We All Have to Make Choices

Come here for a second. Let me take you for a little tour of our itty bitty townhouse.

Here is the kitchen:

Look closely. Do you see all that molding? I LOOOOOVE that molding. So much. I love it so much I would make out with it, if only I thought it might slip me some tongue. We remodeled that entire kitchen about five years ago. It was a nightmare of funtacular proportions, but it was totally worth it for all that molding. Well, that and the rest of the kitchen. I ain't gonna lie, I know it's a freakin' gorgeous kitchen.

Here's the dining room:

Obviously, I'm not afraid of a little color. I'm not sure that we'll go that bold again, but I do still like that red.

This is our living room:

It's not big, but it still kicks ass. It took years to get it all put together just right. There are the curtains that I made (and that my friend Barbara then remade because I did a craptacular job of sewing them). There's the furniture that we spent years finding. There's the perfect shade of yellow that took me three attempts to get just right.

I'm going to miss this place.

OK, now go back and look at the photos again. Humor me. Do it.

See how CLEAN it is?

That never happens. Seriously, never. Keeping it clean for the whole three days that it was on the market was a nightmare of epic proportions. I nearly died from the bed making, vacuuming, dusting, and general putting away of crap.

I don't clean. It's true, I don't. Ask Mr. Husband and I am quite sure he will nod yes so hard his head will fly off his neck.

Here's the thing, I work full time at an office. I like to spend time with my kid. I believe sleep is important. Put those three things together and you pretty much have to eliminate something else in life. I choose to eliminate cleaning. Some day I will figure out a way to manipulate our budget so that we can have someone come suck the tumbleweeds of fur up off the floor and wipe off the layers of grime all around, but right now that just isn't possible.

My mom was a fantastic housekeeper. She kept the trailer spotless. I can list memory after memory of getting nagged for dragging in dirt. I can perfectly picture her vacuuming because I saw her do it all the time. Our floors were so clean you could eat off of them. I don't remember ever seeing a pile of junk mail on the counters.

You know what else I don't remember ever seeing? My mother sitting down at the table with me or my brother and coloring. She never threw a ball with us in the yard. She didn't drop everything to go ride bikes around the block.

She chose keeping a clean house over spending time with her kids.

I choose spending time with my kid over having a clean house.

But, I'm keeping those pics of a perfectly clean house just so I can prove I do know how to clean, I just don't do it.

Psst . . . go vote.

Yes, a Michael Jackson Post. Beat It if You Don't Want to Read It.

Dear Alexis,

I tend to not mention current events around here, but sometimes something happens that is so big that I feel like it deserves a few paragraphs. If you had asked me ten days ago if that sort of something had happened, I would have said, "No." Since then, I've since changed my mind, and it's all because of you.

I missed the whole Michael Jackson phenomenon when it first happened. The Jackson 5 was before my time (hard to imagine, I know, but there was a short span of time between the Big Bang and my birth). When Jackson hit his solo career, I was firmly planted in rural North Dakota. We didn't have cable, and so I really never watched TV. The very first time I actually watched MTV was in college, and by then they were already mostly done playing videos (if that doesn't make sense to you, ask me about it--it's a really strange thing to have a channel dedicated to music television seemingly forget their purpose). Radio was a whole other level of isolation, as the only stations in town played country or oldies. My music choices were based on random luck when it came to buying CDs, and I just never landed on Michael Jackson.

Somewhere in there, things with Jackson turned . . . uh . . . weird. There's just no other word for it. Jackson and everything around him was always eccentric, but at some point the weird began to hold more weight than the *not* weird. There were allegations, rumors, stories, and even trials. Alexis, there is a reason your father calls me Public Defender. I always choose to believe the best in people. Some may consider it a character flaw, but those who know me best know that it's good to have a person in your corner who will believe in you. So, whether or not some of the allegations were true, I don't know.

Here's what I do know, though. When news of Jackson's death first broke, I became transfixed by MTV. Suddenly, they returned to their roots and showed hour after hour of Michael Jackson videos. As I sat on the couch watching Beat It for the first time (seriously, I had never seen the entire video before then), I was starstruck. There is no denying that the choreography and showmanship is something never seen with any other recording artist. Period. I sat thinking back to the bands that I have listened to over the years, fully realizing the influence Michael Jackson obviously had over them. Then, I turned to glance at you.

You were transfixed. Mesmerized. Amazed.

"What's he doing?" you asked.

"Dancing," I said.

"He's a really good dancer," you replied.

With that we hopped off the couch and danced our little hearts out, trying our best to imitate the King of Pop. We definitely dance like two klutzy white girls, but we fell into a pile of giggles enjoying the music, music that in your eyes was completely stripped of controversy and drama.

So, yes Alexis, he was a really good dancer. When you read this someday, let's pull out some of his music and dance like klutzy white girls all over again. Just don't forget to remind me to thank you for making me realize that Jackson's music transcends generations. I almost missed that.

Love ya', you crazy Kinnley,

Mom

P.S. That whole country music and no cable thing? I expect pity for that, Alexis. You can never say you have it worse than I did. Period. If you try to convince me otherwise, I'm shipping your butt to North Dakota for a summer.

I'd Make a Hawt Homeless Person

Considering we are now a mere ten days away from the Big House Thang, it's been awfully quiet around here in regards to what is going on. That, my friends, is not because of a lack of activity. Nope. Instead, it is directly because of a massive explosion of drama. I can't really get into it all in this forum, but let's put it this way. This? MADE MY DAY.

Yes, I was seriously thrilled to tears to see a giant hole in the ceiling at The (New) House. I mean, how could you not be happy about a hole? And STEAL BEAMS! OMG, I want to hug and kiss those beams (which is funny because when I think about Steely McBeam, all I want to do is kick puppies). Steal beams make me feel all warm and fuzzy.

Mistake after mistake by people involved in both the buying and selling process do not make me warm and fuzzy. I've lost count of how many people have screwed up at this point, but I think it's safe to say WAY TOO FREAKIN' MANY.

So.

Someday I will fill your computer screen with page after page of drama, but not yet.

Keep your fingers crossed that we're not homeless starting July 17th.

Uh, yeah.

OK, now go have pity on my poor drama-filled soul and go vote. Every day. And NOW. There's a week left to go and I need all the not stressy I can get. KTHXBAI!