Ask Me

Now, I'm going to write something *really* personal. It's about something that made me feel ashamed for years. But, I'm not anymore. There is a difference between secrecy and privacy. Secrecy is when you've done something wrong, and you stuff it down, full of shame. I stuff down a feeling of shame that doesn't belong to me when I keep this inside. Privacy, on the other hand, is when you decide to keep something to yourself just because it's nobody's business. Then I should not put it on the Internet. But here I am, typing this, because it could help at least one other woman out there in the world who is just like me.

Along with sharing this my husband, I've shared this incident with teens in my girls' Bible study for years. Girls who had similar experiences, like 1 in 3 women or something like that. So, if you are some random woman whose stumbled upon my blog, and you've found yourself in similar circumstances and think it's ALL YOUR FAULT, it's not. Learning that, I think, is the first step towards true healing. So, here goes....

There is song by Amy Grant called “Ask Me.” It starts with lyrics about a little girl who has been molested repeatedly in her home. She’s some pedophile’s “little rag” and she, “washes off his need.”

It’s disturbing, that visual. But then the lyrics take you to her future, and say, almost jarringly brightly, “Ask me how I know, there’s a God up in the heaven,” and talk about how He was there in the “middle of her pain,” and how “His mercy is there for her now.” She’s a grown woman, who “keeps the light on in the hall,” but otherwise takes care of herself and is strong. It’s off an old album, but I downloaded it the other day.

I told my former therapist that my molestation experience was no big deal in comparison to some stories I’d heard from girlfriends. He said that’s a problem, that I diminish it so. But I have one friend who was molested when she was in daycare, several times over. She hasn’t had a boyfriend since high school, and he was an emotional abuser who still tries to control her life, even though he's married to someone else.

So, I diminish. And in the process, myself, my therapist said.

It was a short-term, foul note in my life, where a 16-year-old neighbor boy said I was a “dirty girl,” having spied a Barbie in my closet in some state of undress. Why he was dispatched to babysit me by my parents when I had four other siblings, I do not know. I have no recollection of any other outside babysitter my whole childhood. Just this one experience, with this depraved individual, who branded me on my backside for life with his need.

Anyways, he said he wanted to “play a game” with me, and convinced me to kiss his penis. He touched me in my privates, but just briefly, thank goodness. My body wasn’t of much interest. He was more intrigued by whatever was titilating about my 7-year-old pursed lips and tiny hand on his penis. He’d told me that other girls his age wouldn’t touch him. I felt sorry for him, like it was somehow my job to remedy that problem. Then, he told me I had better not tell anyone, that it was just our game. He came to my house a day or so later, requesting a repeat. I acquiesced. But something shifted in me, and for some reason I remember feeling old. Words came out of my mouth unrehearsed, as though they were not my own. Now, I wonder if it wasn't God speaking through me, to protect His precious child. I told him it was wrong and threatened to tell on him. He left me alone after that. My therapist said it showed a great deal of ego strength to stand up to someone nine years older than me. Before he said that to me, less than a year ago, I always considered myself just a victim.

Days later, this boy made a veiled comment that only I could understand but right now can’t remember, disparaging me sexually in front of my puzzled oldest brother as they played catch in the middle of the street. He laughed at me. I stood there, humiliated. I told my middle brother what the boy had convinced me do. When I was 17 years old, my oldest brother confessed that my middle brother had let the cat out of the bag on the incident. My oldest brother retaliated, beat the boy up with a bat. Why this was kept secret from me, I do not know. We were all about secrets in the ‘70s, I guess. I wished I had known all those years that someone who loved me had stood up for me. I wonder if it would have made the confusion and shame less sharp.

Over the years, I always thought what happened was my fault, that I was indeed that dirty girl. It was through therapy in my late 20s that I was healed of this notion. I’ve never had any problem making love with my husband—that’s an area that remains passionate, interesting, inventive, and strong after 15 years of marriage. He’s the only person I’ve ever allowed to touch me since that boy, but I’m far from frigid and I’m thankful that I never became promiscuous, like some former victims. Where I seem to struggle, as a result of that incident, is in what my therapist called “passivity,” a willingness to withstand circumstances that other women would not. It’s because women like me don’t think we deserve better treatment than what we receive. We’re that “little rag.”

I have to catch myself not just going along with whatever is dropped on my head, and thinking I deserve it, since I’m still that dirty girl. Instead of immediately realizing someone who is using me for a toilet has other options, I try to psychoanalyze why that person does what he or she does. If pain has provoked the action, pain that has nothing to do with anything I have done, I try to have compassion. If it’s anger, I hide out. Instead of standing up for myself, I passively accept their consequences, as though that’s my role in life.

Just as I did when I was that confused little girl, helping a high school boy work out his insecurity and, my husband thinks, the boy's own molestation.

I tell myself I’m being Godly. Sometimes, maybe, I am. But mostly, I’m just being passive. And that’s not helpful to the anyone else, in the long run. And mostly, according to my therapist, I’m not necessarily pleasing God. He doesn’t want me to be wiping off anybody’s need, at such great personal cost. I’m more precious to Him than I allow myself to think I am. Other people around me, my family and my friends, benefit when I’m whole, as opposed to when I am re-acting out some victimized waif role, and letting myself get run over like a speed bump in the suburbs.

I feel more open to friendships when I feel more precious to God, when I feel I’m worthy of being respected. My circle has grown. I feel so confident that I went to the movies the other night, all by myself. I wasn’t even tempted to ask anyone to come with me, and felt good because, unlike in previous years, there was a good handful of people that I could have called. I saw that “Hairspray” was playing, and I have been wanting to see it. My hubby was off having a good time with our daughter, so I left a message for him and made my Mommy escape. I ate popcorn that had been buttered just right, and chugged down the most satisfying Icee ever made.

Some day when I’m feeling really stupid, I’ll have to blog about Icees vs. Slurpees. Today isn’t that day. Though, I am kinda stupid, most days.

But anyways, that movie was perfect for my mindset. Here was this girl who was singing her heart out, talking about her dreams. A happy movie. I loved it, not for the script, which sucked, but for all that dancing and singing about good things. My favorite song was probably Queen Latifah’s solo during their march against segregation. I started to cry, it was so powerful. I must download it.

Well, anyways, how did I get from Amy Grant to pedophiles to Queen Latifah? I must be tired.

So, I'll close with some verses I love:

James 1:2 My brethren, count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience.

James 1:12 Blessed is a man who perseveres under trial; for once he has been approved, he will receive the crown of life which the Lord has promised to those who love Him.

James 5:11 We count those blessed who endured. You have heard of the endurance of Job and have seen the outcome of the Lord's dealings, that the Lord is full of compassion and is merciful.

Noise

I just noticed that I logged my 13th post on the 13th. I am not superstitious, but I find that slightly intriguing anyways.

Today would actually be a better day to reflect about silence, since yesterday was the quietest one in quite a while. The plumber and his apprentice were padding about, setting up our dishwasher, finishing the heating system. They were gone by lunch.

It would have been better to meditate on silence today, in an attempt to get away from the experience I am having right now. The floor guys are here. The noise they are making is so pitched and deafening, I am squinting from a headache. The sound of their sanding is not unlike a siren, strangely enough. A police car with its siren on in my living room. That's what it's like.

The good news is that I came home in time to request that they tarp off our living space from the areas where they are sanding. They'd finished half the job, but it wasn't that dusty in here. But, I guess if that went on long enough, my asthmatic husband and his allergic wife would be looking for a hotel.

The other good news is, because there is that tarp taping us off, we won't have the experience of men walking through our bedroom unnannounced. Though that was kind of awful, I got used to it. I think that makes me kind of weird, or a hillbilly, or something.

I was talking to one of my best girlfriends last night. She married a guy with two teen-aged daughters. She has two teen-aged sons. It's like the Brady Bunch, but missing Cindy and Bobby. Well, she's basically fried right now, and needs a break. Somebody is always in the house. She can't walk down the hallway naked after a shower. She can't doze off on the couch without somebody traipsing past and waking her. If she's making something to eat, somebody else wants a bite. She doesn't get along with her youngest stepdaughter. Her husband doesn't get along with her oldest son. There's always tension.

So, I guess I can't complain too much about these temporary brothers of mine. Once they're gone, I'll have my little tootsie with me in the day, in a pretty new house, where she'll have all kinds of places to play and act crazy until her daddy gets home.

For now we're in a new living space: the maid's room. My husband set it up last night--which, by the way, he's good at, so I wonder if there's a career in reconfiguring rooms out there in his future. Hm. Nah. But, I've watched him carry all this heavy furniture over the past few months as he's set up rooms. The other day, he carried me upstairs. Now, THAT was a workout.

Anyways, back to the maid's room. I woke up this morning, and I thought of all the times she'd probably stirred awake, looking through the same the window frame, watching the blue light of dawn emerging. I wonder if she was treated well, was she bundled and warm in the evenings, did she have other dreams or was she perfectly content? I felt like praying for her family, assuming whoever was the maid here back in the day has moved on from this world. So, I did.

And now I think I'll add to that a prayer of thanks. Despite the cops in my living room, added to the noisy construction next door, our daughter is napping peacefully.

Hm. Now I'm sneezing and the top of my nose itches. Good times.

Silence

Thomas Merton, the American monk, wrote: "In silence we face and admit that gap between the depths of our being, which we consistently ignore, and the surface which is so often untrue to our own reality."

After all of this banging and slamming in our domicile, I have been thinking of going on a silent retreat. A couple of weeks ago, I called this retreat center, and they said to check with them right about now to see if they have an opening.

While on a work staff retreat, we were required to engage in a silence for half a day. It was weird. It was good. You can't fall back on superficiality, the polite conversation you use to motor through your day, to connect, to avoid, to control. Your only conversations on a silent retreat are with God. I have been unfaithful to Him in all my concerns about this house, all this focus on the temporal, and He's not on my mind when I'm doing my job.

I went to church last night, and I raised my arms to invite Him in during praise and worship. He is full of beauty and wonder, my best friend, my life.

I think I'll just go on a retreat for a day, wander through the woods, dip my toes in the pond. Maybe take my sketchbook, and some watercolors. But, especially, my Bible. My lifeline.

"You keep him in perfect peace
whose mind is stayed on you,
because he trusts in you."
Isaiah 26:3

Latex Therapy

The medicine cabinet in our master bathroom was gnarly. Yeah, read that again. I said it. Gnarly.

The paint was peeling and yellowed, brown smears of unknown origin dotted one shelf. And, someone had seen fit to sprinkle what looked like boric acid here and there. I haven't seen a roach in this house. I hope they were just trying to get rid of ants. I can deal with an ant crawling over my toothbrush. A little hot water and soap, and OK, I'm fine. But a roach? If I see that? I'm afraid you're going to have to take me out of here on a stretcher.

So, we shared our daughter's medicine cabinet, which is huge and has sparkly glass shelves that are easy for me to keep clean.

But once the old shower (a.k.a. green phone booth of moldy death) had been demolished, and a new bath with new tile were in place, I'd run out of excuses. The medicine cabinet had to be cleaned for the master bath to be finished.

Yuck!

I probably did one restorative task a week in that cabinet. My stomach couldn't take much more. One week I sponged it, and another I scrubbed, then I scraped. Sponged again.

Somewhere in there, I'd gone to the hardware store and bought primer and paint. I don't know anything about primer. Some 17-year-old behind the counter told me I must have it if I was painting a medicine cabinet. I was more amazed than I probably should have been at his vast knowledge of primer and all things paint. It was probably just that he was so refreshing, not some disaffected kid just earning a few dollars, but one who took his job and his customers seriously. I was embarrassed but he was patient as I took forever to choose a paint color I thought would match the bath's existing trim. I settled on artists' white, probably more for the name, since I fancy myself one. As he deftly added the correct tint and mixed it with his complicated contraption, I thought of my husband's students and wanted to ask him where he went to school, and what his goals were for the future. But then he might think I'm a stalker, so I kept my mouth shut.

The two cans sat there looking at me for a week.

Finally, my husband uttered something about us needing to break down and finally paint the house. As he started sanding, I knew where I was going to start.

I set up our bedroom TV, a wide-screen my husband bought a few years back, but which has been stifled behind a plastic tarp during the bathroom remodel. I angled it towards the bathroom so I could watch it as I painted. I put on HGTV, of course, for cheesy inspiration. They were having a catfight on Design Star, a show I have avoided. But my focus was the cabinet so I bore it.

I didn't expect painting that disgusting cabinet to be so relaxing. Some friends had visited the previous weekend, and told us how a co-worker of mine had painted her house and it was "therapeutic." I snickered under my breath. But, as I waved my brush over the cabinet in the method described on the can--make a W, wipe across it horizontally, and finish with vertical strokes--I fell into the uniformity and cleanliness of it. The medicine cabinet looked better, and I did it. Over the past month I'd left this house, that didn't feel quite mine yet, in the hands of trampling strangers, and here I was, doing my thing to improve it for once. I inhaled deeply, and rested in the tranquility that accompanies empowerment.

And, more significantly, I was using a part of my brain that often lays dormant, the part that moves my brush across a canvas and leaves color and emotion in its wake. I just so happened to find my sabbatical report from 2001 yesterday, and that girl, the one who painted canvasses so freely was there. She'd also peeked out in front of that medicine cabinet. I saw her when I closed the door and wiped the paint off the edges of the mirror. She smiled back at me, and said she'd never left.

The paint color I chose matched the trim perfectly, which added to my satisfaction. When I was taking a class at an art school several years ago, my instructor told me that I have a high visual IQ. I'm not a prideful person, but I took pride in that. I can measure something in Adobe Illustrator, and know it's a perfect inch without using its ruler. I can make dozens of logos in an hour. I've got it. I've just got to use it. God gave it to me for a reason.

My husband and I share an office--he has his computer and genealogy items in a closet, and figures that's all the space he needs. He found a very cool desk over Craig's List and he's happy. The whole rest of the office is for my artistic endeavoring but everything is still out in the garage. I am making a date with my hunky hubby this weekend to carry in the storage cabinets and tables, and then I'll get them decked out with my paints, crafts and fabrics again.

Well, after I paint the room. I've never painted a whole room before, so I don't know what is going to happen. But, I'm ready for the challenge--having saved that cabinet from its pasty misery, I'm feeling like I can paint anything.

Mom's Birthday

Surprise: something that has nothing to do with real estate.

My mother would have been 77 on July 26th, had she not lost her six-month battle with breast cancer in 1985.

Usually, it's just another day of the week. My dad will call to check on me, but typically, I'm just living my life that day, as I knew she wanted me to do.

But this year, I decided to celebrate her life with a Mommy-Daughter day. I took my little energy ball and her American Girl doll, Addie, out on the town. We went bike riding around the neighborhood, then I took her to this huge park with winding paths that she had a ball navigating. She hopped off her bike and ran like the wind toward the playground, then announced her hunger after a while, chugging down a kid-sized jug of water to make her point.

We drove to a mega shopping center, and joined a fantastic kid party. A musical group of young African American men was adding a hip twist to kid tunes. They had all manner of drums laying about, so we sat down and jammed to the Wheels on the Bus with the other children, parents and nannies. The trolley happened past, so we hopped on. Next stop, a farmer's market, where we noshed on Brazilian food in the open air. We stopped by the sticker store and she got to pick out two sheets, choosing one of butterflies and the other of cameras.

Off to American Girl we marched, the first time with Addie. We got her shoe fixed at the doll hospital and, as I suspected, she and my daughter were the only little Black girls in the store. But surprisingly, the woman who manages the store is African American. She fixed Addie for free, and treated me to a discussion on what makes Addie a valuable doll for my daughter. Not so much because she is associated with our history of slavery, but because the stories that accompany this doll encourage self-respect, independent thought, and resilience under pressure. These are all values I was taught by my parents and in scripture, and would like my daughter to learn.

But Addie's story is written for 8 year olds. As I was reading it to my daughter a month ago, she listened intently, but her facial expression indicated that she had no idea what I was saying. Clearly, she was just enjoying my lap. As the manager verified, at this time in her life, she's more likely to embrace their Bitty Baby line--goodness knows she always makes a beeline for that part of the store after we check out Addie's display. But, I think involving her in Addie's little marketing machine is probably enough. And it's not my fault. She was a gift.

After American Girl, we hopped on the trolley once more and headed home. Spent, my daughter nodded off in her carseat. I thought about the good time we had, not unlike many others--yet special because of who we were celebrating. I have so many pleasant memories of days out on the town with mom, it was nice to intentionally honor her day with my daughter.

Drywall Guy

Mr. Muhammad has a team of "guys" he uses for various jobs around our house. He picks them up out of nowhere, and they do their thing. They come one day, and then you might not see them for a week, and then they're here for a few in a row.

There's Tile Guy. Demo Guy. Plumbing Guy. Drywall Guy. Electrical Guy. I took the time to learn their names, but I'm tired today, due to their blasting about for the past week, and their real monikers escape me. So, they are each xx guy, for the purposes of this post.

Today, Drywall Guy stealthily moved about my house.

He doesn't speak. He just puts up boards, he patches. Big huge chunks of wall and ceiling missing due to our careless plumber's antics, the hanging aftermath of the removal of our kitchen soffit, the rot gut inards of our laundry room wall. Drywall guy. He heals it all.

Our house, officially today, feels like a home.

The only thing irritating about Drywall Guy is that every day I decide to clean--which ain't that often, considering I live in a construction zone--is the day that Mr. Muhammad's called him up. He may be stealthy, but he leaves his ashy mark everywhere. Today, all over my toes, too. I'm a chalky mess.

But otherwise, thank you, Drywall Guy.

Load Bearing Wall

You know that scene in The Money Pit where the house is coming together, and it seems the army of men know what they're doing after all? Of course, then Tom Hanks falls into a vat of paint that whole Rube Goldberg incident ensues. But you know what I mean.

We haven't quite had such an incident here yet--though I waited for it as a handyman chopped into a load-bearing wall today and the whole house shook.

For right now, I can see the dust clearing, the house becoming more habitable, and feeling more like a living, breathing domicile, as opposed to ancient rubble. As I looked down at my daughter's footprints in the filth, I could actually imagine a day where I wouldn't have to worry about her contracting tetanus from a rusty nail.

Hubby grilled steaks and corn on the cob while I shined up the brass on a couple of antique switchplates. Right before dinner, I showed him the freshly cleaned master bath, new shower curtain, window covering ready to be hung, scrubbed medicine cabinet and...

...the tracks of a worker's boots across my newly mopped floor.

Oh well. It's our version of home, for now.

As I lay here in bed, I noticed my fingers were unconsciously encircling the purple cross around my neck, the one my father-in-law gave me. I have faith. It will all come together. God will prevail over the rubble and fortify this home. He is our load-bearing wall. Our home might get shaken every once in a while, but we will not fall.

The Money Pit

At least two dozen strangers have trampled through our new/old home over the past two weeks. Hubby decided that if we don't upgrade everything in this 80-year-old bucket now, we never will. OK, we're lazy, unmechanical, and that's true and so we're remodeling. Hubby has all these contractors engaged, people of various levels of skill and licensure. And Home Depot guys.

Until it's all done, we're sequestered into our family room, our bed separated from our daughter's by her chunky dresser. She sleeps hard, which affords privacy for, well, you know. It hasn't been too bad living so closely. It's like an apartment, in a filthy, falling apart building, crawling with an army of men.

Army of men? you say. What's that? You remember "The Money Pit" right? It had the nerve to come on last weekend and we laughed so hard. Once, hubby tried to use his inhaler, and couldn't keep his mouth closed, for giggling. He was all, "Pfft, pfft, pfft!" during that scene where Tom Hanks tries to stoke his logs, and first the fireplace collapses, followed by the chimney. Tom Hanks hired an "army of men" to fix the place and at first they destroyed it. We couldn't stop laughing.

Maybe you had to be there. Or live here.

I was there, when I saw my ceiling fall down before my eyes the very next day. The plumber, who we'll call Ralph, decided it was in his way. And he decided to tell me that our antique heating grills had been destroyed when he removed them to cap the gas valve. Then Ralph decided to disappear for a week, after making several more fruitless holes in the wall. My friend, a lawyer, told me tell Ralph that she's on to him, and he should give me my expensive grills back, or else. Maybe I'll wait till he returns and finishes his job. Just like I don't criticize waitresses who might spit in my food, I'm not gonna diss a plumber who can insert fecal matter up my kitchen faucet.

There's the plumber, and then there's the electrician, and let's say his name is ol' Sam. He has 15 children by six different women. This fact emerges after 16 minutes of conversation with anybody. That's a whole lot of cheating, which should bother me, given I have to rely on his honest work ethic to avoid being shocked to death.

Instead, it's funny. He is 75. I enjoy this ol' Sam, and his crusty ol' barely intelligible electrician stories. He's been scalped, shocked and almost lost a finger, and has the scars to prove it. I don't mind when I'm laying in my bed, and he just comes walking in with some piece of dirty electrical crap in his hands, attached to some story. He's a source of live entertainment in the midst of this rubble.

I heard him yell at one his workers one day. This was after the boy got shocked and I heard him curse in unison with the sound of breaking glass. Then ol' Sam said, "Why you want to tare up somebody house?" Next, I thought I heard a pop upside the head, followed by more reprimanding of a person who almost died in my kitchen.

Then there's Mr. Muhammad. Yeah, that sounds like a good name for him. He does bathroom remodeling, and sweats. The first day I met so-called Mr. Muhammad, it wasn't all that hot, and the tip of his nose was dripping like our house was in his native Lebanon. I must have had a quizzical expression on my face because I remember him saying, "I come out of the shower sweating." Who knows what dumb thing I said in response. Little did I know, this man really never stops sweating and it's some kind embarassing disorder. He never looks you in the eye, talks to you standing sideways, and keeps a rag on his shoulder at all times to wipe his whole wet face. But, oddly, Mr. Muhammad doesn't stink. Well, I guess not so odd because I read somewhere recently that sweat itself doesn't stink. It's when it intermingles with bacteria that you get B.O. So, maybe that's why he remodels bathrooms: he can catch a quick shower anytime he wants, when nobody's looking.

I just wish he wouldn't have thrown one his old sweat rags into my open box of unpacked shoes. Makes me want to throw my whole shoe wardrobe away, and head up Payless. And who can afford cleaning out even Payless after buying a house?

Although ol' Sam amuses me, Mr. Muhammad is my favorite. His crew is usually the first to come and last to leave. Last week, just because he thought we were in a hurry, he worked straight through the weekend, eight days in a row. He drove 30 minutes out of his way to help me pick out tile, and didn't complain when I was too picky and couldn't find the right one. So what?: the tiles I eventually chose are a little crooked on the wall, and the creepy looking Home Depot guy he had constructing our new closet apparently doesn't know what a level is. And, OK, so Mr. Muhammad left me alone in the house with said Home Depot guy at one point, which I guess should tick me off. But I'm sure that's only because Mr. Muhammad worked eight days in a row last week for us, and maybe he's not thinking straight.

The flooring people smile a lot. Only one, the boss, speaks English. There's probably a lesson in there somewhere.

my feet

my feet are crusty
forty years of filth and nails
mani-pedi please

Things left behind

I've decided that my posts are too dang long.

That's all I'm going to say about that right now.

I'd rather talk about something that's sticking in my craw, whatever a craw is.

We spent $6,000 on painting our house, inside and out. Another $300 went to professionals for a deep cleaning. At least $1,000 was invested in home decor, such as plants, pillows, carpet, and patio furniture. We cleaned out every single cabinet, closet and drawer in this house. Hubby straightened up the garage, where he'd neatly stacked boxes we'd packed with knickknacks, books and appliances we could do without during the staging. I put new plants in my garden, and watered it every other day. Cleaned the house daily, got after my 3 year old when she made any kind of mess, and made my bed more times in two months than since we bought this place. At our gnawing inconvenience, I stored our toothbrushes, toiletries, and shower supplies way deep under the sink, so as not to offend anyone with our natural decay. Before open houses, I traveled downtown to pick up fresh flowers and made arrangements for display in various rooms. I learned how to use the vaccuum cleaner. Now, that's saying something, if you knew me.

We did what you are supposed to do to sell your home. It's the cost of making money. We're not special. And some people would call what we did basic upkeep. So, why I am prattling on about all this, and risking yet another drawn-out post?

It's because when I go to somebody else's open house, after all our efforts, I get offended when people leave out all manner of objectional, disgusting, and out-and-out wrong personal items. Who do they think. they. are? Don't open your house, if you're not willing to clean it up. Period. Nobody wants to deal with your filth.

Or, your Playboy magazine left on the sink. At this particular house, I spied a young girl a few paces away, so I quickly threw the thing in the toilet. When I came back with hubby a week later, it was still there. That was the day my hippy moccassin came off as I was climbing the staircase, causing me to plunge my foot into a horribly dirty, gluey remnant of carpet. I looked back and saw my hubby on the porch. He had been up on the second floor when he suddenly began worrying about our health, having walked around mounds of debris, tightly protecting our wriggly preschooler.

At one house, I saw a cup of curdled milk left behind in a bedroom. Hubby (who I need to think of a better name for) said it smelled very bad everywhere in that house. I didn't know; lucky for me, I had a bad cold. And they left their huge, mangy, barking dogs behind. Why would a seller want potential buyers worry whether about they are risking their lives to step foot in your backyard? Or, to wonder who might pop out of a closet door, since there were threats and cries for anarchy spray-painted all over the bedroom walls. This is the same place with the missing oven door. Begging the question: Did the paramedics take it off? After viewing that home, you'd want a bath and perhaps to sit down somewhere and pray for about an hour to wash that house off. An open house shouldn't be so traumatic. This one was the talk of the neighborhood, for weeks later. Seemed everyone had been there and had a story.

A house can be clean, but it doesn't matter if a seller leaves out personal items that make it virtually impossible for anyone to imagine living in their home. This was the case with one house, that was way out of our price range. Who am I to say what defines art, but I think it is a good idea to take down paintings of dead people. I don't mean, people who have passed away, and here's a portrait of them. But I mean, roadkill with their eyes open, laying on the floor. These same sellers left a wad of cash on their dresser, an expensive digital camera in a closet, and a full ashtray on the patio. It all just came across as contemptuous. Or, high, as my hubby thought, upon seeing all the rocker gear strewn about. I'm not feeling buying a house where people got high.

And maybe they wouldn't sell it to me.

We had our hearts open to whomever would buy our house, and stripped it down to make it devoid of who we are. But I have to say, we were happy that when our only offer eventually came, it was from people who are just like us. Maybe, sometimes, what people leave behind is no accident.

Just one little cross in a closet.

Fake Shui

I've decided that a house is kind of like a child. Your child. You note the imperfections, but you find them charming. Who wouldn't fall in love at first sight? And all cleaned up and sparkly? Our house had on its Sunday best. Who could resist?

Our agent was bubbly. Though we'd gone against her wishes, and priced it a little high, she wasn't worried. "This house is going to go!" she proclaimed. We just weren't going to get full price. She was sure of that.

We had open houses every Sunday. The people filed through. They ate the chocolate-covered strawberries and Subway sandwiches our agent set out. Our house winked and wriggled its precious little nose. People patted it on the head, and said, "Aw. Aren't you cute?" Some even made grandiose promises to make an offer. But they never did.

I began to wonder if my house stank. You know what I mean. It's like when you miss your shower and you think no one notices, because you're used to your own funk. I scrubbed harder. Three weeks passed in total. No offers.

One night I wrote a long email to our agent full of ideas, asking her to be honest, to let me know what's wrong with our house.

She called the next morning. "Would you mind if I brought in a feng shui expert?" I cringed and was intrigued and amused all at once. In other words, I didn't know what to say besides, "No." Knowing our Christian bent, she assured me without my asking that this was not a religion. This, I had read before, in a real estate article. Whatever. Bring her on, I thought.

This woman, who we'll call Stella, arrived with a suitcase of full of candles and incense and a skull around her neck. Undaunted, I determined to weed through her philosophy and focus on her decorating tips. She was a fast talker, and I was thankful for my reporting background as I quickly scribbled notes. Stella started outside, telling me to put black pots on my porch with red flowers, as she waxed on about chi as though I knew what the heck that was. Said when I planted my rose garden, which I hadn't planted in the first place, I was telling people to stay away, what with all the thorns. Inside, she told me take down my family pictures, dissed my living room furniture, and told me our goldfish was good chi. Or is that chee? She said silk flowers shouldn't be in the house, but if they are, should be thrown away in three months. Tried to tell me that some woman who lived in a mansion began recovering from a severe illness after she got rid of her silk plants, as she'd told her to do.

At this point, I began to giggle under my breath. Because people buy this, Stella is driving a Lexus SUV. I kept writing down notes on my pad to maintain my even demeanor. Or chee. Or whatever. I'm not even going to look up that word.

She adored my daughter's room, thought our master was too crowded, but loved a votive with chinese lettering I had on my dresser. Stella suggested that I remove all crosses from the walls in our house, and that's when I realized that it was kind of like a church up in there. The feng shui expert said she is Jewish, and the crosses might make Jewish buyers feel unwelcome. I don't care about feng shui, but that made me feel bad. I left one up in my closet, and had my husband take down all the others.

The tour of shame ended and we landed in my entry way, right next to her bag of tricks. My husband was on the front porch, and I could hear him entertaining our daughter. Then she was digging in this bag and pulling out incense and candles telling me what she was going to do to my house. I heard something about dragon's blood incense and whoa. Apparently seeing the look of horror on my face, our agent stopped and asked if I was OK with all this. Stella explained, in that endearing, condescending way of hers that had charmed me so, that there were no such thing as dragons. I needn't be concerned, she proferred, with a wave of her hand.

Sending women's rights back to the 1950s, I uttered, "I need to ask my husband." I beckoned him inside. He explained, quick-witted sort that he is, that I have "allergies." Stella couldn't say anything about that. But she begged to ring her Bali bell, to wake the house up, because, houses "talk" to her. OK, fine, we said. I was grateful when, to save herself time, she sent me off with red painter's tape to seal off all the money that was escaping from our house. My assignment was to wrap the tape around every pipe, under the sinks, behind the toilets--everywhere. I had to bite my lip hard as she handed me the roll.

As I ascended the stairs on my quest, I heard the bell ringing and her humming and that, that is when I finally lost it. I made it upstairs to our bathroom, holding my stomach and squelching my giggles. My poor husband, left behind on the entryway bench--well, I felt sorry for him. He'd nowhere to hide. When the bell ringing ended, I heard her start in about the candles, explaining to him that we needed one to bless our house. And that would be $19.95, thank you.

"Wait a minute. I'm paying for this?" he barked. The wheels were off the cart. I was in tears, my cheeks hurt. The agent stepped in, said she was paying for it. I composed myself and came back down.

At that point, Stella had ascended into fortune telling mode. She was explaining to our agent that she didn't have that many "business candles" in stock because Endora, or whoever it is that makes them, was waiting until the full moon ascended to the nth degree over Troy, or some crap like that.

Stella then turned to me and said that the house told her that I was the reason it wouldn't sell. I wouldn't let it go.

Now, who in the world easily "lets go" of their house, unless they just hate it? Or, they're flippers. It's their home. Stella was on auto-pilot with the fortune telling routine at this point. The house was sad, she said it said. She lectured us to tell it we loved it and then let it go. And with that, she gave us the candle, collected her $19.95 plus whatever else our agent paid her and was gone.

By this point, our agent, despite her near constant lateness, has endeared herself to us. There was no reason for her to explain, after Stella left, that she was just trying to be nice. We got that. She cares.

And we used that candle alright. Hubba hubba.

Homeless

It's that easy. I'm a blogger now. A few clicks and I'm up and running my mouth. Maybe nobody will care about what I have to say. Goodness knows there are enough blogs out there. But I'm happy enough to just amuse myself, to have my journeys recorded somewhere. That way, when I'm aged and wisened, I'll look back and remember the crazy misfit I used to be.

For my first post, I have decided to chronicle our attempt to move on up like the Jeffersons. Which, if you knew me, is not our true motivation. But when it all comes down to it, that's what people think we're trying to do. Why fight it?

According to the ads plastered desperately all over the Internet and our neighborhood, we live in a "hot redevelopment area" of the city. I hate that description, by the way, but our agent won't change it. She'd rather focus on things like bringing a feng shui "expert" into our home. More about that later.

But before we get there, let me start from the beginning.

Two years and $10,000 later, hubby and I finally decided on a design plan to remodel our home. All we really wanted is to add on a romantic master suite, and expand our family room and dining areas. Oh, and to have space for another baby. That was actually the primary reason we embarked upon this madness. Though, we really don't need a living room, family room and a den--the former of which could easily be converted back into a bedroom.

So, for all two of those years I'm ambivalent. I don't care. I like my house as is. Why be greedy? But then the architect finally designs my dream master bath. I swoon. I'm in. Where do I sign?

Of course, the next day the lender tells hubby that we may avoid significant hassle and dust if we just find a home that meets our needs for the same amount he'll let us borrow. We move into looky loo mode. Maybe, if we find the right home we'll take his advice.

Hubby turns me on to MLS.com, a website which quickly replaces Yelp as my most visited space on the web. One of the first homes I call up is two blocks away. We set up an appointment.

The seller’s agent assures us that it "can be had" for the price we quote. It is too big for my middle class sensibilities, but it is beautiful. To top it off, it is in a neighborhood we adore. We roam its wide, tree-lined streets nearly every Christmas, to delight our daughter with all the twinkling lights the rich folk hang up. After our showing, we go out to dinner, then make a trek back into the neighborhood to sneak another peek that night. The house looks back at us serenely, beckoning us, "buy me." Also, the neighborhood is divinely peaceful in the evening, with none of the freeway noise our house enjoys. But it's like a wedding dress. You can't just buy the first one you try on.

We spend the next few weekends opening cabinets, listening to superfluous lies, writing down false names on registers, napping our 3-year-old in the car as we roam about like gypsies. Falling in love with a house but hating the neighborhood, and vice versa. Our hearts always went back to that big house on the perfect street.

I wanted to see it one more time before we made an offer. The seller’s agent agreed to meet me there, but she was delayed. The seller, who we'll call Ethel, let me in. She is 80, never married, an amateur painter who used to work for a large newspaper for many years. She leaves a Bible open in nearly every room in her house. She is my sister soulmate. The seller’s agent finally arrives and eventually becomes uncomfortable with our chattering. It is clear from the way we hit it off that Ethel, though the transaction never came up, would sell me that house for one dollar. Three percent of $1 ain't much. So, the agent encourages me to go off on my tour. Despite the undulating clutter, I clearly see "us" in that house for the first time.

I can see my husband and I lounging on a couch in our bedroom, snuggling and reading magazines. There's my daughter, picking tangerines off the backyard tree with a friend. Is that me, in the kitchen, leaned up against a counter reading a cookbook?

OK, so that house needs help. Because, for one thing, that kitchen is a disaster. There’s hole for a dishwasher but no dishwasher, the antique stove was sold off to the handyman, and the refrigerator is around the corner by the pantry. There’s plenty of cabinets, but most won’t close, and original tile is there but it's sunny yellow and cracked. Don't get me started on the flooring. Upstairs: nonsensical combinations of green and white dingy shag carpet. Downstairs: disco-era tile, and thick, used-to-be-white carpet that, for one thing, prevents the pocket doors to open. Nary an inch of exposed hardwood floor. The master bath has a shower tiled in multiple shades of green--mildew. The electrical and plumbing systems are a patchwork of old and new, and the bathtub won't drain.

There's another house that's a close second to this one in my heart. We're not so into '80s-era homes, so I almost declined to even look at it when my husband found it. Then I walked inside and there was just...something. Maybe it was the fact that it was built the same year we met. Plus, it's got a great layout, and it's turnkey. Just needs a little paint--and for the gold-veined mirrored tile to be removed from the living room wall. The same tile that is *still* up in my dad's house. It was in a community protected by a security guard at a gated entrance booth. It's a perfect day, and the neighborhood reminds us of the serenity of our childhoods. We talk about our daughter riding her bike in that protected little enclave. We look wistfully at each other, utter the word "offer?" and pull off to return to work.

I can't decide. Hubby creates a comparative budget forecast, concluding that that the first house we saw is the one for our family. He really didn't have to try that hard. We're not really This Old House people, and the fixer upping should fairly kill us if we survive escrow, but we adore old houses and feel most ourselves amongst the ghosts of families past. It's probably the genealogist in my hubby, and the latent gene my father passed down to me.

We make our offer. It's countered. We counter. It's ours. Well, that's how they make it seem on the home shows anyways. It really won't be until we have the keys in our hands--and that won't be until we sell our house. IF we sell our house.

We told the seller's agent that we'd give her the listing for our home. She came one Saturday and did a walk through. Afterwards, she came downstairs and sat beside me, speechless at first, then finding the words.

"What do you think needs to be done to your house?" she said, with the kind of sad look in her eyes that you don't want to see your doctor offer after a battery of tests.

All I could manage was "Uhhh," then a halting list of various spruces here and there. Maybe some paint? I saw her tuck in both lips and bite down hard.

Immediately, she moved us into "staging" mode, referring us to some vendors to spruce up the joint. We picked up the phone. It was so easy, I could kick myself for living in shabby surroundings all these years. A parade of painters, and even a design consultant who dissed every room in our home except our daughter's, traipsed through. (A few weeks later the agent brought in the feng shui expert, but really, that deserves an entry all its own.) I hung on the design consultant's every word, writing down thorough notes, snickering at his flippant remarks. Overall, he pronounced our home in good shape. Mostly needed paint, prints, and plants. And a big-time clutter reduction. Things I thought were cute and homey, he felt were dusty deal breakers. By the time we were done with the staging, I don't know who owned this house, because it didn't look like ours anymore. Like the consultant said, once you put it on the market, it is no longer yours.

So, we're homeless, essentially.

Looking around what used to be our house, hubby said it felt empty. In contrast, we've been quite warm. Candles burning. Soft music. You get the picture. There's something to be said for the energy that can make its way out when the clutter is gone.

And no, I don't believe in feng shui. Like I said, more about that later.