Meaning about an hour after lunch I sat down and swallowed her whole.

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Afternoon snack. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Would it be a proper Armstrong house if at one point or another I didn't put tin foil in the windows? This is Marlo's room, and we've got black-out shades coming, but they won't be here for another week. This is called ingenuity, y'all. Keeps her asleep until at least 5:30 AM. It also prevents the aliens from stealing her brain.

by dooce in Daily Style

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as "Window treatments". This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

This is the next to last guest post from Sarah, something I can very much relate to as it took me a long time to forgive my mom for pulling my hair really hard when she used to French braid it. I always thought she was doing it to be mean, and now that I have children, I know for sure she was. Physical abuse? Illegal. Pulling a tiny bit harder than is necessary when braiding your child's hair? Letting off some steam so that you don't do anything illegal.

Now, off to deal with another electrician, another bid on the boiler, and trying to find some really important paperwork that I thought I had put inside a box labeled REALLY IMPORTANT PAPERWORK but apparently got moved to a box with no label at all. Guess what I found inside the box marked REALLY IMPORTANT PAPERWORK? Polly pockets and an inflatable SpongeBob beach ball. Please shoot me.

........

My wise and sainted mother probably envisioned having a daughter would be more about braiding my hair and buying me dolls at Christmas, and less about catching me making out with my high school boyfriend on the front porch long after she thought I'd gone to bed, or receiving a late night phone call from the Bixby County Police Department just letting her know where I was. Just a friendly call, ma'am!

To atone for what a total and complete dick I was growing up, I thought I'd highlight some of the most memorable battle of wills my mother and I have had over the years.

1981: The Only Time My Mother Ever Spanked Me

I was four years old, and we spent a weekend at the lake with some family friends. All I'd been told about this trip beforehand was the swimming and fishing and going on a boat. The only boat frame of references I had came from "Row Row Row Your Boat" and the houseboat Lowly Worm lived on in my Richard Scarry book, which left me ill-prepared for Mr. K's speedboat, which was very loud and went up on its side and then dragged my father behind it (on a pair of skis, but still). I spent the entire ride screaming in terror, and then when we pulled into the dock, my screaming turned to unbridled preschool rage, and I stood up and yelled at everyone onboard. I told Mr. K just what I thought of him and his boat. I believe my exact words were, "I hate your boat, and I HATE YOU!" This was a nice man who helped me with my Snoopy fishing pole and whose wife brought me chocolate coins and a sticker book when I was home with the chicken pox, but he had crossed the line with his crazy vertical death boat. My mother hauled me out of that boat, onto the dock, and into a changing room in a matter of seconds, and I remember while she spanked me, even though I was still yelling and crying, some very sober, calm part of my brain thought, "Oh yeah, I totally had this coming. This is what I needed."

Winner: My mother

1987: Why don't you tell that dirty joke to Gladys Matson?

When I was in the fifth grade, I was a guest at Ellen Matson's slumber party. Ellen and all of her other guests were mere fourth graders, so I took it upon myself to show them just how worldly I was by telling them the worst dirty joke I knew. It was also the only dirty joke I knew. It wasn't even a very funny dirty joke, but its crowning achievement was that it used every bad word there was in one long sentence, spoken by a small child to a visiting minister. When my mother picked me up from the party the next morning, I succumbed to this weird elementary school hairshirt phase I went through and confessed. I tattled on myself. What? I know. I am so glad I outgrew this phase before high school. Anyway, my mother's awful and brilliant punishment was forcing me to CALL ELLEN'S MOTHER and TELL HER THE JOKE. I have never been so crippled with shame in my entire life. And Gladys Matson was very matter of fact and polite about it, sitting on the other end, patiently waiting for me to stop sobbing and get to the terrible punchline, to which she pleasantly said, "Well, thank you for calling, Sarah!"

Years later, at Ellen's wedding, I asked Gladys if she remembered this incident, and she laughed, turned to her husband and said, "Remember Sarah's joke?" and he said, "Oh yeah, with the minister!"

Winner: My mother

1989: Wherein The Bathroom Door Gets Broken

This was when things started getting ugly. I was clutched close to the prickly bosom of adolescence, and my number one priority became to let everyone in my house know how much I hated them. I'm not exactly sure what started this particular argument. Most of the time, I ended up in trouble for smarting off during a lecture that was originally for a minor infraction. This is sort of like you making an irritating sound and someone saying, "I would rather you not do that," and then you shoot them in face and end up in jail. It took me approximately eight years to learn that no matter how good my comeback was, it was in my best interest to keep it to myself. Anyway, this fight ended with me locking myself in the bathroom immediately after having told my mother I hated her. She kept telling me to unlock the door, and, since I was a wretched little shit, I waited until the moment she forced it open with her shoulder to do so. Because of this, the bathroom door not only never locked again, but also hasn't closed properly since. I am convinced that my parents refuse to replace the doorknob just to remind me of what a holy terror I was. Every time I go home and have to push the vanity stool against the door to keep it shut, I am chagrined.

Loser: Everyone who needs to use the upstairs bathroom, but especially me

1992: No you are not having dredlocks

Fifteen may have been my most charming year, and not just because it was the year I wrote the lyrics to Led Zeppelin's "Hey Hey What Can I Do" on our foyer wall. I got grounded for a week when, after my mother said there was no way in hell I was having dreadlocks, I decided to just stop brushing my hair. It was like Gandhi with the march to the sea and the salt and all that, you can just imagine. She ignored me until it was time to go to church on Sunday morning, and then our matted week culminated in an ugly pre-church fight wherein I first yelled the F-word. My little brother cried. My mother cried. I ended up brushing my hair.

Winner: My mother (thank god)

1995: The Violent Femmes bring ALL of their equipment on the bus

I came home for Christmas break after my first semester at college, and when I went to take a shower one day, I played a mix tape someone had made me, featuring "Waitin' For the Bus," by the Violent Femmes. This song begins with Gordon Gano yelling, "...the Violent Femmes, they bring ALL of their equipment on the bus. And you can't f*** with the Violent Femmes, YOU CANNOT F*** WITH THIS BAND!" My mother came barging into the bathroom while I was in the shower (because I couldn't lock the bathroom door) and started yelling at me for "bringing this kind of trash into her house" what with my "eleven year old brother's room RIGHT ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THIS WALL!" This is a lot funnier if you imagine my mother yelling these things in the same voice as Gordon Gano. Then she took my tape. She TOOK my TAPE. She gave it back later, but dude! I am an ADULT! I am EIGHTEEN! Now can I please have some money for my campus card!

Winner: My mother, but only temporarily: when I went home several Christmases ago, and my brother drove me around to do some shopping, this was the CD in his car.

1999: I regret to inform you that I will not be wearing pantyhose underneath my college graduation dress

Hoo boy. Here is where I should tell you that my mother was raised by a proper Dallas lady who was raised by another proper Dallas lady who did not go shopping at Neiman Marcus without her heels and white gloves. My mother herself is a beautiful woman who is immaculately groomed at all times, so you can imagine how she must feel about having a daughter who regularly gets salad dressing on her nightgown and irons her clothing with the Norton Anthology of English literature. So, I mentioned casually over the phone that I'd found a dress for my college graduation ceremony, which is stupid anyway, since it's a dress that goes under a robe. This was the conversation:

Mom: Oh, good. Did you find shoes too?
Me: Yeah, they're open-toed heels.
Mom: And did you get pantyhose?
Me: Uh... they're open-toed heels. No.
Mom: What? What do you mean no?
Me: They're hot and they're itchy and no one is going to see them, and I'm wearing open-toed heels. It's May!
Mom: Well, you wear sandaltoe hose, then.
Me: I am not wearing pantyhose, Mom.
[Rapid sucking in of breath]

Then the yelling began.

Winner: Me! But no photos exist from this day that show my feet.

Tomorrow: Why would you write about all of our personal arguments on dooce? I realize you're trying to be funny but I'm not happy with the world knowing these details. Also that's not how the pantyhose discussion went, I never forced you to wear pantyhose, and I definitely never yelled. You are always the one who starts yelling. Is that mayonnaise in your hair?

Winner: I'm sorry, Mom.

by dooce in Daily

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Mom v. Me. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

read more

I was reading one of my favorite websites, kottke.org, the other day when I saw that he had posted this video of an iPhone app called Talking Carl dueling it out with another Talking Carl. Unbeknownst to me, Jon was over at his desk watching the same thing, and there we were laughing to the point of hyperventilation simultaneously. I was like, dude, you have got to see this, and he was all, no wait, you need to see this first. So take it from us, you need to see this:

by dooce in Nubbin

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as And then shake your head and call us nerds. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

read more

I'm wiping down the countertops in the kitchen after breakfast when Leta runs in from the powder room and frantically spits out, "IT'S NOT MY FAULT! IT'S NOT MY FAULT!"

Also, I think our kid is going to make a living doing impersonations.

by dooce in Daily, Marlo, Parenthood

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Thirteen months. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

read more

But I have no idea what it is. Maybe you do? Have they now engineered plants that exist in Dr. Seuss books?

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Something in the yard. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

In addition to what seems like a hundred million unforeseen costs of moving into this house, we had to buy a new dishwasher this week. The original one was very picky about which dishes it wanted to clean, and sometimes it wouldn't choose any. Like that one time we had 35 family members over for burgers. The dishwasher said, you know what? I don't like Mormons. You can't make me.

We had the new one installed yesterday, and Jon ran the first load last night. I thanked him for not seasoning the griddle before I had a chance to see it. Inside joke, but it reminded me of Sarah's guest post about Janice. Because when we lived in our first house we saved up for over a year to buy a really nice range. About twenty seconds after they delivered it, Jon tried to season the griddle. I wasn't home at the time, hadn't seen this beautiful stainless steel appliance in our house FINALLY, and when I got home the house was filled with smoke so thick I couldn't see two feet in front of me.

He had almost set the house on fire.

I don't know what he did to try and season that griddle, it didn't matter. I was furious that he couldn't wait thirty minutes for me to get home and see the appliance in its original state JUST ONCE. He did not understand why I was upset, and I was like, UGH! He gets a new toy and he can't control himself. Lawn mower, stainless steel range, leaf blower, remote control, doesn't matter: he must play with it immediately upon possession.

And last night I realized I'm going to be sitting at lunch with friends one day, and the conversation is going to turn in such a way that I'm going to go, WHOA. You're dealing with a premature griddle seasoner. I TOTALLY KNOW WHAT YOU'RE GOING THROUGH.

by dooce in Daily, Jon

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Instant understanding. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

read more

In addition to two cherry trees and a plum tree, we have an apricot tree in our backyard. Fun, except the apricots don't ripen until, like, never, and the tree just keeps dropping these things into the yard. It looks like it hailed apricots in our backyard all the time. Even worse? Only the Mormons will get this one... IT'S NOT EVEN YIELDING ANY POPCORN. WTF?

by dooce in Daily Chuck

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Apricots!. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

I don't know why, but this is one of my favorite parts of the house. All the bedrooms are on one floor, and this is looking down the hallway from the master bedroom. Marlo's bedroom is the first one on the right, Leta's is the second. This hallway just screams HOME to me, and I can't wait to unpack all of our books and stack them in the built-in shelving that lines the entire length of the house. Meaning, all the books and Cliffs Notes I kept from college. Now we read everything on our iPads. SO MUCH FOR NOSTALGIA, TECHNOLOGY.

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Hallway. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Marlo's favorite thing to do now, after having been taught by her evil grandmother, is to climb stairs. Great. Because this new house is basically four stories, three above and one below ground. Lots of stairs to climb! No problem for an almost thirteen-month-old who routinely dives off of our bed head-first and loves the sound her skull makes as it hits the floor!

For the first few days we were living here we didn't have the right size of gate to install in areas where a gate might help things out. So while unpacking we would take turns grabbing her from the bottom of the staircase, returning her to a safe spot, and then grabbing her again. Over and over and over, and I finally understood why some women say they stay thin because they chase after their children. Because before, there was no chasing. It was me in one corner folding clothes while Leta sat perfectly still on the couch reading Chaucer.

One morning last week we woke up having not set up the gate the night before, and not two seconds after finishing her bottle she charged off of our bed, out of our room, and headed straight for the stairs. I looked at Jon and said, dude, it's time. Which was code for: you get the dogs, I'll get the one over here with rabies.

Except, when I caught up with Marlo at the top of the stairs, the smell of death smacked me right in the face, and I could see a squirrel tail of poop all the way up her back. Changing just a regular diaper these days is not unlike trying to take a sumo wrestler to the ground, so ones that are filled with that much feces require the handiwork of at least two people. One to restrain her limbs, and the other one to gag.

This was the beginning of a string of fatal errors. Because I immediately yelled for Jon who had just that second let Coco out of her crate. And Coco does not like to linger. The moment she gets out of her crate in the morning, it is high time to pee. So there had better be an open door somewhere. Where's the open door? Where? Where? And if you're even a second off with your timing you've suddenly got a shallow indoor pool.

But we weren't thinking about this right then, no. No, there were other more fragrant matters at hand. And all over my hands, because Marlo was trying to wrestle me to the ground, whipping chunky poop into the air as she struggled. Have you guys missed the poop talk? Because I was getting used to a life where I didn't have to write about it so much. And just that side effect alone makes Jon's vasectomy totally worth it.

So we were getting Marlo cleaned up, and I don't even think I could describe the process to you, because it was just a total blur: poopy limbs waving around like windmills, both of us shoving wipes at each other, that kid screeching at the top of her lungs. When suddenly I remembered Coco. No, wait: suddenly, I reeememmmmberrrreddd COOOOOH-COOOOOOH.

OHHHHHH NOOOOOOOO.

And we could not find her anywhere. I called and called, searched for twenty minutes. You have to understand: there are probably fifty different closets in this house, twenty-nine of them with locks. Originally they each had a different lock until we had a locksmith come and change them all to one. So that, you know, one of the kids locks herself in the closet and OOPS, WE CAN'T FIND THE RIGHT KEY OUT OF ALL TWENTY-NINE OF THEM.

I looked in every closet, every nook, under every bed. And because she wasn't coming when called I just knew something terrible had happened. AND OH HAD THERE EVER.

Canine diarrhea in five-foot-circumference puddles in the kitchen. In the living room. In the dining room. All over the dining room wall. You guys, Coco is a small dog. I don't think a Russian submarine is capable of holding that much liquid.

Jon was in such a place at this point that I instructed him to calm his shit down, go over to the bar in the kitchen with the girls and eat breakfast. He was doing the satan ventriloquist thing, stringing together obscenities under his breath, and I made him promise me that when I found Coco and brought her through the kitchen to the back yard that he would not fling his cereal spoon at her head.

That poor dog. She was on the top floor in our office hiding behind a filing cabinet. And I literally had to drag her by the collar to get her to come downstairs. Then I began the tedious clean up, on my hands and knees. Soaking up dog shit. Wiping away dog shit. Throwing away dog shit. And it just went on and on and on. Toward the end of it I had sweat rolling down my forehead, but I was petrified that if I dared to try and wipe it away I'd get either human or canine feces in my eyes.

BUT GET THIS.

It wasn't Coco.

I mean, I KNOW!

Because later that afternoon Chuck sprayed both the living room and the kitchen again with five more gallons of diarrhea. And it was the same color, same texture, same consistency. Coco must have seen the mess Chuck made that morning and been all, SOMEONE is getting in trouble and it ain't gonna be me!

I'm with you, Coco!

A $200 trip to the vet and runny poop sample later, and we found out that Chuck just had an upset stomach. No parasites. Probably something he ate in the backyard. Couldn't he have just said so? I would have gladly carried him to the back door myself. Because now there's a giant brown stain on the wall in the dining room, and when I'm showing friends the house, I have to say, "That? Oh, that's where we spray our dog shit."

by dooce in Daily, Marlo, Parenthood, Poop

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Wherein I return to my roots. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

read more

He has already found every hot spot in the house. Can't find Chuck? If it's before noon, in the office. Afternoon? The formal living room. He's like a living sun dial.

by dooce in Daily Chuck

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as It's the most wonderful time of the year. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

Just in case you are one of the only people in the world who hasn't seen this, I just had to post it here because I cannot stop watching it.

Here is Iker Casillas, the goalkeeper and captain for Spain's World Cup team. That's his girlfriend Sara Carbonero, a reporter for Spanish network Telecinco. Spain had just won the Cup, beating the Netherlands one to nothing. Now, I was rooting for Holland, and was sick at my stomach when the game was over. Until I saw this.

The world needs so much more of this.

by dooce in Nubbin

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as I personally would have fainted. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

read more

This is part of the master bedroom suite (not shown: closet and bathroom and fireplace). Somewhere up in that turret lived a family of animals. Critter Catcher Dude assures us that "they have been taken care of," and I think Jon made him promise to lie and tell me that nothing was hurt in the process. So I'm thinking there's a critter catcher wonderland where all the animals that used to live in roofs now frolic together in lush green meadows. Yes, that's it.

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Master bedroom. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

This is Sarah's next guest post — yes, I'm still having her do a few guest posts here and there because everything in our lives is in such disarray that I need some time to hunker down and get things organized. I'm not kidding, just yesterday I found soap. I've been using Jon's male body wash for the last week, and honey, I've been smelling like a square-jawed hunk on the cover of a paperback romance. Totally wanting to make out with myself.

Also, by having something new posted, no one has to email and ask if I'm dead yet.

........

A few summers ago, I went to Paris with my friend Anne. It was my first trip to Europe, and I celebrated my 30th birthday while I was there. I'd spent the previous week without Anne in London doing lots of touristy stuff, which was a lot of fun, but by the time we arrived in Paris, I was a little burnt out on sightseeing. Anne had been to Paris several times before, and she was more than happy to not spend all of our days at famous landmarks or crowded museums.

We spent our days in Paris sleeping until 10 or 11 am, then finding a croissant and a latte and an Orangina and sitting in sunny parks, gossiping and people-watching. In the afternoon we'd go find a shop or gallery or restaurant a friend had recommended, and then head back to our hotel to clean up and go out for pre-dinner drinks around 9. After dinner we'd go for after-dinner drinks. I realize this sounds a bit lush, but we managed to maintain the perfect equilibrium of delightfully tipsy for hours on end, and really, what more do you want from a night in Paris in June? The fact that we happened to be in Paris and not sightseeing felt decadent, and in that respect, it made it feel so appropriate. It was one of the best trips ever.

One night, the last night of my 20s, our pre-dinner bottle of Sancerre and shared bowl of fries turned into actual dinner, and then we went in search of a cool bar we'd read about. We crossed over a little bridge on our way, and I looked down and realized we were passing over a cemetery. We got really excited about this, straining to make out the tombs below. It was so beautiful, and so surprising, and we both were suddenly very happy and decided that if anyone ever asked us where we'd like to be proposed to, we'd say here, on this tiny little graffiti-covered bridge over Montmartre Cemetery with the busy highway whizzing past on the other side. It was a life-affirming moment, being delightfully tipsy on a tiny bridge over an old cemetery in Paris with one of your best friends on the last night of your 20s. And then we met Janice.

We came to the end of the bridge, and there was a little map of the immediate area. We knew where we were going, but Anne and I both love a good map, so we paused to look and say, "Oh look, we were there earlier," and the other preschool things you might say in this situation. It was more of an enthusiastic breather than any sort of fact-finding mission. But then suddenly, there was a woman beside us, a solid, 50-something woman in linen capris and athletic socks and sneakers.

"Okay girls, where do we need to go," she said, with an expression on her face like we deserved a scolding but frankly, she just didn't have the time.

Anne and I looked at each other, surprised and amused. We made noises like, "Ahh, wha?"

"Where do we need to go, girls," the woman repeated. "Tell me where you need to go and I'll tell you how to get there."

"Oh!" we laughed. "We're not lost, we're just looking at the map."

This didn't sit well with the woman. "You're just looking at the map," she said, eyebrows raised, in the same tone of voice your dad would say, "It was broken before you touched it. Right."

"We... just... like maps," Anne offered cheerfully.

We noticed that a few feet away, a couple was waiting, presumably for this woman. They were holding hands. You got the feeling they were embarrassed for their intrusive friend but too timid to abandon her.

The woman still stood there, frowning at us. For a minute I thought she might ask to see our IDs, and say, "Aren't you Dale and Pam's girl?"

"Really, we're fine," I said. "We're good, but thanks."

She reluctantly rejoined her friends. I have never seen anyone look so deprived of the chance to tell someone else what to do in my life.

Once she was out of earshot, Anne laughed. "God, thanks but no thanks, Janice."

This made both of us burst out laughing. Neither of us knew a Janice, but she'd tipsily reached for the best definition of that woman, and I knew exactly what she meant, just by that one word.

Everyone knows Janice. Janice is the volunteer hall monitor for the world. Don't you know nothing would get done around here without Janice? The world owes Janice a favor without even realizing it, and Janice loves it that way. Janice tags along on her timid friend's romantic vacation to Paris because you just don't know about men, Susan. You never know what they'll try. How long have you known Gary? Are you certain he isn't a human trafficker? Janice is the woman in your office who never smiles, even if you just paid her a compliment while a baby coos at her. Janice is too BUSY to smile, because Janice spends all her time covering for all of your sorry asses. Janice sends out mass emails about how if people don't remove their things from the office kitchen by Friday, Janice will throw them away, even though no one has given Janice this authority. Janice likes to come to your desk while you're on the phone, wave a manila folder full of things you didn't request in front of your face and sigh, "You're welcome." Janice bought a birthday card for a co-worker you don't know and signed your name for you. "You probably forgot Barb's birthday is today. I signed your name. You're welcome." Janice isn't smug or put-upon so much as she's a invigorated martyr, in incredibly sensible shoes. You wouldn't know know about that; you always wear those heels. Well, Janice did that when she was younger and it messed up her feet and it'll mess up yours too. Don't think it won't! Janice can give you the number for her orthopedist. You're welcome.

Anyway, we got to the place we were going just fine, and had a great rest of the trip, without once getting pickpocketed, abducted, or even lost. And to this day, Anne and I use "Janice" to describe people. "Eh, she's a bit of a Janice," one of us will say. "Here, you're welcome!" the other one will bark.

I love this sort of relationship shorthand. She's a Janice, you're serrated knife people. Instant understandings like this make me happy to be alive.

I do wish the Janices of the world the very best, though, because god knows I have no intention of throwing away that yogurt in the office fridge. Not when it would mean depriving them of so much joy.

by dooce in Daily

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as La Vie en Janice. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

read more

One of the best things about this new house is the giant backyard. ONE THAT IS ENTIRELY FENCED IN. Chuck cannot escape, although he will linger all the way up as far as he can get and ignore our calls to come. Because he is a douchebag. A trapped douchebag, now!

by dooce in Daily Chuck

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as The new digs. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

This is the living space off the kitchen looking out into the backyard. Plenty of space to host our huge Mormon families, which is one of the main reasons we wanted this house. It takes the pressure off my mother who has been hosting most gatherings in her home, and then she has to deal with the aftermath. I got my first taste of the aftermath on Monday, and after hosting that many people it felt like I'd been knocked in the head with a bag of bricks. Gotta pace it, but it's hard when I want to celebrate how lucky I feel to live here with everyone I know.

by dooce in Daily Photo

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Main living space. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

We've been in the house for about a week, and of course like any other move this one has not been without its total mind-blowing freak-outs, starting the second day we were here. A day that coincided with the start of my period. BAD BAD PLANNING. I do not suggest this kind of scheduling at all, especially when you've packed the tampons in a box that is somewhere now in a basement full of boxes that all look the same, and instead of doing the logical thing, like, you know, going out and buying another box of tampons, you call your mom in a hysterical fit of tears screaming WE'VE RUINED OUR LIVES!

She said all of the right things, like, it's going to be okay, Heather. And not, oh would you please just shut up and take some ibuprofen already.

We hadn't slept in several days at that point, what with the packing and the moving and the unloading and then the unpacking. And now I don't know where anything is. That for me is the hardest part about moving, the seemingly endless years it takes to finally locate the most simple things: pens, wooden spoons, bowls, salt. Remember, I was on my period, and so the first meal we cooked in the kitchen really really really needed salt. And we couldn't find it. So I sat there, tears welling in my eyes, and Jon was all, dude, what is wrong with you? And I couldn't believe he didn't understand! We were never going to find the salt. My period said so!

Contributing to the sleeplessness are the noises, specifically the critters that are living in the soffit of our roof. Like, animals. Woodland creatures. I'm guessing that since the previous owner had kept a bobcat as a pet that she didn't particularly care what else took up residence in the other corners of the home, but when I step out of the shower and it sounds like two bears are wrestling in the ceiling above my head, I cannot be blamed for screeching obscenities and hopping on top of the vanity in the nude (just in case the bears were about to scuttle across the floor, naturally).

We'd had a team of strangers in the home already: electricians, cable people, two sets of boiler people, Internet people, the Mormon up the street who saw the open door and invited us to church on Sunday. So why not invite the critter catcher over? And I tell you what, those critter catchers are completely in love with their jobs. Because when this dude saw the number of different species of birds and how many different nests they had built, the octave of his voice jumped twenty decibels and he literally skipped inside the house to give us the news. Critter Catcher, The Musical!

And he kept repeating the word PICKLE. We're in a bit of a pickle. It's a pickle, I tell you. Well, I told you it was a pickle! And he had such a thick Utah accent that it sounded like this: pyeh-kul. I started to think maybe the bears could stay.

Because he could remove all the birds, well... he thought it was just birds, but he couldn't be sure. Could be mice. Could be a raccoon or two. But the real way to solve this problem? Replace the whole roof. IT WOULD COST THE SAME ANYWAY. This after one of the boiler people quoted us $12,000 to fix "some problems."

So Jon and I discussed this quite thoroughly, and have decided we can live without hot water, and if anything crawls out from the vents in the ceiling we will name it Susan.

by dooce in Daily

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as The usual bumps in the road. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

read more

One of the reasons it took me so long to write about the house saga was the fact that we hosted a couple of holiday parties over the weekend, including one where about 35 of our family members gathered for burgers and Sprite. Here's Marlo with Jon's mother. I don't think this kid touched the ground that day after being passed from person to person to person. Also! Look! Her top two teeth FINALLY poked through and now she looks like SpongeBob!

by dooce in

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Marlo and Grandma. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

This piano has been in our family since I was probably in the womb, an antique my mother bought from a neighbor back in Memphis for a hundred bucks. I learned to play on this thing, and it's seen years of lessons and jamming sessions.

Recently, after sitting in my sister's living room for several years and a little beaten up by all the boys and pets in the family, I asked if we could take it off of her hands. We got a killer deal on its restoration, and Tyrant got all devious and did some fancy maneuvering to have it sitting in our new living room wrapped in a red bow to greet me the first morning I walked in as the new home owner. My mother was with me when we walked in, and we both just started bawling. It looks brand new, and starting soon Leta will get her chance to learn a tune or two.

by dooce in Daily Style

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Our upright grand. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

This is the final part, the one that began when our real estate agent asked, "Do you guys seem to attract this kind of craziness normally?" Because if you take the insane factor of the first homeowner, multiply it by a hundred and then feed it a truckload of Twinkies, that's the owner of my dream home. She who at one point said, "If you leave the shed unlocked that bobcat will come back. But don't worry, I'm pretty sure it's friendly. It purrs."

So our real estate agent put in our offer the morning after we walked through the house. They countered, we accepted the counter, the end, right? THAT'S HOW IT'S SUPPOSED TO WORK. Although I happen to have a track record of breaking things. Toes, tailbones, and apparently the rotation of the earth because that's when all hell broke lose. I was in New York City on Mother's Day when we had to sign the counter papers, unable to get a signal on my phone, unable to hear the 17 frantic voicemails Jon had left going I'M GOING TO FLY OUT THERE RIGHT NOW AND STRANGLE YOU MYSELF. And not in a kinky way.

The fax machine at the hotel was working, and then it wasn't, and my car was on its way to pick me up to take me to the airport, and WE WERE GOING TO LOSE MY DREAM HOME. It felt like a scene out of a really suspenseful thriller as I ran around and around the block searching for a signal to talk to Jon, the fax machine creaking along... did you get it? No? Let me run back and try again. Clock ticking, ticking ticking... around the block again... attempting the fax again...my car waiting... ticking... ticking... BOOM! When the woman at the hotel finally managed to get that fax to send I asked about her name and told her that if my husband's vasectomy miraculously reversed itself, we'd name our next kid after her.

It's a boy? Sorry, kid. I promised Susan in New York.

So we had signed papers. Signed papers! Dates! Signatures! Deadlines to meet! YAY! Except, two days later the owner fired her real estate agent. That's the first thing that raised our eyebrows, and then she made it really difficult to schedule an inspection. Second thing. And then she basically refused to let anyone in to make an appraisal. Third thing. Notice I haven't mentioned the purring bobcat yet. That's like, 300 things down on the list.

I'm not sure how earnest money works in other states, but in Utah you write an initial check with your offer that basically says $This Is How Much We Are Interested in Buying Your House. Usually about one percent of the asking price. And if everything goes like it's supposed to go, that check is released the day of closing and is applied toward the price of the house. Well, this home owner thought that after a certain date on the contract had passed, she'd be written a check for that earnest money. And she could just spend it willy nilly.

When she was advised that this is not how it works, she said she wouldn't sell the house because she needed that money to move.

But we have a signed contract.

But she didn't care.

But, SIGNED CONTRACT.

But, NOTHING.

If we didn't write her a check for the earnest money, she was going nowhere.

I don't know what it's called in other languages, but I think in English this is called extortion.

Yes, we could take her to court, but that could end up being thousands of dollars in legal fees, plus months and months of duking it out. We were still waiting for our loan to be approved, and the real estate agency basically said this: if you don't take this risk, she won't move out. This risk being: she takes that check, spends it on kibble for her bobcat, and then still refuses to move.

You guys, Jon and I didn't sleep for days. I know, first world problem. But it was a total nightmare. It was making us physically ill. We'd already paid for the inspection and two appraisals, not too much, no, but I guess the biggest thing was, well, it was my dream house. A dream house I could afford. One I'd already foolishly imagined would be the place where we could host our entire families for holidays and graduations.

We took several days to weigh our options, and I guess the Universe was feeling generous, or perhaps it couldn't stand the green coloration of Jon's face, but in the meantime she hired a lawyer to sort out her options. And that lawyer told her to suck it that if she didn't show up to sign closing papers, he would not represent her. She HAD no options. Also, LADY. DON'T PET THE BOBCAT.

Needless to say, we did not write that check.

A few days later we drove by the house and saw moving boxes and trucks, and it was like my brother that Christmas morning when he got the Millenium Falcon. We called our real estate agent, my mom, his mom, my sister, the mail carrier... WE EVEN DIALED RANDOM NUMBERS just so that we could shout SHE'S MOVING! And then Jon pretended he was Han Solo and I was Princess Leia.

But then. Yes. There is a but then. A very large but then. A but then that required the services of six different lawyers representing six different interests. Turns out that the homeowner's ex-husband whose name was still on the title of the house had one enormous lien taken out against the home in his name. Like, huge. Like, more money than she was going to walk away with from the sale. And since the two of them no longer speak to each other, his lawyer was talking to her lawyer was talking to the lawyer of the title company was talking to the lawyer of the real estate agency was talking to the lawyer representing the lien. Add in our lawyer, and it's a wonder the temple didn't fall into the giant black hole that formed in the middle of Salt Lake City.

Estimates were that not only were they not going to be able to figure out the lien situation by the closing date, but that it might take so long that we might lose the interest rate on our now-approved loan. Since Jon's phone was our point of contact for everything concerning this house, I developed a pavlovian response and would vomit when I heard the first three notes on his ringtone.

Cut to the week of closing, and I'm in New York City AGAIN, this time for the HGTV event, and I'm grabbing a quick bite to eat at a deli when, no joke, the song from Jon's ringtone comes on the radio. That was the end of THAT sandwich.

Closing date comes and goes, and still no progress on the lien. I was capital L LIVID. And no one was giving a straight answer. But how could anyone? Because one lawyer had five other lawyers to check in with, and you know they were all off either golfing or busy billing someone for paperclips and staples.

Three days passed, and at that point I couldn't go on living not knowing what the hell was going on. So I go, Jon, this is it. I want you to pull the My Wife Is Crazy Card. I want you to BLAME ME. Tell them I am ready to sue FOR EVERYTHING. For all the money we've spent up to this point, for all our lawyer's fees, for what it is costing to hold our interest rate every day past closing, and oh! Mention that I'm emotionally unstable! In fact, tell them I once spent a few days in a psyche ward! THINK YOU'RE INSANE, BOBCAT LADY? THINK AGAIN.

And I think our lawyer believed him. Because the email he wrote to all those other lawyers will go down as my favorite email ever written. By four o'clock that day, we had keys to the house.

And when we showed up to have celebratory champagne on the giant porch, guess who was still there? And guess whose stuff was still pouring out of boxes stacked to the ceiling in the garage?

It was then that she approached us and asked if legally we could speak to each other, even though she was the one who had four weeks previously stated that she wanted no contact with us or our real estate agent without some sort of intermediary. We said we didn't see why we couldn't speak, and that's when she wistfully showed us where the bobcat had lived. And when she got to the part about how it purred, well, I just couldn't take it anymore. I started laughing. Maniacally. Like, to the point that I had tears coming down my face, and I almost fell over.

ONTO MY NEW DRIVEWAY.

WE GOT THE HOUSE! And with it, so many amazing ideas and opportunities. I can't wait to get started.

by dooce in Daily

© Armstrong Media, LLC. All rights reserved. Originally published by Heather B. Armstrong for dooce.com as Next, part three. This post cannot be republished without express written permission.

read more