August 2006

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There is a ‘second showing’ happening tonight between 6 and 6:30. I am half-pleased, half-concerned.

I am pleased because, as you’ve figured out, I’m really shitty at being patient. I hate delayed gratification. I want to move and get on with all the things I want to get on with. I want to stop talking about selling the house, showing the house, cleaning the house, showing the house.. (and then I can start boring you with “buying the house” “inspecting the house” “buying the house”! Wheee!)

I am concerned because it’s likely that they’ll offer less than our asking price; that’s what people usually do. I don’t want to accept less than our asking price because our asking price is the price we want. I know we can turn the offer around and say, “Uh uh, you give us our asking price or.. WE DON’T LET YOU HAVE THE HOUSE!” but the impatient part of me is shouting, “I’ll take $50 cash and a handfull of wooden nickles!” because the impatient part of me, as noted above, is ready for a new project to fixate on. The thing is, I’m still half-convinced our house is underpriced.

The good thing about all of this is Coffee’s part in the whole process. He’s the sane one around here (no shit!) and he’s the patient one (double-no-shit!) and he’s the one who will tie me up, duct tape my mouth shut and politely inform the potential buyers that we will not accept the nickles I’d be willing to take in exchange for the house. If need be, I’m pretty sure he’ll stuff me in the trunk of his car, drive around the block and lock it to prevent me from chewing through the tape and shouting, “TAKE THE HOUSE! JUST TAKE IT!”

At any rate, please cross your fingers and toes around 6pm EST today and chant, “It’s a looooooovely house! Buy the house!” over and over while facing Southern Ontario. I’ll be in the park with the dogs having a panic attack if you need me.

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Landshark.


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This is the hippo that lives on my front porch.
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This is what a beagle looks like when you wake it up by taking
328 pictures in a row. With a flash.

I’m working on taking a bazillion pictures with my camera – learning all the various modes and options and doodads. Slowly, but surely. In the meantime, how’s about I bore y’all with a few that aren’t horrible.

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I bought this bird for my Dad as a birthday gift a year or two before he died. I have no idea what it’s made of, though, as it appears to be metal and feels like papier mache. It stays out all year ’round, however, so it’s obviously not paper.
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I don’t usually post pictures of Daisy on my blog because, with her very black and shiny fur, it’s hard to get a shot where she isn’t just two shiny-reflected eyeballs staring back from a shadow. I’m still learning all the settings on the new camera, but I’m seeing some possibility.
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See? A little funky still, but we’re getting there. I need to work on using the flash a bit differently.
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When Coffee and I got married, we registered for a whole whack of these black metal hippos. They’re meant to be garden ornaments, but we’ve got them all over the interior too. This one, in particular, was given to us by Melle – already decorated. I couldn’t bring myself to un-decorate him. I love the house-hippos very very much.
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Daisy often has this look on her face as though she’s feeling sort of sad and sheepish. I suspect that’s part of why I’m perpetually snuggling her and telling her she’s a “good dog”. Zooey on the other hand, pretty much always has a manic expression on her face like she’s just itching to howl her fool head off.

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A week ago-ish, Coffee and I were desperately trying to find someone in the United States of America to purchase something for us online and ship it to us in Canada. I didn’t post the link at that point, simply because I feared (knowing my friends as I do) that I’d end up with five friends buying me five sets and I’d have to take out a loan to pay everyone back, in addition to procuring a second storage unit to keep them all out of the way as the house-showing continued. It was a moot point, at any rate, because the items sold out VERY quickly.

I signed up for the “be notified when this item is back in stock” and, late last night, email appeared telling me that it was available to order. After making shrieky noises of glee, I realized that it was nearly midnight (my time) and possibly too late to get in touch with a lot of the people who sent me email offering to purchase them for me. I started off making phone calls to Willow – using her home, office, cell – but didn’t leave a message. I didn’t want HER to come home and order the stuff if I had managed to get in touch with someone else in the meantime. Then I emailed Flippy a mostly-coherent message in which I tried to contain my rising hysteria. And then Coffee called his sister and she ordered two sets for us. Phew.

The item in question is a six-pack of Juiceboxes. Six of them for $25 USD. We ordered two packages – one for Coffee and one for me. They are highly hackable, y’see, and I had recently read some articles about the various projects that can be made from them. My first project is going to be a digital photo frame because, well, I’ve always wanted one. Making one myself would ROCK MY SOCKS OFF.

If anyone else ends up purchasing one, I’d love to hear what your plans are for a project.

Sadly, I’m not going to be able to start the project until we MOVE DAMMIT. MOVE MOVE MOVE.

Broken.

“…I felt sad, because I realized that once people are broken in certain ways, they can’t ever be fixed, and this is something that nobody ever tells you when you are young and it never fails to surprise you as you grow older as you see people in your life break one by one. You wonder when your turn is going to be, or if it’s already happened.”

The above quote was written by Douglas Coupland in my all-time favourite book, “Life After God

Many, many, many years ago I had that quote on the opening page of my web site, with “DC” as the attribution. It didn’t occur to me that people would assume the “DC” in question was me, but they did, and now my name is attached to that quote all over the damned internet. As much as I’d like to claim it as mine – because I still think it’s a beautiful paragraph – I keep trying to clear it up. I email people who use it in their sig files and only a few respond to tell me they’ve changed it. It keeps popping up. It’s on memorial pages and personal pages and blogs and, well, everywhere. And my name is attached to it, everywhere.

My copy of the book is dog-eared and mangled and some of the pages are torn. It’s filled with purple highlighter smears. I’ve only loaned it to a few very close friends over the years because of all the highlit passages; I carefully swiped the colour over the words that hit me like a sucker punch to the gut and, as it happened, nearly every page was marked. I first read it after my Mom died, after I attempted suicide, after my life spiraled into a big ugly black hole. I read it when I was a different person than the person I’ve become. To hand it to someone now is to hand them my life at that point in time.

There is no other book in my vast collection that has that power. There is no other book to which I have attached my emotions so strongly. If you happen across it, please pick it up and read it and know that it is the one book – the one single book – that got me through the worst parts of my life.

Duvet Dreamin’.

It is 1:45 pm. The house showing this morning has already happened. Both dogs are sound asleep. I have finished the book I was reading and now, just because I can, I’m going to take a lovely little nap all-snugged up under my duvet. Take that, bitches.

Balls.

I am not kidding in the slightest when I say that this is totally something I would do.

De-Grease.

One of the other great side effects of the Spironolactone – and one that mostly balances out the excessive sweating I’m doing at this very moment – is my unspeakably NORMAL skin. It’s not oily, it’s not overly dry, it’s.. .normal. I’ve never had normal skin. Ever.

In addition, my scalp is no longer oily which means I can buy regular ol’ shampoo. The scattering of pimples on my shoulders/back have disappeared. The tiny zits along my jawline are gone. I still don’t have beautiful skin by anyone’s definition, but it looks GOOD and, when combined with my obsessive-love for the Bare Escentuals mineral foundation? I look like an adult instead of a going-through-puberty-painfully teenager.

This is a sweet deal.

Dags.

As you read this you will no doubt say to yourself, “Surely she will post pictures at the end of this chunk of words!” but, alas, you will be wrong. I totally forgot that I now own a tiny camera instead of a hulking behemoth and, well, the camera did not accompany us on our adventure.

The showings this evening started at 6 and went until 7:30. I always try to leave about 15 minutes early so that I can be certain the dogs are ready to go (leashes, poop bags, etc.) and that the house has been fully prepped (all lights on, light dusting of air freshner, rats and birds covered securely). I also try to stay away for an extra 15 minutes so the dogs aren’t howling in the front yard because they’re tired of me hauling them around the ‘hood for hours on end. (They get bored of the walking much faster than I do.)

To sum, I needed to be out of the house for 2 hours this afternoon.

I figured it was as good an excuse as any to take the idiots to the leash free park in Burlington, so I tossed them into the car where they proceeded to yelp at ear-splitting ranges, bark like idiots, froth and shed every single loose hair on their bodies. My car seats look like a dog exploded. Seriously. The windows are covered in smears of snot and goop and whatever else comes out of dog faces. But we made it to the park in about 20 minutes and got ourselves into the leash-free zone without incident and I’ll be hosing my car’s interior down on the weekend.

It’s worth noting, I suppose, that despite my genuine affection for human beings as a group, I am completely and utterly incapable of assimilating myself into that group. I cannot make my face into a ‘friendly’ expression (I suspect it’s merely frozen into “please dear god, don’t look at me!”), nor can I make eye contact with strangers, and when someone speaks to me I instantly behave as if I’ve never spoken to another human before. But there were dogs there, right? Surely that would help. All that’s needed is some polite curiosity about other peoples’ dogs, right? Ha. Not if you’re me. Noooooo…

When we arrived I let the dogs off their leashes and noticed the couple sitting on the picnic table lean toward each other, looking at me, and start whispering. That was the end for me. I couldn’t even say “hello!” to people. I was totally certain that I didn’t fit in. Was it my “Evil” shirt? My sunglasses? My ponytail or flipflops? I spent much of the time at the park standing off to the side petting other people’s dogs and staring into space. I would love nothing more than to be able to strike up a conversation with a stranger, but, alas, I suck.

(I should note, here, that they may very well have been talking about ANYTHING other than me. But I noticed them whispering and looking at me and got all insecure and ridiculous and.. yeah. Oooookay..)

Zooey spent the entire time at the park running around trying to maul a 10-month old Newfie and the SIX Great Danes that were loping around the grass. She didn’t quite come up to their knees, but she was covered in their slobber and having the time of her life. She had no desire to be near me, other than when she needed to catch her breath, and I’m pretty sure she developed a crush on the Newfie in particular since she was leaping through the air (over and over) to get her nose into the Newf’s butthole. She was also smothered with love from every human who got near her – I could hear the “Awww, aren’t YOU cute!” noises from several meters away where I was slowly turning into a chameleon and blending into the scenery. When it was time to go home I had to all-but tackle her to get the leash on while she looked at me as if to say that I was ruining her life and the Worst Dog Mom EVER. She sulked the whole way to the car.

Daisy, on the other hand, wanted to leave the moment we arrived. It’s the same every time we go to the leash-free parks. We arrive, she half-heartedly sniffs the ground, pees once or twice, then stands by the exit gate looking desperate. I empathize with her, given my own inability to join the proverbial pack, but I had to draw the line when she started making a mad dash through the gate whenever someone arrived or departed. She was determined to get the hell out of there. In the end, I affixed her leash to her collar, dragged her to the furthest end of the park and released her a few times. I’ve never seen her run so fast before – straight to the exit.

An hour and 20 minutes later, Daisy dragged me (and I dragged Zooey) to the car again and we hit the road to come back home. Within 30 seconds of driving they were both sound asleep in the back seat. Zooey was snoring and half-collapsed on Daisy – Daisy had sprawled out across the entire back seat. I took them for a quick pee when we arrived home, and both dogs have been sound asleep ever since. This is a very nice perk. Very nice.

I cannot wait until we have a fenced yard. That might actually be my favourite part of moving.

GAH.

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Whoah, Nelly, I am one unmotivated chick.

Today, as a special treat and a limited-time-offering, please feel free to swing by my house (I’ll send directions) and kick me until I do something. Anything other than lie in the middle of the floor (as I am right now) with my head propped up on a pillow and my laptop in front of my face.

At some point I’m going to have to get up. I am not looking forward to that point.

We have another showing tonight, which is great and all, but what I’d really like is to get some feedback on the place. We’ve had, what, 12 showings now? And no offers. No second viewings.

We painted everything, we cleaned everything, we packed up all the clutter and.. nothing? Nada? WHAT IS WRONG WITH MY HOUSE? My own real estate agent has brought through a whopping ONE showing – the rest have come from other agents – and that isn’t impressing me much. Plus, those other agents are not going to call me the next day and say, “Oh, hey, maybe you should do X and Y.” even though I’d really welcome it.

When you’re here kicking my ass around, could you give me some feedback? I’ll totally take you for a deep fried pickle to repay your kindness.

(Mmmmmmm.. deep fried pickles.)

I am desperately looking forward to the long weekend that’s coming up. It’ll be one of the first weekends in a while that isn’t going to be fully swallowed-up by the house-wrangling. This means that Coffee and I might have conversations involving something other than, “where the fuck are we going to put THAT?!” and “oh, for fuck’s sake, do you know where the screwdriver / paintbrush / wrench is?“. I am hoping to get laid, to eat sushi and to lie around reading library books. That’s it. That’s my big set of plans.

GO ME on the “making attainable goals” front!

(Are you on your way here to kick my ass around yet? Because, um, I can make this the world’s longest blog post in order to procrastinate. Don’t tempt me.)

Changing the subject, somewhat: yesterday I bought a new digital camera. I traded in my old one, I forked over all the cash in my wallet and then some, and now I have a tiny little camera that’s made for people with zero photography skills. They should have just called it the “Dana U Camera by Nikon”.

I was kind of hoping to spend today taking pictures of .. well, things. So far my only motivation has been the dog hair that accumulates in ONE DAY on the carpet (the same carpet I’m currently lying on – yum.) using the macro function. (“And this one is from Daisy.. Oh! THIS one is from Zooey!.. And here’s one from Coffee..“) Maybe I should hold off on taking pictures until I can get up off of the floor?

Speaking of which, I’m going to move myself to the upright position and take the dogs for a (very humid) walk to the park, then eat a toasted sammich to further trash my already-irritated gums, and wander around the house with a bottle of Windex and a microfibre cloth. I’m not a fan of ‘cleaning the house’ as a concept, but doing it daily is even worse. I’m tempted to write up Post-It notes that say, “THIS HOUSE LOOKS REALLY GOOD WHEN CLEAN. TRUST ME.” and stick ‘em to all the mirrors and other flat surfaces in the house in order to excuse myself from cleaning all the time.

I bet I’d get some good real estate agent feedback ON THAT.

(And my agent just called to say that we have THREE showings today. BUY MY FUCKING HOUSE, PEOPLE. JUST BUY IT.)

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