A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

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Have I mentioned we may be moving? No? Well, that’s probably because I don’t handle stress very well and the back and forth and yes and no and decisions and issues that buying a house entails tend to make me catatonic. But whether I accept it or not, we’re probably going to move soon. Soon could mean next month. Soon could mean in six months, but it’s happening. And no amount of avoidance will change that.

Here’s the problem, right now we live in a wonderful and crappy neighborhood. Wonderful because it’s in a vibrant part of the urban area of my city. Wonderful because I love walking down to the shops near my house, or taking Lu for a lemonade on the Plaza while I enjoy a fancy cocktail. Wonderful because we’re right by my favorite park in the city, where we walked with Lucy and the dog last night for a picnic and playtime. Wonderful because it’s near our dear friends’ house and we can pop by whenever we feel like it. Wonderful because the neighborhood preschool has transformed Lucy and has finally let me work freely because I know she loves it so much there.

Unfortunately it’s crappy because of the crime. Crappy because we actually keep a gun (shudder) in the house for safety. Crappy because of the homeless people that walk up our block talking to themselves. Crappy because the public school system is broken and there is no way I can send Lu there in three years. Crappy because our house is tiny and we step all over each other on a regular basis. Crappy because the house is infested with ants every summer. Crappy because I have to park on the street in the winter and scraping the ice off the car at 6 a.m. is not fun business. Crappy because it’s a 40 minute drive to work.

So, we’re moving. It’s time. And I know I should be excited, and I will be. But first I will have to say goodbye to the first house I’ve lived in since moving from my parents’ place at 17. The place where my husband and I got our dog. The place where I became pregnant. The place where my husband proposed to me in bed. The place where I brought my baby home from the hospital. The place she learned to crawl, talk, walk and run. I have to say goodbye to the most wonderful home I’ve ever had. And though I know bigger and better things are to come, it makes me a bit weepy.

New House
I took this the day we moved in, three and a half years ago.

This Old House

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I am living with the human version of Tim “The Toolman” Taylor. Trent has now become the King of Home Renovation. Not only has he patched the holes that were allowing plants to grow inside the house, but he has now redone the floors in the nursery-to-be. Though my baby may come out with three ears from the fumes, the floor looks glorious! No more pink carpet for my offspring!

I also would like to draw attention to the fact that Trent has an uncanny resemblence to Bob Vila. Totally hot.

Papparazzi

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I’ve had a few requests for more pictures and less jibber jabber on this site. Apparently I’m neither witty nor humorous. Or maybe people are just Paris Hilton whores who like to see pics of themselves online. So here are a few more pics to tide you all over. Of course, non really have people in them. But plants! And food! Ohh..ahhh….

My Herb Garden Pre-Death

Sadly, these beauties are no longer with us…

Bruchetta from the Italian cooking bonanza (honestly, I didn’t have much to do with them, but I thought they were yummy looking).

My Contribution to the Italian Cooking Party. Cheese and meats. Organized on a dish. Notice how its not very attractive. That was my special touch.

Stuffed Peppers alla Maria Pia, the greatest cook alive!

Rabbit ears on our TV because we refuse to pay for cable. Doesn’t it look snazzy with all the high tech sound equipment. I thought Trent was going to cry. I’m evil. I know.

OK, and for anyone who had the patience to look through all of these, I’ve uploaded some more Italy pics. Click here if you want to check it out. If not, I suppose I can deal with that.

The Anguish

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I think the house is trying to kill me.

Crazy, I may be, but I can’t help but wonder. I start planting living things around the house, I get stung by a bee. My poor pinky toe, an innocent bystander, was wounded in this first attack.

Then, after deciding gardening may not be my forte (which was proved by the fact that it is only 4 days later, and lo, my plants are shriveled), I attempt to paint my office/guestroom/bellydance practice room/brothel (for my friends who stay the night with sig others and boink on the couch…you know who you are). I begin by coating the cartoon animals on the wall with a layer of toxic/scary paint, which then gets all over my hands, cannot be washed off, and I have to bathe in paint thinner.

After a few days of silently waiting for the house to go to sleep. I attempt to cover the room with colored paint (to which Trent commented, “I like it. It looks like diarrhea. Good job”). All seems to be going well until my neighbor rings the doorbell incessantly until I run outside in my giant, paint covered t-shirt, with no shoes, and bang my foot on the front doorframe. I now have a blood blister on my other pinky toe.

Now I must go and attempt to learn how to golf with a bunch of engineers and then attempt to not lose another volleyball game while sober with a giant blood blister on my pinky toe. I think I should just get sloshed instead. Odds are I’ll get hurt anyway, so why not be singing Lindsay Lohen loudly and out of tune while doing it?

Moving Sucks

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I am a resident of 1304 W. 50th no more!!! After long weekend of bleached out lungs, decomposed rodents, and dust dating back to 1903, we’ve finally moved the mound of crap that is our livelihood to our new home.

Yipee! I’m doing the “New House Dance” as we speak. “Who’s house? Megan’s house! Say what? Who’s house? Trent’s house!” Run DMC should be so proud. Their work has now become fodder for a fairly average writer who seems to believe she is God’s gift to hip hop music and all those who worship a large ass.

Anyway, I had several fun stories for everyone, but I’ve forgotten them all in my sleepless existance. In short, moving sucks, Trent’s mom is the coolest woman alive (even I wouldn’t pick up a decomposed rat for my kid, not that I have a kid, but you know what I mean), and I love the Home Depot!

Click here for more pictures of the move. Or click here for pictures of Trent & I’s trip to the Royals game. Just in case you’re feeling random. I know I am.

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