Archive for the ‘Move’ Category

Indiana Coincidence, Sarah Vaughan

Friday, August 24th, 2007

Don is back in Chicago for the weekend.  As is his habit, he checked out the house he owned in Munster,* Indiana when we met.  A cute Cape Cod (a “dollhouse” according to the listing) which he and his dad had completely re-done.  (He was having the floors sanded when we met.)  He sold it in 36 hours (with multiple offers) Thanksgiving 1999.  (Those were the days of the booming real estate market, and the beginning of our serial home improvement.)  It’s on the market, and there’s an open house Sunday.  Guess he’ll be going.

Munster, Indiana House Munster, Indiana House (2007)

I’ve looked at the MLS listing, and it doesn’t look like they’ve done anything except tear off the roof and replace it.  (A good thing since it suffered hail damage in about 1998 to the extent that the insurance company paid on it.)  Oh, wait.  They bought a portable dishwasher, too.

  • The whitewashed paneling and ceiling in the basement – Don. 
  • The patio in the backyard – Don. 
  • The wallpaper going up the wall along the stairs – Don. 
  • The refinished hardwood floors – Don.  (The house came with mauve carpet.) 
  • The blue sponge-painted dining room – Don (but remember this was ten+ years ago.) 
  • The “newer tilt-in windows” – Don.
  • The track lighting -Don. 
  • The “beautifully finished wet bar” in the basement – Don. 

The house has appreciated, based on its listing for $199,900, about 50% over the last eight years, while our love has, ahem, increased infinitely.  Yeah, that’s it.

Moving update:  five medium boxes and four small boxes unpacked.  Can’t find the plastic storage stuff (aka, Tupperware, but it isn’t).  Wonder if it is in storage.

Little One story:  We went to a fashion show birthday party last night.  It’s at a high-dollar children’s clothing store.  The kids choose clothes off the rack, get made up (eyeshadow, blush, and lipstick — Maggie called the eyeshadow eyeshades), and go down the red carpet runway.  (I know.  She’s only five.  At least, the dads’ catcalls were reduced from the last fashion show birthday party.  Her dress was $45, at 50% off.)  This time, each kid chose a model name to be announced as they went down the runway.  There were: 1 Heart, 3 Barbies, 2 Hannah Montanas, 2 Princesses, 1 Evel Kneivel (one boy chose to dress up — the other boys sat around the edges), and … one Sarah Vaughan.  Yes, our daughter came up with Sarah Vaughan all on her own as the name she wanted.  Isn’t that cool?  I’m not sure how many of the parents even knew who Sarah Vaughan was, but that’s their problem.  I have a daughter who wants to “the singer’s singer,”  according to Ella Fitzgerald.

Have a good Friday!  Here’s some Sarah Vaughan to take home with you.  (I would embed the video, but I can’t figure out how.)  That’s all!

*When I first started dating Don, I thought he lived in Muncie, Indiana, the home of Ball State University, and about 200 miles away from Munster.  Driving from Munster into the city (back then, I lived on Howe) was enough of a challenge to our relationship.  I doubt he would have driven an extra 200 miles for me, then.  Of course, now he regularly drives 600+ miles (each way) for me, and my dream job in Arkansas.  (btw, neither Munster nor Muncie have anything to do with The Munsters of TV fame.) 

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Thursday, August 23rd, 2007

I like unpacking.  Not all the time, and not for days on end, but I like re-discovery.  I like finding that we own eight spatulas, and four kinds of black pepper.  I like finding a photo album from a family reunion in 1988 and moving it into the photo album section.  I like flattening out the packing paper and the boxes.  I like counting how many boxes I have unpacked.  (4 medium boxes last night — and I made a casserole,** too.)  I like finding the new towels I bought to make our other house look better.  And I like finding the cloth diapers. 

After the Little One had accidents* several nights in a row, I’ve stashed diapers in a drawer in each bathroom — should make cleaning up easier, and more ecological than paper towels.  (And what is better to mop up pee than a diaper?  It’s almost as if they were designed to soak up pee.  Oh, wait a second.  They were, weren’t they?) 

We tried cloth diapers for a few weeks after she was born — even though we had a diaper service, it was too hard.  We were putting on an addition, and couldn’t access our washer and dryer, which you need for washing the baby clothes after they get peed or pooped on — which happened more often with cloth than disposable.  (The stairs to the basement and attic were removed while we were in the hospital.  I had a c-section, and couldn’t climb down the ladder into the basement.) 

I still have shelf space in the kitchen, and drawer space in the bathrooms.  I need to figure out what I want to keep in the bathrooms — I hate the way towels turn sour so quickly in the humid South, so I’m thinking along the lines of soap and toilet paper.  I’ll keep the towels in the linen closet.

Haven’t really started dealing with the bedrooms.  Most of our clothes are still at my parents’ house, and we may want to give away most of the ones that stayed in Chicago for a year.

* I assume her accidents are part of managing her new world of kindergarten, after-school care, townhouse, etc.  Along with the horrible hissy fits and calling her father stupid.  I’m working on helping her find other ways to decompress.  I’m thinking the glass of chocolate milk we each had when we got home yesterday is a good thing.  Good specifically for stress management, I mean.  Chocolate milk is always a good thing. 

** When we stopped at the grocery store to get the ingredients for the casserole after I picked the Little One up, a boy greeted her by name.  I swear she sort of blushed and giggled in return.  (Then she told me, “That’s very peculiar, isn’t it?  He goes to my [after school care].  Isn’t it odd that he’s here?”)  We had to go back to the produce section so she could see him again.  And she wanted to get out of the grocery cart.  (Too babyish?)  It turns out he is a 1st grader named Rafe.  He also goes to her grade school.  The grocery store is about a block from school and after-school care, so it wasn’t too strange to me.  This integration of our lives is exactly what I hoped for. 

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Moving is moving. With photo of car

Wednesday, August 15th, 2007

Packers packed the almost-adopted orphan yesterday.  Emptied the storage unit and stopped that contract.  (Or, rather, husband did.)  Arranged to stop most of the utilities. (Or, rather, husband did.)  Movers are supposed to load and leave today.  Husband is supposed to leave Chicago (and arrive in Fayetteville!) tomorrow.  Closing is supposed to be Friday.  Stuff is supposed to show up here on Tuesday.  Still some niggling odds and ends, but that’s what lawyers and Realtors are for.  (And husbands.)  I hope.

Car was towed to body shop, and the insurance company gave the go-ahead to start estimating, etc.  I was interviewed today about the accident.  Sounds like the insurance companies may conclude it was, indeed, an accident on both parts.  It’s been 15+ years since I’ve had to deal with crushed cars and insurance.  I’d forgotten how time-consuming it is – I hope it goes better this time.  (Last time, my car was innocently parked on the street, and it was knocked twenty feet.  Lots of rear-end damage, an uncooperative insurance company for the accident-causer, and it was hard to get it completely repaired.  The air-conditioning turned out not to work, and there was a leak we didn’t find for several months.  Ugh.)

Crushed Car

At least, I’ve owned it almost a year now, so it doesn’t feel quite as new.  It’s been nearly nine months since the last time it was hit.  The first time it was hit, I hadn’t made a payment on it yet.  (High school student who didn’t see that traffic was stopped, just that the light was green.  Rear-ended and dinged my bumper.)  The second time, I was waiting at a light to turn left, and a hubcap flung itself into my car.  A small scratch and a very loud thump.  This time was worse.

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