I am so disgusted!
And after this, you will be too. So fair warning to all squeamish readers and to those who may be reading before mealtime.
I was going to toss out the leftovers from my husband's birthday cake. I peeled off the aluminum foil and glanced down, preparing to scrape the remains into the trash can. There were these odd little things in the pan. Tiny little dark brown twisted things.
Mouse poo!!!
And in confirmation, one corner of cake/frosting was chewed off.
Ick! Ick! Ick!
What is it with this house! First squirrel pee on the threshold and now mouse poo in my kitchen?!?
Ick! Ick! Ick!
I seriously want to bleach my entire kitchen. And possibly the soles of my feet for walking on that floor barefoot. And possibly all of my plates, bowls, glasses, and silverware. It does not help that my thirty-plus year old vinyl floors are already scarred and constantly dirty looking.
This is just repulsive. I swear that we are not unclean people. I wipe the table and counters multiple times daily. I put away food in appropriate containers and in appropriate places. There are no open bits of whatever just laying about. But mice! Mice infestation! Ugh! And not a polite mouse like Anatole.
For those of you who were thinking about visiting, please don't let this sway you. I promise that we will deal with this mouse infestation. Swiftly and ruthlessly. We will not be serving you rodent droppings.
For now, pardon me while I do the grossed-out dance through my house.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Monday, July 27, 2009
Plus ça change,
plus c'est la même chose.
Our previous house was a tract home, one of several designs offered by a builder who was developing a new subdivision. We worked very hard to personalize the design (by plaguing our poor builder with modifications and details). In the end, it couldn't escape its essential nature. It was a nicely detailed tract home. We longed for something with more character.
Now, we're in our 1935 home that's loaded with vintage charm from its lilting, creaking wood floors to its plaster walls and ceilings. During last Saturday's street party, I chatted with a neighbor who had lived here for over thirty years. She had bought her home from the original owner. Along with the house, she had received from that original owner lots of documents about the house, including advertisements from the 1930s. These ads offered homes in a brand new suburban development...my neighborhood. Like my 1998 tract home, my 1935 Colonial was part of a builder development. The French are right. The more things change...
I recall a conversation I had with a friend a few months ago. I was rhapsodizing over the charming, historic town centers in the northeast. He pointed out that in 100 years, the spanking new, what I denigrated as artificial and inorganic town centers in the Dallas area would be historic. That there was no essential difference between the old and the new other than time. And as much as I hate to admit it (and as much as I argued against it over a margarita), I think he was right. Perhaps the only difference between my much-desired 1935 Colonial and my 1998 tract home is 63 years.
P.S. We're finding that vintage charm has its downsides. Some water from dripping swimsuits in the children's bath found its way to the powder room ceiling below, causing localized, but severe breakage of the plaster. We'd had a similar water issue with drywall in our old house, but it didn't cause so much damage. Just another thing to add to the to-do list.
Our previous house was a tract home, one of several designs offered by a builder who was developing a new subdivision. We worked very hard to personalize the design (by plaguing our poor builder with modifications and details). In the end, it couldn't escape its essential nature. It was a nicely detailed tract home. We longed for something with more character.
Now, we're in our 1935 home that's loaded with vintage charm from its lilting, creaking wood floors to its plaster walls and ceilings. During last Saturday's street party, I chatted with a neighbor who had lived here for over thirty years. She had bought her home from the original owner. Along with the house, she had received from that original owner lots of documents about the house, including advertisements from the 1930s. These ads offered homes in a brand new suburban development...my neighborhood. Like my 1998 tract home, my 1935 Colonial was part of a builder development. The French are right. The more things change...
I recall a conversation I had with a friend a few months ago. I was rhapsodizing over the charming, historic town centers in the northeast. He pointed out that in 100 years, the spanking new, what I denigrated as artificial and inorganic town centers in the Dallas area would be historic. That there was no essential difference between the old and the new other than time. And as much as I hate to admit it (and as much as I argued against it over a margarita), I think he was right. Perhaps the only difference between my much-desired 1935 Colonial and my 1998 tract home is 63 years.
P.S. We're finding that vintage charm has its downsides. Some water from dripping swimsuits in the children's bath found its way to the powder room ceiling below, causing localized, but severe breakage of the plaster. We'd had a similar water issue with drywall in our old house, but it didn't cause so much damage. Just another thing to add to the to-do list.
Friday, July 24, 2009
Boston friendly
When researching our move, I did lots of research. On various online forums and from various people in real life, I heard the same dire message: the folks up north were unfriendly. They were as cold as their winter temperatures and...well...just plain rude. Rude drivers. Rude outside of their cars.
Now, coming as I did from the land of "Texas friendly," this worried me a bit. Not that I needed to hear the life story of every single person standing in line with me at the grocery store. That, actually, I could do without. But as a stay-at-home extrovert, I worried about being cut off from all adult conversation, save my husband and my now long-distance friends.
Well. I've been up north for several weeks now. You know what? It may not be Texas friendly, but it's Boston friendly. And that's plenty friendly. I've chatted briefly with strangers at the checkout lines in grocery stores. With strangers at the local lake. Drivers let me in. Even the folks working at the RMV (that's DMV to you Texas folks) were super friendly and kind.
On a more personal level, we've enjoyed a few playdates already. An extremely kind neighbor is even throwing a barbecue to introduce my son to some of his fellow students at the local school. And I'm slowly forging some connections with fellow moms in my community.
Now, that's not to say that sometimes, friendliness is unexpected. Recently, at a Nordstrom presale (a curtained off, by-appointment-only area for previewing and purchasing sales merchandise before the sale officially begins), I was browsing through an entirely too large selection of North Face outerwear. I was lost among the varying degrees of fleece and puffiness. I politely caught the eye of an older Asian woman and asked, "I'm sorry. I just moved here from Texas, and I wondered which of these coats you think are really useful?" The woman shot me a startled, wary look...as if a chipmunk had addressed her or something equally as unlikely. In seconds, she thawed and began chatting and reviewing coats. I heard about her son's internship and how much I'd like Boston. In departing, she welcomed me to New England. Now that's friendly! Boston friendly.
Now, coming as I did from the land of "Texas friendly," this worried me a bit. Not that I needed to hear the life story of every single person standing in line with me at the grocery store. That, actually, I could do without. But as a stay-at-home extrovert, I worried about being cut off from all adult conversation, save my husband and my now long-distance friends.
Well. I've been up north for several weeks now. You know what? It may not be Texas friendly, but it's Boston friendly. And that's plenty friendly. I've chatted briefly with strangers at the checkout lines in grocery stores. With strangers at the local lake. Drivers let me in. Even the folks working at the RMV (that's DMV to you Texas folks) were super friendly and kind.
On a more personal level, we've enjoyed a few playdates already. An extremely kind neighbor is even throwing a barbecue to introduce my son to some of his fellow students at the local school. And I'm slowly forging some connections with fellow moms in my community.
Now, that's not to say that sometimes, friendliness is unexpected. Recently, at a Nordstrom presale (a curtained off, by-appointment-only area for previewing and purchasing sales merchandise before the sale officially begins), I was browsing through an entirely too large selection of North Face outerwear. I was lost among the varying degrees of fleece and puffiness. I politely caught the eye of an older Asian woman and asked, "I'm sorry. I just moved here from Texas, and I wondered which of these coats you think are really useful?" The woman shot me a startled, wary look...as if a chipmunk had addressed her or something equally as unlikely. In seconds, she thawed and began chatting and reviewing coats. I heard about her son's internship and how much I'd like Boston. In departing, she welcomed me to New England. Now that's friendly! Boston friendly.
Thursday, July 16, 2009
Signs
Warning: the following blog is dedicated to my inner English nerd.
The following are some of my favorite road signs spotted around the Boston burbs. (Note for my Metro West brethren: there are silly signs in Austin as well.)
1. Wait for Delayed Green
If the city didn't post this sign, would it then be okay to go on red?
2. Stay in Lanes
I saw this tonight on a highway. Now this actually made me worry. Am I not allowed to change lanes? For how long? Is this just a reminder that I should not swerve about like a driver in Mexico for whom lane markers are just suggestions? I actually should google this and find out.
3. Thickly Settled Area
Ummm...isn't that true for much of the Boston metro area? My favorite sign of this ilk is in Dover, land of mansions on multi-acre spreads. Yes. Thickly settled, indeed.
Don't get me talking about parking signs in the North End. Yikes! I thought decoding parking signs in the University of Texas campus was difficult. Will and I ended up paying umpteen dollars to park in a lot because we couldn't figure out if we were allowed to park or not. Hmmm...now that I think about it, maybe this is a clever way of generating parking revenue from tourists. A win-win situation for the city...
The following are some of my favorite road signs spotted around the Boston burbs. (Note for my Metro West brethren: there are silly signs in Austin as well.)
1. Wait for Delayed Green
If the city didn't post this sign, would it then be okay to go on red?
2. Stay in Lanes
I saw this tonight on a highway. Now this actually made me worry. Am I not allowed to change lanes? For how long? Is this just a reminder that I should not swerve about like a driver in Mexico for whom lane markers are just suggestions? I actually should google this and find out.
3. Thickly Settled Area
Ummm...isn't that true for much of the Boston metro area? My favorite sign of this ilk is in Dover, land of mansions on multi-acre spreads. Yes. Thickly settled, indeed.
Don't get me talking about parking signs in the North End. Yikes! I thought decoding parking signs in the University of Texas campus was difficult. Will and I ended up paying umpteen dollars to park in a lot because we couldn't figure out if we were allowed to park or not. Hmmm...now that I think about it, maybe this is a clever way of generating parking revenue from tourists. A win-win situation for the city...
Monday, July 13, 2009
Not the bee's knees
I spectacularly introduced myself to the very nice lifeguards at our local lake this afternoon. My eldest was swimming. My two youngest were playing in the sand. I was stepping towards the youngest when I felt a sharp prick and then pain, pain, and more pain. Did I step on a thorn? I turned my foot up to check and found a fuzzy squirming bee attached to my sole.
Aaaargh!
Can I say that bee stings hurt? And it really hurts on the sole of one's foot? I was trying to downplay my reaction, but lifeguards came running (one kindly pulled the stinger out of my foot because...despite doing some yoga...I'm no longer as limber as I once was and couldn't do it myself). I gingerly hobbled to a seat, and the lifeguards rinsed the sand off my foot and put some sort of anti-sting wipe on the sting. People were staring. Not really the way I'd like to introduce myself to the folks of the town. Hi. Yes, I'm the fool who stepped on a bee. That's me. Perhaps I could reframe the situation. I saved children from stepping on a bee. Fell on the sword. That's me.
Luckily, my husband had taken the day off to run some errands so he could swing quickly by to pick up the children and bring me my crutches. And so I sit, foot elevated and sore, feeling like a complete fool.
Aaaargh!
Can I say that bee stings hurt? And it really hurts on the sole of one's foot? I was trying to downplay my reaction, but lifeguards came running (one kindly pulled the stinger out of my foot because...despite doing some yoga...I'm no longer as limber as I once was and couldn't do it myself). I gingerly hobbled to a seat, and the lifeguards rinsed the sand off my foot and put some sort of anti-sting wipe on the sting. People were staring. Not really the way I'd like to introduce myself to the folks of the town. Hi. Yes, I'm the fool who stepped on a bee. That's me. Perhaps I could reframe the situation. I saved children from stepping on a bee. Fell on the sword. That's me.
Luckily, my husband had taken the day off to run some errands so he could swing quickly by to pick up the children and bring me my crutches. And so I sit, foot elevated and sore, feeling like a complete fool.
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