You are currently browsing the monthly archive for June 2008.
While I personally find it a little odd when passengers stick their feet out of the car window when driving along the highway, I think it’s probably unsafe for the driver of the car to do this.
Unfortunately, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen it happen The photo is blurry because both my husband and mother urged me to stop taking pictures. I guess they thought the driver of the car might get mad.
I’m pretty sure we could have outrun him. After all, he’d have to put his foot back in the car to get out.
As we while away another evening getting our house ready for a second Open House, I can’t help but be a little envious of homeowners and landlords with properties in somewhat ‘hotter’ markets.
We spent a few days looking at rental properties in Calgary, and this is what we found:
Rental Home 1: We pull up to the curb and find (pregnant!) relatives or friends digging up dandelions. Tina, the landlady, is standing outside, overseeing their work. She takes us on a quick tour of the dilapidated property with a kitchen and bath I’d rather not be caught dead in. I think I see dog poop in the basement – but I don’t stick around long enough to find out. And the monthly rent is about $1500. Maybe I’m unique, but I’d choose a clean house with dandelions in the yard, any day.
Rental Home 2: We walk in through the front door at the same time as the current tenant walks through the back door, unaware that her landlord is showing her property. Awkward discussion follows and Jason and I do our best to fade into the woodwork. Icky kitchen aside, it’s actually a fairly decent house in a fairly crappy neighborhood. And who wants a landlord that’s going to come in unannounced? Monthly rent also about $1500, but she assures us it’s negotiable for good ‘attendings’ (tenants).
Rental Home 3: The disinterested sounding landlady meets us at the house after a hastily arranged appointment. In a shady part of town, the house is actually pretty nice inside. It’s certainly the largest of the properties we viewed, though it’s still about 100 sq ft smaller than our current home. Despite evidence of shoddy workmanship and a broken sliding door, the asking price is just over half a million dollars. Yes, it’s Canadian, but in case you haven’t noticed, the Canadian dollar is currently more powerful than the other dollar. On the way back to her car, her cell phone rang. We heard her tell her kid who was done with school and waiting for a ride home: ‘I’ll come and pick you up just as soon as I get my nails done.’
Rental Home 4: Located in a shabby but interesting part of town, this house was split into two rental properties. We looked at the main floor as the upstairs was already rented out. This is common practice in Calgary, dividing a home into multiple units so as to generate additional revenue. The landlord seemed like a genuinely nice man, if a bit too laissez-faire for my taste. He showed us around the strange layout – one ‘bedroom’ in the somewhat scary basement, one bedroom right as you come in the (back) door, and one bedroom right off the living room. And the kitchen is ’split’ because it couldn’t all fit in the same space – so the cooking area is in one room and the washing area and fridge is in an adjacent area. Maybe it sounds okay, but it wasn’t, really. Not for $1500 or $1600 a month. As the landlord aptly summed it up: ‘it is what it is.’
Rental Home 5: This house was being shown by teenagers (or very youthful-looking men). I can’t even recall the details, but let me assure you the photos online vastly improved the house’s actual appearance. It was so shabby and on a very busy street that I didn’t even bother looking at the second bedroom. As we walked out, one of the teenagers remarked: ‘not what you were looking for?’ No, not quite.
Ah, to be part of a real estate boom.
Experiment 1
Take a tupperware container of leftover thai chicken curry. Put it in the microwave for one or two minutes, depending on how hot you want your food. Remove it from the microwave exactly one week later. You won’t get a precise look at the various fungi proliferating in the container because the smell will be so ghastly all you will do is throw the container in the trash can. Then you might realize it was actually a friend’s container and you’ll have to buy her a new one.
Experiment 2
Feed your baby son some cereal from a plastic container with a lid on the way to the airport. Leave the container under the seat for five days and then remove the lid. Again, the overpowering smell will prevent a closer look at the particular kind of mold inhabiting the container. Put the container back in a plastic bag to deal with at a later time, since you’re hotfooting it to Canada and don’t have time to deal with bacteria.
Much was revealed at the boys’ recent ‘well check’ at the pediatrician’s. Thankfully they appear to be in good health, but what really made me laugh was the way the Gort interacted with the nurse and the doctor.
The nurse was asking the requisite questions regarding their respective skills and abilities. Can G ride a bike? (Uh, no). Can he dress himself (Uh, he doesn’t want to). Does H transfer objects from one hand to the other? (I’ve no idea). At one point G asked her: ‘When’s Dr Hughes coming in?’ Apparently he didn’t want to waste time with a minor character.
When she’d finished the questions, the nurse left, saying (the infamous lie) ‘the doctor will be right in.’ Once the door was closed, G announced: ‘when I grow up I’m going to be a doctor. Then the nurse will say here’s Doctor Goran.’
The nurse came back in and I encouraged G to repeat his story. She agreed that ‘Doctor Goran’ had a nice ring to it.
I figure if we perpetuate this story enough, the kid might grow up thinking he decided at the age of 4 to be a doctor and work towards that goal. Sure, once he got to medical school he might realize he actually hates all of it, and really wants to be a plumber, but we’ll cross that bridge at a later date.
For now he’s decided to work with kids rather than feet. Those were the options I gave him in the car.
(A recent late night conversation in an airport between a husband and wife)
Man: Do you remember which parking lot we parked in (3 days ago)?
Woman: No, I think we parked in row B10, but that’s all I remember.
Man: I think it’s the Premier parking lot
Woman: I thought it was the Tiger parking lot
Man: No, I’m pretty sure it was Premier.
[Leave baggage claim area and go wait for the Premier shuttle bus]
Woman: But I don’t think our shuttle bus was black…..
Man: No, this bus is just smaller than the one that dropped us off (hence the black color..)
[The shuttle bus drives to the parking lot]
Woman: This is not the parking lot we parked in.
Man: (Sheepishly) Uh, yeah, what should we do?
Woman: I guess you need to go ask the driver if we can walk through to the other parking lot.
Man: [Remains seated] I don’t want to.
Woman: But you need to since you’re the one who thought it was Premier.
Man: [Walks to bus driver and whisper-explains his situation so none of the other passengers can hear]
Bus Driver: You can get off here and walk through that area.
[Man, woman and baby asleep in a carseat grab their belongings and get off the bus. And begin the walk-of-shame towards their car, while carrying a 19lb infant in a 10lb carseat.]
Woman: [Exhausted, battling oppressive humidity and 3 solid days of stress, frustration and no sleep] I’m SO going to blog about this.
Man: Well, then I’ll just write my version in the comments. Where’s our car. It’s not in B10. I can’t carry this (baby in carseat) anymore.
Woman: It IS in B10. Wait here and I’ll go find it.
[Woman leaves man and baby behind while she walks off alone into the humid night to find that precious car...which is parked in row B10.]
In addition to trying to sell our house and find a new place to live in Canada we’re also trying to find a ‘new’ car. Of all the things we’re trying to do this is a fairly painless task: we simply tell our ‘car man’ what we want – a wagon, with leather interior and less than 80,000 miles, preferably an Audi or a Volvo, least preferably a Subaru – and then we wait for him to find it at the weekly auctions he attends.
Of course, we made our request in May and now it’s almost July and we don’t yet have a car. So we emailed our man before we left for Canada – gently reminding him that we hope to move in the next 6 weeks.
We arrived in Canada on Sunday, after pulling into our driveway from Chicago at 12.00am and waking up at 5.30am to head for the airport. Our first day was spent finding the hotel, driving around, getting information on cell phone plans, having dinner with one of Jason’s new colleagues and driving around some more in an attempt to find the neighborhoods we’d like to target in our search.
The second day was spent looking at a couple of properties, getting information on banking, driving around some more, buying a few gifts and having dinner with another of Jason’s new colleagues.
So the third day rolled around and we did not have any of the things we’d intended to acquire, namely: a lease, a cell phone or a bank account. So we arranged multiple appointments to view properties and sign paperwork with human resources. Due to our desperate state and limited time, some appointments ended up being only 30 minutes apart which made for some spectacular driving, navigating and arguing. (I think we must actually be of Italian descent, as even the baby was screaming.)
When we arrived back at our hotel we were beside ourselves with exhaustion and frustration. I’d been feeding the baby pieces of pizza in the back of the car for his dinner, stealing occasional bites for mine. We’d been driving in circles so much I was starting to recognize places. It felt like the scene in Chevy Chase’s European Vacation where the Griswolds find themselves unable to get out of a roundabout and Clark keeps saying: ‘Look kids, Big Ben!’ (Pointing to the landmark each time they’d drive by.)
We’d run ourselves ragged in our quest for housing and come up empty-handed. When we walked into the hotel room J fell on the bed in a state of despondence. I checked our email in case there were additional properties to be viewed.
The only email we had was from the ‘car man.’
‘We’ve bought you a 2003 Subaru Outback with only 64,000 miles (and cloth seats).’
I laughed, wondering how I was going to break the news to Jason.
Then I left my boys in the room and went to the restaurant for a cocktail.
When we first moved here, nearly four years ago, we took to walking the streets in order to find a place to live. Given that it’s not really a ‘walking’ kind of town, and that we were pushing a stroller with a baby in the middle of the day during the dead heat of summer, I’m sure we were an impressive sight.
Nevertheless, one day we were walking around a neighborhood close to campus to see if there were any suitable houses for sale or rent. A woman, driving by, stopped and rolled down her window. For some reason she chatted with us for a few minutes and we learned that Jason was one of her husband’s new colleagues. As she prepared to drive away, she croaked in her smoker’s voice, ’you’re what we want’ [in this neighborhood].
Fast forward four years to our garage sale last week. An older woman approached the tables with our wares and, after a quick look around, declared loudly to her husband who’d remained in the car: ‘he’s got nothing I want.’
I guess it’s time to go.
First, let me acknowledge that I am not a garage sale person, if indeed there is such a specimen. I grew up in a culture where there were no garage sales. I’m not sure what people did when they moved, but they certainly didn’t put an ad in the paper and drag all their earthly treasures to their front yard. Frankly, the six foot high brick walls weren’t conducive to driving by and stopping on a whim.
But even after moving to the States, my family never had a garage sale and I can count on one hand the number of garage sales I’ve visited. (Auctions are an entirely different matter!)
So it is with trepidation that I approach such events, particularly when I’m the person dragging my earthly treasures to the front yard for the whole world to see. I feel entirely, genetically, inept with the process and the practice – the art of garage sale-ing – if you will.
I tried to prepare, in order to make the event as pleasant as possible. I placed an ad in the newspaper (a $35 investment). I made a few cardboard signs to post at the major intersections near our home. I got cash from the bank (though the large amount of pennies was probably unnecessary as J kindly pointed out). I’d gathered all the belongings I knew I didn’t want to move to Canada. We’d sorted and priced items, and created make-shift tables from pieces of plywood and trash cans and sawhorses.
And the day arrived. I woke up around 6.30am, having tossed and turned most of the night, afraid I wouldn’t wake up on time. We rushed outside to drag our belongings from the garage to the tables we’d set up the previous night. And hurriedly slapped price stickers on the remaining unmarked items.
And, even though the ad and signs said ‘Garage Sale 8am-12pm,’ our first customer stopped by before 7am. Because garage sale hours are simply ’suggestions’, apparently.
‘Do you have a chester drawers for sale,’ the early bird inquired. I was too tired to notice this new hoosier-ism, (but J happily pointed it out once she’d left). ’No, sorry,’ I apologized. And after a very brief look around she got back in her car and drove off.
Our next noteworthy customer was the art-man. He gathered up all the oil paintings we had (from a local artist whose work he supposedly collects) and insisted he’d be back within two hours to pay for the stack. So J put aside the art and we went about the business of sitting and waiting and hoping someone would arrive and buy the rest of our stuff. Mostly J sat on the porch watching soccer on his computer while I cleaned the house.
The thing that really irks me about garage sales is how ridiculously cheap people can be. I honestly don’t understand the point of selling perfectly good items for 10 cents when you could donate it all to Goodwill and claim it on your taxes. I don’t understand people who pick up a book, and, upon learning that it costs all of 50 cents, put it down because that is just too much money. Nor do I understand individuals who arrive and see a perfectly good tile cutter and think it’s acceptable to offer 50 cents for something that probably cost $20 or $30. Or individuals who arrive in a Honda Pilot SUV, but think $5 is just too much to pay for an almost brand-new Land’s End women’s shirt.
I left at 1pm for a belated birthday pedicure, courtesy of my mom. And when I returned Jason informed me that the art-man had come back. Apparently his car had broken down, but he’d come back to our place, drenched in sweat, promising he’d be back in 20 or 30 minutes with the necessary cash.
Around 2.30pm J’s family arrived for a cook-out (and, unbeknownst to them, a major trip to Goodwill). They looked through our stuff and took what they wanted, and we loaded the rest of the stuff into their mini van and pick up truck. After we’d eaten, the caravan procession left for the shores of Goodwill.
While they were away, I did the math. We raked in about $60, but once I factored in the cost of the ad and other supplies, our profit was reduced to about $20. And then I divided the $20 by the number of hours we spent staging and executing this ridiculous sale (let’s say 12)…..which means we basically earned $2 an hour (collectively) to work our butts of. (And I didn’t even include the cost of the gas for two vehicles to and from Goodwill…..)
However, despite the utter lack of profit, our garage is clean and cleared of all junk for the first time in three years. Which means our car is able to fit inside it. Priceless!
The art man never did come back. And for some stupid reason we still have the art. I guess we’re hoping that his conscience will drive him back to Alden Road to make good on his promise.
Let’s hope I don’t see him around town, since I know I won’t see him at another garage sale.
Saturday….Garage Sale….and family lunch gathering at our house (17 people)
Sunday….. Open House….does that mean the house should be clean?
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday……..Read ‘Atonement’, Pack for trip to Chicago and trip to Calgary, Make baby quilt for sister’s baby shower, plan menu for shower, ‘work’,
Thursday….Travel to Chicago
Friday……Baby Shower Prep
Saturday….Baby Shower and drive back home (arrive at midnight, hopefully)
Sunday…..Leave for airport at 6.30am….fly to Calgary
Monday…..Look for place to live
Tuesday….Ditto
Wednesday…Fly home…arrive at midnight, hopefully
[I'm guessing the book and the quilt won't get checked off the list. Sorry in advance - sister and book club!]
The four year old’s latest round of gems:
‘The [preschool] bird died. It got squashed by a cat. The teacher put it in the ground. We’re going to grow a new one.’
‘I’m feeding [the baby] some cereal. Get the camera and take a picture!’
‘Calm down, calm down…take a deep breath, take a deep breath……TAKE A DEEP BREATH!!!’ [He says to the baby, who's fussing in his booster seat]
‘Those strawberries are too wet. Dry them!’ [I responded by handing him a paper towel and suggesting he dry them himself.]
‘Why are we selling our house to someone else?’ [Because we're moving to Canada, I tell him.] ‘But it’s my house. It’s stuck here so it can’t move.’ [I know, that's why we have to sell it, I remind him.] ‘It rained last night and now it’s stuck.’
[I spy G dragging his brother over to the train tracks and when I question him, he responds...] ‘He wants to play trains with me. Wait! I’ll get you a train. I’ll be right back. Just stay right there.’ [His brother starts crawling after him] ’No, we have to stay here because mommy is checking her email!’ [Or writing a lame entry for her blog.]
‘I wish I could feed [the baby] some strawberries.’ [But he can't have strawberries yet, I remind G.] ’I tell you what. How about I just take off a small piece and then I can put it in his mouth.’
I tell you what, indeed.
