Awash

Do you remember a few months back when our renter called to tell us that there was a leak in the front foyer? Remember the adjuster telling us that it was a fluke occurrence?

Yeah, well he was wrong. Horribly, horribly WRONG.

After getting a second SOS from our tenant after some bad weather, we called a couple of roofing companies and had them get up there to check things out. Independently and within minutes, they each had out their tape measures, which clearly indicated that they were calculating the cost of a replacement roof. Both contractors came down and explained that the hail damage was so bad in spots that the composite was completely gone and we were down to the tar paper.

I understand the whole need to be conservative when one is an insurance adjuster but I would have thought that at least the guy would have gotten on the bloody roof. He "eyeballed" it (is words, not mine) and said that his twenty years in the business have given him a pretty good understanding of what merits a claim and what doesn't.

So, we took the quotes from the roofers to the insurance company and I can tell you, we most definitely have not been IN GOOD HANDS. (insert expletive here)
We originally called about the problem back in April. With all of the shenanigans and generally shitty service, the contractor got to start on the roof just this past Sunday. A leaking roof. THREE MONTHS after the problem was noted.

Last week the forecasters were calling for some pretty foul weather so we postponed starting the repair until the weather looked more favourable. Like this week. Yesterday out of nowhere, with not a single telltale spot on the radar, the sky opened up and biblical proportions of rain came beating down ON THE COMPLETELY EXPOSED ROOF of our rental property.

I have no words.

The contractor called from inside his car to inform us that the sudden downpour was problematic.

Imagine that.

And then, like a poisoned cherry on a spoiled sundae, our renter rang to say that the carpet in the bedroom beside the second bathroom is sopping wet after someone takes a shower.

Oh dear god, please kill me now.

This morning, we woke up to the deep rumble of thunder and the steady drum of rain on the roof. I know that there is a silver lining in here somewhere and the promise of that is the only thing that is stopping me from going seriously freaking postal.

Unpacking An Attitude

Guess what I did part of this weekend?

Unpacked. And it fucked me off for the first little while as I wailed from my soapbox about how awful it was blah, blah, blah.

Then I gave my head a shake, determined to view it in a positive light. Beer helped. It made the whole task feel a bit like moving into a new apartment in university minus the pompasan chair and bong.

I tried to get excited by the fact that I actually can live without the collection of kitchen gadgets that have roosted in my drawers for years. Before, I was loathe to throw anything away convinced that SOMEWHERE down the road, I would once again need that gizmo from the Pampered Chef® that made sealed, crustless peanut butter and jelly pockets, which I had used EVERY meal with abandon while Olivia went through her finicky stage. But when you are defeated, slightly hacked off and sliding towards apathy, it is easy to toss away the superfluous.

I was forced to ask myself questions like:

**Do I really need the steamer that my granola-eating, tree-hugging, self-help-reading, Birkenstock-wearing mum bought for me years ago? It takes an hour to soften carrots, whistles "hee-hee-hee" like a woman in labour and is impossible to clean. I decided that it would be more at home in the rubbish bin, nestled beside the juicer, than back in my cupboard.

**What about my collection of cheap Wal-Mart bud vases? Back when I was a single parent, I went through this Helen Reddy, "I Am Woman" phase where I had the unmedicated notion to be good to myself by buying fresh flowers for my home each week.

Lots and lots and lots of them. I decided that they didn't need unpacking and thus began the theme of the weekend:

Purge, cleanse and repair.

I unpacked some boxes and packed others with items that would go to the local shelter. Books, toys, dishes and linens filled my car and when I dropped everything off, I felt lighter. I took the opportunity to organize closets and tackle one of my junk drawers. We cleaned the garage out. Dallas pruned, weeded and mulched the front flower bed. We went to Lowes and purchased everything that we needed to scrape, prime and paint our front door. We bought a power washer. It was remarkably satisfying work.

Last week, once the dust settled from our Florida trip and after we'd made the decision not to move, there was a slow but perceptible shift in our attitude. Dallas and I share a wanderlust gene and the prospect of moving to Florida tapped into that primal need for change and adventure that we seem to require along with food, water and Harley Davidson. But the truth was that neither of us really wanted to make the move and we had suppressed those feelings since April because we really felt that relocating was the responsible thing to do for our family. Once things changed, we began to look at our life with new eyes.

Instead of focusing on the peeling paint in the bathrooms or the broken blinds in Dylan's room, we walk into our house grateful for the layout, the space and the reasonable mortgage payment. All of those repair and maintenance tasks that were good enough to complete for new tenants but on the back burner for us have been placed on the immediate "to do" list. We were behaving like renters in our own home. Not anymore.

We drive the roads of Northwest Arkansas marveling at how gorgeous the scenery is and how light the traffic. Manchild spent the day with us yesterday and the luxury of remaining near him eased all of the paralyzing fears that we had been choking on for the last couple of months. And our friends. My god, we would have missed them. I can't express how happy I am that our communication will be more than emails and Christmas cards.

The events of the last couple of weeks while jarring, have served to clarify exactly what is important to us and therein lies the silver lining to the whole debacle. Our life, as it exists right this second, is pretty damn great.

Recalculating

I've figured out how to do this private blog thing.

If you are interested in reading, shoot me a note with your email address.

It's like being a kid again with my diary, except now, the diary talks back.

Also, just a short note to tell you that one of my new favourite things is a Garmin GPS thingy. When we were in Florida, we included one in our car rental and it is the most fabulous thing ever invented.

My sister cousin had one with her when we holidayed in March but it seemed just the slightest bit complicated (like trying to learn a Mac after being conditioned on a PC) and I shied away from it. Now, I think everyone ought to have one. I especially loved the option to change language and even accent. I browsed the list and didn't find a New Zealand dialect so we had to settle for an Aussie. We chose a female because we figured a male would get lost. (kidding)

Anyway, once she started to talk (and the strange thing is that the machine quickly feels like a real person), Dallas cringed and said that she was a British person putting on an Australian accent and that she was doing a poor job. I nearly wet my pants.

A few times, we took different routes rather than the one she had laid out and we actually sensed Garmin lady's stress as she intoned, "Recalculating. Recalculating RECALCULATING!" over and over again. We cried laughing a few times. Because we are weird like that.

Since we are no longer moving to Florida, there is probably no need for us to get a Garmin because here in sleepy Bentonville, Arkansas, we don't have much of an opportunity to get lost. Although, I must admit that one chicken farm looks just the same as the next.

Best Not Air The Dirty Laundry

I know that I left you guys hanging and I apologize. It's taken me a few days to pull my head from my arse end. I promise an update but here's the problem. My job is involved and I'm pretty sure that being a big, public bloggy mouth is ill advised. But, I am in desperate need of some post therapy so I think I'm going to create another blog and make it private place to purge my soul.

Of course, you are invited. I'm not sure how it all works but as soon as I figure it out, I'll get back to you.

Thanks for the support. You guys rock.

The Wind Has Changed

We are not moving.

And strangely, this turn of events has been remarkably clarifying for us.

More later.

Whoa There Nelly!

Tomorrow, Dallas and I fly to Florida to secure housing and enroll the kids in school.

Or so I thought.

We are most definitely getting on a plane tomorrow but now, we aren't entirely sure what we are going to accomplish. Late yesterday afternoon, my boss walked into my office, shut the door and told me not to sign any lease agreements until he'd given me the okay to do so.

Um...pardon?

Since April, I have spent nearly every spare waking moment researching neighbourhoods, schools, community amenities and crime stats. I can rattle off zip codes for A rated school zones. We have appointments to see houses every hour on the hour beginning at 2pm tomorrow and ending at 8pm. My home is up for rent. I've had prospective tenants walking through with critical eyes, tight wallets and outlandish reasons for crappy credit reports. We've weeded the front flower bed and begun the painful process of sorting, saving and tossing the possessions that accessorize our life. I've had heated negotiations with my ex husband about visitation and the logistics of moving two young children across the country. AND, not for nothing but I spent a good portion of time last weekend doing this:


So, after my boss left my office yesterday asking us to hold on while the company analyzed a few details, I was stunned. It took quite a bit for us to get to the point where we embraced the idea of moving to Florida. We really felt like we needed to support that corporate decision. Now, I'm not sure what to think. Clearly, a move across the country takes planning and even though we are just four people in a company with many employees, the directive to "hold on" ROCKED OUR WORLD.

I didn't tell my boss that the Florida rental market is on fire and that we don't have the luxury of waiting for a few weeks once we've found something we like. I didn't tell him that my son is emotionally fragile right now and in desperate need of a structured, settled environment. I didn't tell him that it took me four years to find a stylist to do my hair and that the prospect of finding someone new causes me to break out in hives. I didn't tell him that my mother switched her flights for this Christmas so that she now flies into Florida. Nope, I didn't open my mouth with a single objection. Instead, I left work, picked up my children and got a bucket of KFC to assuage my husband when I broke the news.

He still came unhinged.

Tomorrow, bright and early, we board our flight to the East Coast. We still plan to keep our appointments and visit the schools that we had listed. We still plan to do some rush hour driving to get a feel for our commute. We will follow through with the plan to collect rental applications and make nice with the natives. In the best case scenario, the trip will serve its original purpose and things will progress as we had expected them to. In the worst case, Dallas and I did some spring cleaning, pared our life and got an all expense paid mini vacation to Florida.

And when I look at it that way, I can manage. For now.

Diet is a Four Letter Word

I love weekends but like most of the men that I have married (except for this one), they are no good for me.

By Thursday of last week, I was humming right along on my diet. I didn't cheat, the scale was friendly and I was feeling very much in control.

Then Friday hit.

I was well behaved at lunch even though temptation was licking at the corners of my self control. We ate at the most incredible bistro down in Fayetteville with Brandon and Erin who are perpetually plugged into all that is hip, chic, gastronomically divine and cool. I'm not kidding. I had a reasonable portion of marinated chicken which was served with lightly seasoned greens and I didn't so much as blink at dessert. I was the model of control.

At dinner, I stuck to the plan and was feeling very hey-look-at-me-and-my-iron-willpower-ish until I spied the remnants of some Cheetos sitting right there on the kitchen counter begging to stain my fingers orange.

And then it kind of crumbled from there.

Saturday, I woke up and baked a yellow cake in preparation for a holiday party we were attending on Sunday. While it was in the oven, I decided to make a batch of Anzac biscuits for my husband because he finds them irresistible and I wanted him to blow his diet to kingdom come.

I know that sounds odd. Why would I want to sabotage him, right? Because he indulges his every whim on the weekends with barely a flutter on the scale and then the following week, he sticks to the diet plan for two days and sheds a bloody pant size. I cannot express how much this pisses me off. If I even so much as sniff a beer cap, I can't get my jeans done up.

Anyway, the cake came out of the oven and it was perfect. I'm not sure what possessed me but instead of cracking open a can of ready made frosting, I scoured the internet for a good buttercream recipe and learned that the real deal is a far cry from how I usually make frosting. I ended up using a traditional French recipe and it tasted pretty good. As you can see, I got my "Martha" on.

The biscuits went in and as they were baking, the scent of sugar, oats, golden syrup and butter wafted through the house.

I didn't stand a chance.

I swallowed the first one before it had completely cooled. It was pretty good.

So I had another.

And then one more.

And then, I did that thing that every woman who has ever dieted does:

I rationalized.

Since I had already fallen off the wagon, I might as well have at it and get the cheat factor out of my system. I promised myself that I would make a fresh start next week.

So, the Anzac biscuits were devoured, the cake is gone and this morning, I'm nursing a mild hangover. I have chicken and cucumbers packed for my lunch.

I hate Mondays.

Coming in off the Ledge

I woke up this morning with a giant knot of anxiety in my belly.

We're moving.

The sheer amount of work that has to be done before we go is threatening to occupy my every waking thought. We have a flower bed to prune, plant, weed and mulch. We have all of those small household fix-it jobs like replacing melted and BB-gunned siding (don't ask), paint work, carpet cleaning, etc., etc. We need to rent our house out and I have never entertained the possibility of it not renting.

Until just this morning that is.

We've got mortgages up the wazoo so the prospect of having to carry those, plus our new rent in Florida. Oh my.

Next week, Dallas and I are headed down to the Sunshine State to secure our housing and get the children enrolled in school. Two weeks later, we are off to a much needed but ill-timed holiday in Mexico. We haven't landed on a mover yet but my husband, seeing that my edges have started to fray, has generously offered to shoulder that particular burden.

I'm sure that once we are settled and life returns to some sort of routine, I'll look back on this time and chastise myself for the unnecessary anxiety. Until then, I'm going to get on the Harley, turn the tunes up and ride until it doesn't matter anymore.

Independence Day

Today is Canada Day, which is a celebration of when we officially became a nation. For all of my relatives in the true north strong and free, Happy Birthday!

They have the day off, which is a bit sucky because it's Wednesday. They will still have to do the mandatory grill out with friends or relatives. They will still have to drink plenty of coolie pops and they will still have to rustle up children and hightail it to some fireworks celebration. Because that is what you do to celebrate Canada Day. The trouble is, they will have to drag themselves out of bed Thursday morning and go back to work, which I'm sure will feel like it's all a bad, bad dream.

Down here, Independence Day falls on Saturday and not to be gypped out of a paid day off work, Friday has been designated at the stat holiday. I love this country.

In other news, today is significant in our household because one of our chickens is flying the coop. Yes, manchild is moving out.

Part of me is absolutely thrilled because I had serious doubts a year ago that this day would come anytime soon. To witness this child's transformation from an puerile, awkward and irresponsible boy to a careful, gainfully employed and mature man has been a privilege. I haven't known manchild long enough to mourn his childhood but seeing my husband try to wrap his brain around the status change has been revealing.

I have been trying to reinforce the idea that leaving home is a natural progression in the life of a person and that manchild with his own flat is a very good thing. Dallas agrees but wishes that he could go back and do some of the formulative years over again. He is not certain that he has taught his son everything that will be needed for an independent life. I'm sure that those misgivings are normal because even as the step parent, I've had them myself. I don't think that we ever lose the urge to protect our children but at some point, we have to get out of their way and allow them to be adults.

Today is Independence Day for our boy and I couldn't be more proud of him.