (that also resulted in Max following me on Twitter; I apologize for all the stupid tweets, Max) (and can you believe he’s still following)
4. A follow-up on Pacioretty, shopping at Costco, and not really an update
5. How the Habs make me crazy, and I love them anyway. Sure to be a recurring topic.
6. That time I met Strombo (STROMBO, YO), got flowers on my birthday, and told the world that my daughter used to shoplift.
7. That time the Habs got kicked out of the playoffs by the Bruins. If THIS becomes a recurring theme, just shoot me now.
8. That time I was pissed off about North American politics.
9. That time I thought I was really seriously sick and it turned out I was only a little sick. That was a good day.
10. That time my son and I hung out, just the two of us
11. That time the sickening notion of the Bruins winning the cup was close to becoming a reality
12. Saying goodbye to my Dad.
13. Selling the condo.
14. Coffee is serious!
15. How’s it going?
16. Back to school and finally selling the condo and buying the townhouse.
17. People who aren’t punctual piss me off.
18. The weekend from hell. Or, that time we moved. Also, broken arms and puppy training.
19. General update on nothing in particular
20. Thoughts on the coaching/language controversy in Montreal

Which brings us to today. Also adding a picture of just the kids, because I really love it.

P.S. the Habs are on a one game winning streak!! YEEEEAHHHH BABY!

I speak 3 languages, and as someone whose employment has always depended on having the 3 languages, I feel I can speak to this issue. I worked for the Canadian government in Chile – speaking Spanish, French and English was a requirement. I’ve subsequently worked for Canadian companies with interests in South America; my language skills made me the preferred candidate for each of those positions. I also recently obtained my certification as a Spanish/English translator; obviously, knowing those 2 languages is a requirement for that.

Being bilingual in Montreal is not a requirement; in fact, only French is the official language there. You must speak French if you want a job in the belle province. I get that, and have a deep appreciation for that. I love the city of Montreal, it’s my favorite city in Canada. And I LOVE the French language, and sympathize with and fully comprehend the people of Quebec who fiercely protect their heritage and language.

Speaking French, however, is not a requirement for a coach to be employed by the National Hockey League. It’s an implicit requirement for being the coach in Montreal. I consider it a “nice-to-have”. Nice to be able to communicate with the Francophone press and citizens. But that’s all.

The coach of a team SHOULD have the respect of his team, and should be able to communicate with the PLAYERS. Having the added prohibitive “requirement” of speaking French pares down the talent pool considerably, and has routinely adversely affected the talent search in that city.

Last I checked, Francophone media have no problem interviewing Montreal Canadiens players, of whom, I believe, only one can speak French. So why not speak English with the coach, too? And then use the bilingualism to translate resulting news pieces? It’s not hard!!

The issue in Montreal is purely political, it’s not about hockey. Hockey is about assembling the best available talent, players and coach alike, then going out and winning games. And winning the Cup. THAT’s what hockey is.

I believe Pierre Gauthier has been scrambling to save his own skin by throwing upset Canadiens fans proverbial bones with the firing of Perry Pearn, the Spacek trade, and now the firing of Jacques Martin. But you have to admire his “cojones” by naming an interim coach who is not fluent in French. The Francophone press is not happy, in fact, it’s all they seem to care about. Let’s give Randy Cunneyworth a chance – if he doesn’t do a worse job than Martin, it’s already a step in the right direction.

French Canadian ex-player and coach Guy Carbonneau said it best at his press conference after being fired by the Canadiens, when asked the “all-important” question about which French speaking coach might replace him, and said the fans shouldn’t care if the coach could only speak Chinese, as long as the team won the Cup.

So, I had some time on my hands and a few thoughts running through my brain, so this is not so much an update as a…bunch of little topics. Let’s go.

• We moved six weeks ago yesterday. Check my last post for a refresher on the weekend from hell. It will also take you probably a whole weekend to read, if you even finish it. It’s kind of a bummer. So we moved from a 2 bedroom condo to a 3 bedroom townhouse with a basement. Or rec room, or whatever. I don’t know what to call it. The basement’s a walk-out, so it’s not subterranean or anything. Anyway, I had to furnish a bunch of extra rooms. What’s a single mama on a tight budget to do? For the last six weeks, our living room has been sitting empty, except for a TV and a single seater couch. Part of the reason we got a bigger place was for space, and privacy. The kids are getting big, and they needed their own rooms, and I thought, wow, a basement-rec room-whatever space would be so awesome for them too, they can just hang down there and do their own thing, like all the kids are doing. Didn’t exactly go according to plan. I think all the togetherness occasioned by our previous tight quarters stuck. After dinner, and cleaning, I’d plop onto the the little couch and my two kids would squeeze right in with me. Good thing we’re all reasonably narrow-hipped. But we finally got a couch yesterday. The only one who’s bummed about it is our puppy, who enjoyed having the extra space to race around in.
• The puppy. She’s insane, and growing at an alarming rate. I don’t take the time to take too many pictures, but I try. Anyway I just looked at the pictures of when we got her at the end of September. She must be part Dane. She’s enormous. She works hard to try to get into as much puppy trouble as she possibly can, but I watch her like a hawk, and every time she tries, I shut her down. She’s a terrific listener. Actually, she’s a terrific listener when I talk to her. Seriously, it’s on Dog Whisperer levels. I’d brag about it except for that I happen to be the only one she listens to. We’re working on that. I wish Cesar Millan would do an all-puppy episode. I’d give him loads to talk about. She is a Lab, and does look exactly like Marley, but she’s actually pretty terrific, especially considering she’s only 3 months old. I’ll cut her some slack. The trouble she does get into when I’m distracted is nothing like the nightmares I’ve heard from other Lab owners. Like, eating of the furniture and dry-wall and such. The worst she’s done so far is go into the recycling and chewed up a milk bottle cap.
• That’s the first time I’ve used the term “and such”. I can’t pull it off.
• I got a traffic ticket. A real one. Broke my 2-year streak, even. I was highly offended. When the cop brought me back my ticket, I felt like telling him, “Listen, you must be a rookie. If you’d bothered to check your computer, I’m sure a memo on me would have been in there. I only get warnings, see. I get pulled over, get a little lecture, and then a warning. Could have saved you some time.” But I didn’t. He seemed cranky.
• There’s this movie that came out a little while ago with Sarah Jessica Parker, called “How Does She Do It?” or something like that. All about this wife with a job and kids and everything. This is a subject that mightily pisses me off. I’m not looking for a hero cookie or anything, but when someone with a husband and job and kids gets lauded for “doing it all,” I want to scream from the rooftops, “I’ll tell you how she does it, she’s got a husband!! If you have another adult in the house picking up even 1% of the duties, it’s EASY!! Don’t go wondering ‘how can she do it??’ She can because it’s easy. You want difficult? I’ll show you DIFFICULT!!” I doubt I’ll watch that movie.
• I hate how these bullets are all squished together. Line spacing is a very big deal to me. I hate how I don’t know how to use WordPress right.
• The Habs won yesterday. It was awesome. They’ve been winning in OT, even. Sweet. I do hate when Carey sits the night out, because I love him and when he doesn’t play it feels like I’m not really watching the Habs. But the backup goalie played pretty great. Gomez sucked, though. Of course.
• My daughter had a birthday, and invited 3 girls over for  a sleepover. She has this one new friend that fancies herself cleverer than grownups. The morning after she concocted this story for my daughter to tell, about how they had to go up to my room to get a book that this girl wanted to go borrow. They went up, and closed the door. I knew exactly what this kid had my daughter doing: finding where I’d hidden her birthday present. But you have to get up pretty goddamned early to fool this Mom, who wrote the goddamned book on how to trick parents. I’m keeping my eye on that friend. Trouble. Takes one to know one.
• I finally got around to watching the Alec Baldwin SNL episode on PVR. Has he lost weight?
• Work has been insane, but we just put to bed one of our bigger annual projects, and the rest of the year looks to be relatively smooth sailing. I loooooove when mid-November rolls around.
• When I start to talk about work, you know it’s time to end the blog post. I kept it to less than 1,000 words this time. You’re welcome, again.
• Oh, wait: that reminds me. The kids went to their dad’s place this afternoon, and I was helping my daughter get some double knots undone from her shoes. She said, “I love you.” I was still concentrating on her laces, got them undone, and said, “you’re welcome.” It was funny. She just called, and I said, “I love you,” and she said, “you’re welcome”. It might be our new thing.
• Okay, 1,082 words. Word count just refreshed.

Those of you who’ve been here before know that part of this past summer’s odyssey included both selling our old place and buying a new place. Well, this past weekend, we moved into our new place! Finally! Yay. That’s the short version, absent any of the dull, painful, excruciating details involved in any move. Everyone hates moving, hates it with a passion, as do I, and the only thing as bad as moving is reading about someone’s move.

Which is why I decided to blog about it. I’m sorry, but I’m really feeling the need to spread my pain around, OK. I’m taking you all down with me. Feel free to stop reading right now, but it would really be great for me if you didn’t. And it’s all about me. Me, me me. Don’t worry, I’m not starting from the VERY beginning.

Okay, so I want to preface this by saying I kinda have a lot going on. Not complaining, but I’ve already got plenty of stuff to do before adding a little thing like MOVING house and home to the list. So – this is my excuse for probably the worst weekend from hell ever being largely my own fault.

So OK, I was really busy. I knew I was moving for sure when we sold our condo about 6 weeks ago so I had plenty of time to plan and pack and everything. I made the calls for switching all my services and felt pretty ahead of the game. Got the painter booked, who although we took possession on a Friday and moved in the next day, said he’d work through the night and be all ready by the time we moved in on Saturday. Serious, time-sensitive work commitments precluded taking any extra time off to pack and stuff, save for the Thursday and the Friday before moving on the Saturday. Thinking the way I always do, I can do anything because I just always do, I figured that could be enough. I mean, it’s just a little 2-bedroom apartment I have to pack, right? 2 days oughta do it. 2 days, the kids at school, I’ll have all day to work, work, work and get ‘er done. Easy. Peasy. And seriously, I couldn’t do something silly like packing too early. We need all our stuff.

2 quick and easy days. Ha ha ha ha ha. OH MY GOD.

Thursday came and went. I basically packed our bookshelves and DVDs. Did a lot of laundry. Oh yeah, and did I tell you we got a new puppy?  A new yellow lab, cute and sweet as can be. Her name is Lucky, although it was Yoyo for about 9 hours. We got her a week before we moved. Because I am freaking brilliant. Also on Thursday: taking Lucky out every 30 minutes, in between laundry and packing books and DVDs, and driving around taking the kids back and forth to school and making supper and doing homework and everything.

Then it was Friday. Friday began with taking Lucky out to try to get her to do her business, and she is such a lady, she refuses to do it while anyone is watching. She prefers to hide behind some piece of furniture at home. You know, for privacy. The result is about 45 minutes, all before I even take my shower, taking her outside and going, “Please, Lucky, please! I am NOT going inside to clean your mess! Just please poop! Goddammit Lucky! Poop!” Then I took my daughter to school and my son to the orthopaedic specialist. Because my boy broke his arm last week.

He broke his arm on the 22nd, first day of Fall (get it) – at school during Nutrition Break (it’s not called Recess anymore, did you know? I was like, Nutrition Break? Does this mean I have to send something nutritious?). The school called, I was at work, went flying out to get him, and he was all Mr. Tough Guy, doubting he even really had to go to the hospital. Well, he definitely had a broken arm, and the worst news was they had to reset it before they could put the cast on. They give you this stuff, where you’re sleeping but still conscious. Jesus H. One nurse, I think she was twelve, came to try to put an IV in his arm for the semi-knockout stuff. Yeah, she was terrific. Jabbed him once, failed. Then jabbed him again, and went, “Whoops, popped a vein.” You have to understand that my boy is really no good with pain or blood or anything. He was distressed and in pain. She said she had to jab a 3rd time, and I said, “Excuse me, were those just practice? Can we get someone who will do this in ONE GO?” She said something, took off, and then the real nurse came in. She was terrific. Explained to my son what she was about to do, then did it, thank god. Then the doc came in – asked if I wanted to leave (I did not) because this could be tough (I didn’t care) and asked me to sit down (I did not) – along with 2 ambulance-attendants-in-training, who wanted to watch, and they gave him the semi-knockout stuff, then proceeded to get to work.

It took the doctor, the 2 ambulance people, the nurse, the anaesthetist and me to hold my boy down. As soon as he was “out” and they started fiddling with his arm, he was wincing, squirming, moaning, and literally trying to get away. It was horrible. I was pinning his legs down, the doc asked if I was ok, and I just wanted to make sure he wasn’t in very bad pain, the doctor said, “He is – but he won’t remember it.”

He wasn’t kidding. Max woke up and went, “Wheeee! You’re done! Where’s the old guy with the white hair? And where did the army people go? Mom, can I have a sister? I do? What’s her name?” I started to worry and I asked him what my name was. “YOUR name is MOM.” Then he said, “That was so EASY. I feel AMAZING. And WONDERFUL.” The nurse said, “Now you know why Michael Jackson liked it.”

Anyway, the following Friday morning was spent at the hospital waiting for my boy’s next x-ray and new fiberglass cast. So no packing that morning. It was getting close to panic time but still, I didn’t panic. Because I am sooo mellow. After getting lunch with my son, a little more organizing, then picking up my daughter from school, my mom came over. “AVE MARIA!! You’re moving tomorrow, you have to PACK!” So then we really got cracking, in earnest. No stopping for any reason, except to order pizza for the kids who need 3 squares a day, and taking Lucky out to PLEASE do her business.

And still, it looked like not a dent was made. This packing up of stuff was getting ridiculous. My poor, tired old mother left at about 9pm, and I kept going until 2am. Got up at 5am. Got back to it. My daughter pitched in, intent on getting all involved in the girl work, building boxes and labeling them, with room names in both printing and cursive, along with rainbows, hearts and peace signs. When that was not enough, she’d do a math problem on the box. Getting the outside of the boxes just right was a very big deal.

The movers came at 9am. I had about 40 boxes there, but still was not even close. I told them, these 2 sweet hipsters, that I was more organized than I looked, and the one guy said, “You’re REALLY not ready. We’re used to things being more ready to go than this.” I said, “This is all I could do – I’ll keep packing while you guys load the truck – I have a full time job! I am a single mom!” The other hipster guy said, “Darlin’, you have all my respect. Be proud of the job you’re doing. I was raised by a single mom. You don’t worry about a thing. We’ll get this done for you.” I could have cried.

All told, the move took about 4 hours longer than expected. I know, I counted. These guys were getting paid by the hour. Somehow, it all got moved. In the end, we were throwing stuff in boxes willy-nilly, no boxes labeled, we just wanted to get the hell out of the old place. When we arrived at the new place, I busily tried to get stuff organized into the rooms they had to go in, unpacking where I could, concentrating on the kids’ rooms and the basement, which was going to be the the hanging-out space. Got the TV and couch and cable set up. It got to be about 9pm and I thought: Stop. You haven’t hung out with your own kids for about 3 days. So I found a wine glass, poured myself a glass of wine, sat down with the kids, and we watched some TV. The puppy curled up at our feet.

We all fell asleep that way, me with one kid on either shoulder, puppy on the floor, me with one arm extended behind me holding my wine. I woke up when I dropped the glass and it shattered all over the floor. I just thought – aaaargh!!! I’ll clean it up in the morning. So I got the puppy, put her in her bed, got my kids, put them in their beds, and then went up to my room. This was the only room that was a complete disaster still, dresser drawers all over the bed, boxes stacked all over every square inch of the floor.

I grabbed my dresser drawers to try to make some sleeping space, and couldn’t see what I was doing, because I couldn’t find my bedside lamps, and tried to shove my drawers back into the dresser. They wouldn’t go in, no matter how hard I shoved, then wouldn’t come out, because they were jammed, and I shoved and pulled and nothing was working and I swore at them and kept trying to no avail, and then I burst. Into. Tears. The crybaby, sobbing, woe-is-me kind of waterworks where your whole face is soaked from the tears. Where the more you cry, the more you want to.

Well, my son heard it all. I thought the kids were asleep!! He came up to me and consoled me and said we had just had a really tough day and everything was going to be fine, and to not be worried because I was just so overwhelmed with all the stuff I’m always doing. He’s 10. I was really glad there was at least one grownup in the house.

Sunday morning came, and we still had to go back to the old place to try to clean it up. Ever notice how much dust accumulates on baseboards under couches and beds and stuff? Now I know why they’re called dustbunnies. Their sheer mass could make up ACTUAL BUNNIES. And did you also ever notice how carpet is a whole different colour under your bed and your couch than not? Totally crazy. Wanted to go try to get it decent-looking, as well as unloading the fridge – which hadn’t gotten done the day before.

That was ridic. Me, the kids, and the puppy all in one space trying to get it pristine by the time the new owners came at noon. I was frantically going from room to room with my wipes and the vacuum cleaner, exclaiming to the kids, “the puppy! Look at the puppy! She needs to go out!” while wiping down counters, walls and doors and throwing fridge and freezer contents into boxes. I got so frantic with “the puppy! The puppy!” exclamations that my son came up to me and grabbed me by the shoulders and said, “we’ll do everything we need to today. Whatever you need me to do, just ask. I’m very afraid that what happened last night will happen again.” My daughter said, “What? What happened last night?!” And my son just said, “That’s a private matter. Mom – don’t worry.” HE’S TEN.

We finally made it back to the new place, joined by my mom, and were about to sit down to our 6th unhealthy meal of the weekend (McDonald’s), when I noticed the place was fairly FREEZING. The kind of cold where you tense up and give yourself a seizure. Of course I didn’t know where our sweaters were. I went to the heat controls and pushed UP until I had 30 freaking degrees selected, and NADA. Our old place had a fireplace for just this sort of circumstance, and this place did not.

I envisioned us turning into popsicles, having my children taken away from me because all I was feeding them was crap and I didn’t even have sweaters to put on them so they could warm up in this igloo we were living in, because how can you find anything when a lot of the willy-nilly boxes weren’t even labeled, the puppy needed out out out, and the heat would NOT TURN ON, I felt another monumental cry coming, but I was mortified because I didn’t want to freak my kids out and then definitely having them taken away from me on account of their basket case for a mother, and I finally said it to my mom, bottom lip all a-tremble: “I think I may have made a horrible mistake!!!!”

She said: “Call the painter.”

Now, my mom is for sure crazy (chip –> block) but this actually made sense. See, the painter called me Saturday morning to let me know that the paint job was finished, he’d left the place at 4am and the heat cranked so it could dry fast. The heat cranked. So I called him.

“Hey, how’s it going? Did you tell me you left the heat on on Friday night?”

“Oh yeah, I cranked it right up.”

“And did it get hot in here?”

“Yeah, it was boiling.”

“PLEASE HELP ME. I CAN’T GET IT TO WORK NOW. I have no idea what I’m doing wrong or how to work this stupid fancy electronic thing but I’ve got it up to 30 and it’s still freezing cold in here and I can’t even find our warm clothes and the hot water isn’t working either, is that all part of the same deal, because I haven’t had a shower in 24 hours, is there something I’m doing wrong here, because it would seem that any intelligent person should be able to work this…”

“I’m coming over.”

Now, I just met the guy on Friday. He’s probably busy, it’s his weekend, he’s got personal stuff to do, and he must be exhausted from working all night Friday, and I could never impose on his personal time to come solve my problems.

“OK!! See you in a bit!”

So, Colin the painter sent directly from heaven came over. All Mr. Mellow in contrast to my harried, panicked, freezing and on the verge of tears self. Hey, did you know there was an on/off switch right outside the furnace room? Well, it’s off. Watch this. Now it’s on.

And the lord said, let there be heat. WHOOSH. This time, I wanted to cry from happiness.

And hey, did you notice that on the hot water heater there’s a “vacation” setting? Well, that’s what it was on. Now it’s set to “on”.

And the lord said, let there be hot water for showers so Veronica can stop stinking up the joint.

He even stuck around. Wanted to help however he could. I want to adopt him. But deep down I still have a conscience and actually insisted he leave.

After that, things didn’t seem so bad. Sure, I still had 8 zillion boxes left to unpack and things were a disaster in general, but we were in. We were home. And we could get clean. And the puppy never pooped inside!

Until this morning.

That’ll be a whole other blog post. Does 2700 words count as a blog post? I mean chapter.

At 6:03 pm, when I was pulling into our underground, I received a phone call from my daughter, who was 3 floors up. “MOMMY. Where are you?! You are SO LATE! Are you okay? WHEN ARE YOU COMING HOME.”

Jeez. The world is ending! The sky is falling, the sky is falling!!

My own fault, really. I am chronically punctual. In fact, I’m not just punctual, I am EARLY. For everything. As the saying goes, you can’t be on time if you’re not early. One of my favourite lines ever from one of my favourite shows ever, Friday Night Lights, is: “Be here at 6 am sharp. 6 am sharp means QUARTER TIL SIX.” I’ll admit it – I swooned.

When I tell my kids a time that I’ll be home or meeting them, I give them the LATEST time I’ll be there. This time after work is 6 pm. I am unfailingly home 10-15 minutes before that. This was the one time in their lives that I was 90 seconds late. I was late picking them up one time before, but that was due to traffic, AND I called 30 minutes before I was expected to let them know I’d be late. It’s what you do.

I grew up like that, respect appointments, respect other people’s time. Both my parents were of the exact same thinking, and as a result, their 3 children are punctually consistent. We have 8 zillion faults, but we are on time.

My father was much more so. Going to the airport to catch a 10 am flight? We’d leave at 6 am. Why? Well, better early than late, AND you must always allow for traffic, or a flat tire, hail, locusts, whatever. My dad was ex-Navy. Ex-Chilean Navy. The Chilean navy is modeled on the British version. Time is a very big deal. Also a big deal? Bed making. I used to fastidiously make my bed as a kid, thrilled when I’d get to keep the quarter if it bounced off the sheets. That habit didn’t stick, and plus a quarter doesn’t go very far these days. It used to buy a pack of gum. I’m old.

Speaking of British, when I watched the Royal Wedding this year (not LIVE), when Wills arrived at the church when the SECOND struck that he was meant to be there, I thought: “He’s going to make a terrific husband.”

Anyway, you know how many times I was late for school? From grades Kindergarten to 12? ZERO. Let’s say there’s 280 school days a year, times that by 13, that’s a LOT. Of no lates.

People who are consistently late, I pretty much hate. That rhymes. I could continue. What rhymes with Nantucket?

When you’re late, whether it’s your intention or not, you are telling whomever’s waiting for you that their time is not as important as yours. You can be late, and they can just wait. Basically, as we say in Chile, you wipe your butts with their time. It makes me absolutely mental. It is not cute if you are late – it’s irresponsible and disrespectful. And people who always do this, were probably raised that way. Like with manners, when someone is late for everything, I blame the parents. I know for damn sure my parents raised me to respect time and other people’s time, and it stuck. Clearly, I’m passing this on to my kids, and they will thank me one day.

When you are on time, you’re demonstrating a very basic but undervalued respect – that you consider the other person to be at least as deserving of respect as you are. When I came upstairs that day, my daughter flung open the door and wrapped her arms around me – like she actually had thought the sky was falling. It reminded me how much they count on me and know that I do what I say and be where I say I’ll be when I say I’ll be. This time, it bit me in the ass. Never again!

It’s actually true, my little girl has always loved school, is a fanatic about it, and happily my boy, who has never shared the same enthusiasm for it, is very pleased with himself as he entered middle school this year. He’s loving it so far (I KNOW we’re only 4 days in, but I’m determined to maintain his excitement!). He might be among the youngest in the school, having come from elementary school where he was one of the oldest, but is still fancying himself quite the grownup, complete with LOCKER and LOCK and a shiny new CELL PHONE. He sent me his first text today: “hi mom.” I melted.

I took him to school on his second day, and he actually stopped on the sidewalk when we were a block away, and said, “Mom, I would like to walk the rest of the way by myself.” I was dumbstruck. I said, “Are you sure?” “Of course, Mom. I’m sure, I’ll really be okay.” I agreed, he gave me a quick hug, the kind your boy gives you hoping that no one is looking, said, “I love you Mom, bye,” and started making his way. I stood there like a dork clasping my hands in front of me watching him walk away all by himself, and he took about ten steps and looked back and gave me a “you can leave now” wave, then took another 3 steps and did it again, and I got the hint and bewilderedly walked back to my car like I was all fine with it. All those things raced through my mind, with each step he was becoming more of a man, moving farther away from me both physically and figuratively, my mind leaping ahead 6 years when he brings home a scowling, tattooed, pierced girl who swears and chews with her mouth open and never says please or thank you, him moving in with her, me never hearing from him unless he needs money or laundry done, everything, everything. But then I was really proud of him, because he knows how ridiculously co-dependent I am and he had to have known it would be hard for me to hear he wanted to walk the last 40 metres ALL BY HIMSELF but he was man enough to do it anyway.

I called the school 8 minutes later to make sure he’d gotten there safely, which he had. Oh, the agita.

Anyhoo, my little girl, who looks forward to the first day back at school almost more than she does CHRISTMAS, and had spent the last days of vacation busily unwrapping, labelling and packing her school supplies, choosing her outfits for each day of the following week and dreaming about who’d be her teacher, who’d be in her class, where her desk would be and what grades she would get this year, and informing me that now she is INTERMEDIATE as a GRADE FOURER, was positively delighted with the start of another academic experience. She’s so into being back in the routine that she’s getting up almost at the same time as I do now, being that she’s INTERMEDIATE she can share in the morning duties, and wouldn’t you know, she’s packing both her and her brother’s lunch, and she’s even packing his backpack in the morning. She’s shaved about 16 minutes off my morning routine. My girl!!

I ask them in the evening how school was that day, and my son says, “it’s the first week, Mom – not a whole lot.” My daughter, on the other hand, recites every step she took from the first bell. On day two, they took turns telling the class how they spent their summer vacations. Her highlight was our trip last week to the PNE, which included the special bonus of a puke-free outing even after 4 rides on the Corkscrew.

Which got me to thinking. “How I Spent My Summer Vacation.” There are so many different stories to tell about this summer, but I’ll stick to our tale of real estate shenanigans for now. Shall I begin, after that 700 word preamble?

We’ve been living in a 2 bedroom condo for the last 4.5 years. It’s a beautiful place with a great view and we love it, but over the past couple of years I’ve been feeling the need to move. The kids share a room with bunkbeds, and although they’ve never ever complained about the arrangement, I knew that the time for them to each have their own space was nigh. And through a series of happy events, we found ourselves in the financial position to contemplate upgrading to larger quarters.

I called my real estate agent, prince of a guy despite his penchant for liking hockey teams comprised of obnoxious #$$holes (he likes the Bruins), with whom I’d been working ever since I got into the market more than 12 years ago. We started exploring the possibilities, looking at some bigger townhouses, and we finally settled on a place about 5 minutes from where we live. This after looking at about 20 houses.

It bemuses me how some people seem to not care at all about what their home looks like when they’re showing it. Aren’t they supposed to be trying to sell it? One guy didn’t even bother to not be home when we went to look. The place smelled, his huge self took up half the couch as he sat there eating and watching TV, and he hadn’t even bothered to pick the towels up off his bathroom floor. I don’t care what your price is or how well you’re located, if your place is a filthy dump, I’m not making an offer.

We looked at the final townhouse complex, the roads of which were teeming with kids, and even has an indoor pool. My daughter grabbed me by the collar with both fists and said, “whatever you do Mom, PROMISE ME WE’LL LIVE HERE.” Well, there were something like 6 units for sale, and with each place I got more depressed. When you find the place you’re meant to buy, you’re supposed to instantly feel: “This is it!” I wasn’t even close with any of them. And then we saw the 6th one. It was perfect in every way, ticked all the boxes. I got excited, and the kids could smell it. We walked into the backyard, and the guy next door was outside with his dog, having a smoke. My daughter jumped up and down and squealed to him, “We’re your new neighbours!!” He just kind of laughed and said, “Really? Welcome!” The kids went back inside and chose their bedrooms and I talked to my agent. We made an offer contingent on the sale of our condo, and it was accepted! We were off to the races.

Now came the onerous task of putting OUR place on the market. I can’t believe the amount of crap we’d amassed in our short time here. It took a solid weekend of de-cluttering, throwing out of crap and donating stuff and taking other stuff to storage to get this place ready to list. I’ve seen the shows, I know what’s required. And I couldn’t stop to thinking of Slobby Von Filthenstein from that one townhouse that made me want to be sick.

Finally, we were done. I looked at our place, and it was BEAUTIFUL. Almost made me wonder why we should even move, it looked that good. And the viewers started pouring in. Nobody ever didn’t love it. But we weren’t getting any offers. And it was exhausting keeping the place pristine, hard job when by the time we’ve been home for 2 hours in the evening, it tends to look like a cyclone hit, no matter how clean it was to start with. I grew frustrated, and antsy knowing the townhouse we loved would be loved by someone else soon with a more attractive offer than mine.

And of course, that’s what happened. Our place wasn’t selling, and the townhouse got a better offer. I had 24 hours to buy it outright which of course I could not do without the sale of our place, and we lost it. We’d seen every other townhouse on the market, and I knew I didn’t want a single other one. And I started thinking, you know what, it won’t be so bad to live here for another year. I didn’t want to be moving homes in the middle of the school year, so I began convincing myself to stop this madness, stay in this gorgeous place and leave well enough alone. A couple of weeks passed, with a handful more viewings that always had the same “WE LOVE IT” feedback with no offers, and then I started getting pissed off. “Really? You love it, eh? Then MAKE ME AN OFFER. OR GET THE HELL OUT.” I started sharing my sentiments with my agent who began to wonder where positive, optimistic Veronica had gone to. SHE BECAME REALISTIC. GET USED TO IT.

And wouldn’t you know? One day I decided to glance at the real estate listings and not be so obtuse, approached the existent listings with an open mind, hoping I’d consider one not too sucky to buy. And guess what? The townhouse was still listed. Weird! I called my agent, who said he’d look into it, and he called me back and said the other offer fell through! What! So I wrote another, lower, offer than last time, same conditions, and it got accepted again!

The following week, after a few more showings of our place, my agent called me and said we’d received an offer! My heart jumped! Then I saw it: they were offering me WAY below asking, 12K lower than what I PAID 4.5 years ago, AND they wanted me to throw in my TVs. What! Such a ridiculous joke. I immediately told him I wouldn’t even consider it, and he could just let it expire. I wasn’t even bothered to counter. He told me we had to take every offer seriously, and I said, “They’re not even in the ball park. Who the hell is their agent? How dare he write an offer like this! Tell him he can kiss my ass! Give me his number!” (‘Kiss my ass’ became a recurring theme through this negotiation.) He convinced me to write a counter offer, and I said, “Fine! Up the price by a grand! Or they can kiss my ass!!” He got me to agree to go $2K lower than my asking. And NO TVS. Or they could kiss my you know what. They came up by another 8K, still nowhere near where I wanted to land. So my agent and I sat on the phone that night, me printing the umpty-ump pages of the stupid offer to make another counter offer so I could scan it and send it back to him, me all the while grumbling how I was going to deduct the cost of printer ink off his commission, him telling me HE was about to kick my you know what, and I countered at my bottom line. And I told him, “Tell them to sign it, or kiss my ass.” And they signed it.

If you’re still reading, good morning!

So now, we’re moving. In 3 short weeks. And I have to wrap my head around packing and all that miserable stuff that comes with moving. So, we got the place we wanted, and the kids have been reminding me about that puppy now that we’ll have a yard, announcing to everyone how Mom is considering a puppy, which they’ve already named and we haven’t even met yet, and what Halloween decorations we’ll have in our front yard, and all that good stuff. My daughter changes her mind daily about the motif her new bedroom will have, and my son has already made a friend at his new school who lives in our future neighbourhood.

We did it! And I can recommend you the world’s most patient real-estate agent. I mean, if you can stomach working with a Bruins fan.

By the time the puck drops on the first regular season Habs game, we’ll be settled in our new digs. I can’t wait to watch on the TVs I wangled keeping!

I think we’re all this close to crazy, if we’re not already crazy. Short of the most irrationally delusional, it’s like I do a lot of the stuff that I’ve been reading about.

Like, I’m not a hoarder, but you should have seen the um…crazy amount of crap I both threw away and took off to storage just to get our condo ready for selling and looking all nice like we really live like this. (P.S.!!! THE CONDO SOLD! We move October 1st! Weeeeehoooo!) Or, yeah, I have my quirks like throwing salt over my shoulder if something unusual happens like opening a fridge door only to find the lightbulb inside is burnt out. Be serious, how many times has this happened to you in your life? It has to be a bad sign. I take no chances. I almost had a coronary when my daughter opened her new umbrella indoors. Sometimes my heathen self even crosses myself when creepy sh*t happens. Stuff like that.

Or, I worry all day I’ve left my hair straightener on, or the water running, or haven’t locked my front door even though I’ve gone back to check 2 or 3 times just to make sure. Just last week I had to stop to think – wait – did I take the kids to daycare this morning or are they still at home and fending for themselves? That one was due to exhaustion. But I had to stop to think. (P.S. I HAVE left my straightener on all day before. No burnt down condo, and may I mention that my pristine bathroom counter is 100% melt-proof. Just FYI, new buyer.)

One guy I broached this with recently reassured me, “Relax. If you think you’re crazy, you’re not. Only crazy people think they’re not crazy.” Considering I regularly think I am, this was the best thing I could possibly hear.

Still, it’s also good to know about myself that the brink is right there. Since this roller coaster summer, nay, year, nay, few years began, there have easily been say, 19 times I could gladly have gone and done something freaking insane, and chalked it up to stress-relief. The difference is, I haven’t. Like I saw once on some ancient Jim Carrey standup (dude was weird even back then – always something a little off about him for my tastes) how he said, “you turn on the fan and stare at it, and go into a trance, and think what would happen if you just stuck your fingertip in it, and even contemplate it.” But you don’t. Score one for good decision-making. And score another for remaining just this side of sane.

There but for the grace of you-know-who go I.

Earlier this summer, which finally arrived in B.C., I’m happy to report, I was making coffee in the kitchen at work when one of my coworkers came through and asked me how I was doing. I said what I always say: “Super!”

About 90% of the time when I exclaim this and smile widely to prove it, people go, “Really? Super? Wow!” Because most people just say “fine, thanks,” I guess. But no matter what is going on I’m the kind of person that loves having someone to talk to, so if someone even just asks me how it’s going, I always feel “super!” Nice conversation opener.

Not this time. Now, I’m talking about a really good friend who only ever wants the best for me, and I love her to bits, but she just kind of looked at me, shook her head, and said, “I don’t even know what you’re doing here today! You should take some time off. You have to give yourself some time.”

I looked at her like she was speaking Greek, and she went on, “I mean, look at everything going on. How are you even dealing? You’re doing too much. You’ve just had 1) a death in the family, 2) you were in a car accident, 3) you’ve got the stress of trying to sell a house, and 4) trying to buy a house, 5) you’ve been in court 6 times in the last 12 months, and to top it all off, 6) you’re holding down a full time job AND 7) you’re taking care of 2 little children.”

Oh for god’s sake. When you put it like that.

Never mind. Never mind that someone else always has it worse, and never mind all of the obvious things I have to be thankful for (kids, friends, family, job), it’s just…unproductive to stop, moan and hold your head in your hands and shake your fists at the sky. The “why me” thing just doesn’t work for me. It helps nothing. Kinda like when my kid gets upset and dramatic and acts like the world is ending over every little thing. “That’s not helping!” I chirp, to which she retorts “I know and I don’t care!” Ah, kids.

Anyway there is a ton of good things too, and that’s what I keep focus on. I still think it’s been a super year! Sh*t happens. It always will, I don’t care who you are. What’s important is how you deal with it, because you have to. I got this attitude from my mom. I don’t know that I’ll ever live long enough to appreciate fully everything she did for me and my brothers. Something happens, and it’s just: “Right. Okay. Deal.”

So while we’re on the topic, here’s the good (besides the obvious up there) (or maybe just an extension of what’s up there):

• Why, yes, I was in a car accident. On my way to game 2 of the Stanley Cup Finals, no less. The good part is, I wasn’t hurt and the kids weren’t in the car. The bad part is, my car was rendered undriveable and after being screamed at by the other driver (who I still think was 50% at fault, at least) having me finally say, “um, okay, this was an accident, I didn’t collide with you on purpose, just how many ways do you expect me to apologize?”, I ditched the car and proceeded on my way to the game. The good part is, I made a call to my guy, who I was going to the game with, and instead of hearing “oh GREAT. Nice going. How’s the car? Pay for your own cab,” which I might have heard once upon a time from someone else, I heard: “Oh my goodness! Are you okay? Where are you?! I’m coming!!” I was taken care of, and I couldn’t do anything about the car, so we went to the game, and had an amazing time. Bahaha, remember how Timmy Thomas got scored on 11 seconds into overtime? Priceless.

• Also, ICBC and the car repair place were soooooo nice to me. Sure, I had to pay my outrageous deductible, but everyone I dealt with was so kind that I felt like popping them into my pocket and carrying them around. And my car, my beautiful red car, was delivered back to me as good as new. Nicer, even. Sure, I had to drive a hideous silver little car around for a month that screamed “Craftsman Collision!” and “Air Miles!” depending on what view you had of the car, but I did have a car, and it might have even been better on gas than my little car, so, win.

• Taking care of the kids. We all know what a big job good parenting is. But we have a great time. I was just on the phone and the kids were running around running and screaming and I could barely carry on my conversation but I’d rather that in a million years than an empty condo.

So you guys, it’s all in how you look at it. It’s not even a conscious decision to not moan and complain. Everything is relative, but someone’s always got it harder. We don’t always get what we want, so let’s enjoy what we have. And other sayings.

AND GUESS WHAT. Hockey’s coming back in October! FORTY EIGHT MORE SLEEPS.

Super!!!!

]]> http://anythingandnothing.com/2011/08/13/hows-it-going/feed/ 6 Veronica http://anythingandnothing.com/2011/08/05/java-junkie-table-for-one/ http://anythingandnothing.com/2011/08/05/java-junkie-table-for-one/#comments Fri, 05 Aug 2011 18:56:44 +0000 Veronica http://anythingandnothing.com/?p=1134 ]]> A couple of days ago on the holiday Monday (bless you, holiday gods, for finally giving us a stat in August – I celebrated B.C. Day with gusto), after a massive breakfast, I stopped into a JJ Bean that I’d never been in before and ordered my usual.  It’s a pretty simple order, 2 espressos. In one cup.

The girl behind the counter looked at me quizically.

“You mean, like an Americano?” 

“Nuh-no, 2 espressos, in the same cup.”

“I don’t understand….”

“You just put the equivalent of 2 espressos in one cup. To go, please.”

“….are you European or something?”

Sigh.

I did say I was South American, then she goes, “Ooooooh, kay. I get it. You people are really serious about your coffee.”

HELL yes we are. Coffee! What’s the point of COFFEE if you don’t do it for real. It’s why I instantly mistrust anyone who drinks decaf, and look down my nose at anyone who basically drinks candy that doesn’t even taste like coffee, and then has the unmitigated, unforgiveable, brazen, ridiculous GALL to call it “coffee”. Or even, who basically drinks milk and says it’s coffee. For shame, I say. For shame.

Case in point: my companion asked for a latte, a foamy yada-yada, one of these orders that takes about a minute to utter. Then he added, “Basically, the opposite of what she’s having.” (P.S. isn’t that adorable? He couldn’t be cuter if he tried. I totally and completely forgive him his “coffee” preference.) (Still….pffft. Amateur.)

Cultural differences are inifintely interesting. Easy now, I know a ton of you north of the tropics share my preference, but I don’t happen to see any of you at JJ Bean or Starbucks at the same time as I am. I have to wait through infernal, interminable “coffee” orders every time I go.

When I was in Chile, even when I was 17, 18, my girlfriends and I would spend hours after school (or even during school…ssshhhh, don’t tell my kids) sitting at outdoor cafés, ordering and sipping espresso after espresso. These cafés would be packed with other patrons doing the exact same thing, ladies all made-up to the nines after their weekly visit to the hairdresser, University students, and the like. The air would be thick with loud conversation and laughter and cigarette smoke. Heaven. I’d also drink coffee at night with my mom. No espresso machine at home, but we’d make the coffee the way I liked it, turbid, with the colour and consistency of tar, so that your spoon could practically be suspended in it. I mean, my mom didn’t object to this kind of coffee because she’d then add about 3 parts milk to hers. Maybe I was switched at birth, except for that I did inherit her crazy. Perhaps crazy is taught.

One of our favourite shows at home will always be the Gilmore Girls. There’s this one episode where Lorelai and Christopher (during Lorelai’s lost year after breaking up with Luke) are planning to go to Paris to deliver Christopher’s daughter to her mother for a visit, after this woman up and abandoned her daughter because she’d done enough mothering. The hell kind of mother is that. I digress. Anyway, it’s one of our favourite quotes ever when Lorelai is looking through her French terms dictionary and asks, “what’s Cafe au L-A-I-T?” and Christopher says it means milk, coffee with milk. And she says something like, “oh weird!! I always thought it was Café, olé!! Kinda like, Coffee! All right!”

That’s exactly how I feel about it. Coffee! All right!

For purposes of a cute anecdote for this blog post, I just asked my mom to remind me about the little rhyme she used to sing to me that went like, “café con leche, me quiero casar, con una señorita que quiera bailar…” which translates to “coffee and milk, I want to get married to a young lady who likes to dance.” No dish-ran-away-with-the-spoon rhymes for us South Americans. And would you believe, she said, “no no no….it’s ARROZ con leche, not CAFE con leche.” Arroz con leche is rice pudding. Gross. You can see why my mind preferred to remember it as coffee.

Thispostwasbroughttoyouafterslamming2espressos. Kthanksbye.

]]> http://anythingandnothing.com/2011/08/05/java-junkie-table-for-one/feed/ 2 Veronica http://anythingandnothing.com/2011/07/22/memories-like-the-corners-of-my-condo/ http://anythingandnothing.com/2011/07/22/memories-like-the-corners-of-my-condo/#comments Sat, 23 Jul 2011 00:23:17 +0000 Veronica http://anythingandnothing.com/?p=1106 ]]> There’s so much stuff going on with life right now. Some of it I can’t begin to write about because I don’t know where to start and if I started it I don’t know if I could even end it. Some of it I’d LOVE to write about but can’t because it would probably be used against me. But it would be awesome to.

One thing I can write about and couldn’t possibly be used against me is the ongoing saga of Project: Sell This Condo.

We listed our place to sell it and move some place bigger in the beginning of June. We still haven’t sold. Oh, eeeeeverybody loves our condo but just no one has made an offer. I’m ready to scream. I know they’re not just blowing smoke with their positive feedback because back when I was trying to sell our “matrimonial” home we got PILES of negative feedback. So, the nice comments are awfully nice but I feel like saying, “Kiss my butt. Make me an offer. Thank you very much.” Because my mama raised me to have manners.

Besides the frustration with not selling (look, I know we haven’t been listed very long, the market’s not hot right now, bla bla bla) is that while we ARE trying to sell, it’s paramount to keep this place looking, at all times, like no one lives here. Quite the challenge with my mini-roommates.

I spent about 3 whole weekends cleaning, painting, washing carpets, de-cluttering, de-personalizing, taking stuff to donation, taking stuff to storage, etc. All just before listing. Every day, I have to leave our home looking like no one woke up here, no one had breakfast here, no one gets their little handprints all over the windows and the glass coffee table and the bathroom mirrors (seriously: there are other places to put your hands. I’m this close to investing in gloves for these guys).

So, now our condo sits here, pristine, nicer than it’s ever looked, given that the comfy, lived-in look of a home where a young family actually makes their lives does NOT sell condos, and every day while I do my last-minute inspection of every detail in the place before heading off to work, there’s stuff I notice. Like:

• The big empty spot on the living room wall. About a year ago, my daughter and I were watching TV and this commercial came on that I only ever saw a few times, and have no idea what it’s trying to sell because all I could ever think about was how sad it made me. It’s this guy sitting on a rooftop in this big city, and all over the city these, like, kids’ drawings pop up, of big alien spaceships on the city streets, flying cars, maybe flying people, I can’t remember everything. Every time I saw it, it gave my heart a pang because I realized that my kids had just passed that magical age where all the make-believe stuff is possible to them. It’s like mourning the passing of the innocent age, where all that stuff you imagine can be REAL. I actually said out loud, “this commercial kind of makes me sad.” My daughter asked why, and I told her. Her bottom lip quivered and then she actually all-out cried. I felt like the world’s worst mother. She said, “Mommy, I still believe in make-believe.” And she grabbed a bunch of markers and paper and started to draw, flying angels, walking spaceships, clouds and buildings. Then she cut them all out and taped them all over our living room wall. It was a formidable mural. Our little city full of make-believe. It stayed up until a few weeks ago. I took it all down and kept it – but I miss looking at it. A lot.

• The gouge in the coffee table, precisely the size of two baby front teeth. Three years ago, the kids were in the living room and I had just gotten up to do a load of laundry. My son was taking karate and we’d just gotten home from his class, had dinner and were relaxing. He was still wearing his gi, and my daughter asked for some pointers. I encouraged this because I felt like my son was proud to show what he knew, and he’s also a really patient, good teacher. Well, it turned out my daughter was really only interested in jumping right into serious karate, complete with high kicks and yells of, “high-yah!”  BT dubs, they don’t actually say “high-yah” in karate. Anyway, general but harmless horseplay ensued, and like I say I was just around the corner doing the laundry in the hall closet so I to this day don’t know precisely what happened, but it went a little like this: *Thunk*. Deafening silence for 2 seconds. Then, “MoooooooooooMMMMMMMMYYYYYY WAAAAAAA!” For 1/10th of a second the irrational urge to pretend nothing happened and not look crossed my mind, but then I sprang back into the living room. There stood my little girl, blood and tears covering her terrified face, and me going, “you’re okay! You’re okay!” I took her into the bathroom to wash her face so we could see what we were dealing with, meanwhile my horrified son who can NOT handle the sight of blood was wavering between passing out, running into the street, and tearfully explaining that he didn’t do it, he hadn’t done it. Turns out the blood was all coming from her mouth, her two front teeth were kind of caved in but no teeth were broken as far as I could see. But she was in a lot of pain. I packed both of them up to make the trip to the emergency room, and my daughter calmed down a lot, my son was relieved we all agreed it was just an accident, and my daughter got to explain a bunch of times to different strangers what had happened. She was prescribed some painkillers and we went home, I took her the following day to the dentist for good measure, he explained that it was just her baby teeth, the grown up teeth behind them had not been compromised, and he wasn’t going to pull the baby teeth out, but they’d be falling out a few months before they would naturally be due to. So she spent the next few weeks with dangly, askew front teeth and a story to tell. She adapted beautifully, using her molars to bite food and got more ice cream than she would normally have been allowed. The gouge in the coffee table is there as a memento.

• The empty spot beside the kids’ bedroom door. At turns, for the 4 and a half years we’ve lived here, it’s proclaimed loudly in pencil, “DANGER: HONTED HOUSE” or “Girls only!” or “This Way to Singing Tryouts” or “GRYFFINDOR. NO SLYTHERIN. SIGNED HARRY, HERMIONE AND RON.

• My bedside table, where I now throw everything that doesn’t have a proper place. But sitting at the top of the stuff in the first drawer is the birthday card I got this year from the nicest guy I’ve ever had the pleasure to know. Enough said.

• In the second drawer I have a little pile of traffic tickets. Well, not “tickets” per se, but rather, warnings. I’ve gotten a few. The cops around here are super nice and refuse to make me spend my hard-earned cash on tickets rather than, say, my children. The latest one was for not stopping at a stop sign. According to the cop. I’m sure I at least slowed down, and obviously wasn’t driving like a dangerous maniac because I got a warning. We went later that day to the barber for my son’s haircut. The barber’s is the place my son knows he has a great audience, and proceeds to loudly tell whomever’s cutting his hair, and thusly anyone within earshot, our latest family hijinks and anecdotes. Once, he boldly told the barber to just shave his head. The barber said, “Really?” and my son replied, “Well, maybe not this time. But it would make your job easier. It’s so easy, my mom used to shave my dad’s head so he wouldn’t have to waste his money getting a haircut.” The barber asked, “What happened?” and my son replied, “They got divorced.” Then he also told the barber that I was single, and how old I was. Mortifying. The other patrons were enjoying the show, however. Anyhoo. So this particular afternoon after the stop-sign warning, my son was regaling the rapt barber-shop audience with the tale. How I had told the kids that I was sure to get a ticket this time, I couldn’t get away with another warning yet again. And he said, “And she got another warning!!! My mom NEVER has to pay tickets.” The fella in the seat to his left muttered, “ooooooof COURSE she doesn’t.”

There’s more, like the dining room table that if you look closely, has 4 little blobs of glitter-glue which I’m now convinced is made out of industrial strength super glue, because it will never, ever come off. There’s our fireplace mantle, bare save for the beautiful orchid plant to one side. It used to be covered in Habs hockey cards, a miniature Stanley Cup, an Oscar statue that we bought at Universal Studios that says “Best Family”, and tons of little pictures of the kids. The window sills, where my little girl had all her wares for when she played “Store”, complete with all kinds of items she made and other items from the apartment that she relocated to the windowsills, with price tags on them (mostly negotiable). The windows, which routinely were covered in paper that had been taped up there, so whatever was taped directly beneath them could be traced. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

All gone now, or stored away for when we can see them again when we move. If we ever move. It’s funny, because as desperately as I want to sell our little condo because we’ve simply outgrown it, it will be terrible to say good-bye to it. It’s the first truly happy home I’ve lived in with my kids. In the very back of my mind, I think, would it be the worst thing in the world if we had to stay for another couple of years? But no, we really have to move. It’s time.

Pssst, wanna buy a 2-bedroom condo with a view? Please?

]]> http://anythingandnothing.com/2011/07/22/memories-like-the-corners-of-my-condo/feed/ 3 Veronica