Finally, after three days of deliberating, the vendors of my desired purchase have given me 30 more days to sell my house (and therefore buy theirs).
This is a very good thing, because I have looked at about 50 houses since, and do not want to buy any of them.
This is also a very bad thing, as I need to keep mine clean and tidy for another month.
And, really, after my initial flush of exhuberance with the Windex, I'm over it. In fact, I've been deliberately leaving flicks of toothpaste on the bathroom mirror just to make a statement. (What the statement is, though, I'm not sure: you want my house, you get my toothpaste? or: I don't really want to sell my house at all, so there).
Enough of that, with a mortgage again (I was mortgage-free for three years, how blissful that was) I need to stay focused on the main game. Getting the mortgage down to an amount that would be paid off by my life insurance should I go under a bus. Pleasant thoughts one has, late at night.
Although interest rates are predicted to be cut, mine is the bank that enjoys putting them up faster and more often than any other, so I won't wait with a brick on foot for a reprieve.
Mind you, when I first borrowed for a house in the late 1980s, the interest rate I paid was 18%, so I'm not too perturbed when it hovers around 7%, despite the bleatings on affordability. Luxuries!
What a gamble that was, that first house. Bought at auction for $62,000, it was even more frightening that a renovator's delight. A former maternity hospital in Wickham, with a bona fide ghost (friendly, just a mother checking on my babies), it had its hat way below its ears.
The bank manager came to inspect (as they did in those days) to see if the young couple were barking mad buying on the wrong side of the tracks a ramshackle old joint that was most certainly haunted. He fell through the front verandah, and may have had misgivings were it not for the lovely heritage brigade from nearby Tighes Hill urging him to give the young couple a go.
He did, and we did, and it's a beautiful house to this day.
We had two babies there, and many parties.
Our neighbours were nothing if not interesting.
We had a brothel across the road at one stage and many an hour I spent peering out the venetians at the street action it attracted. The things I saw on a table top truck one dark and seedy night made my knees tremble!
But we moved on, to leafier suburbs with better schools and not so many brothels.
I still yearn for Wickham, and will probably move back there once the kids are out on their own.
There's something about the ships, the tugs, the trawlers and the folks who trawl the streets that enliven. It's a bit unsafe, and a bit unsavoury. I like it.
Monday, 30 April 2012
Sunday, 29 April 2012
Men's underpants in my laundry
Not nearly as exciting as it sounds, but it still had my heart aflutter when I found a pair of navy jocks in the laundry the other day.
It''s been six months since I did any laundry for a male over the age of 12, and it's certainly not something I plan to do again in a hurry.
It was no mystery, no wild tryst, just the remnants of doing a friend, also recently separated, a favour by letting him use my waching machine while his is bung. (No need to read anything into the word *friend* or pronounce it with a raised eyebrow as my mother might, he really is just a friend.)
But, still, I found myself looking over my shoulder to see if anyone else (who else? the children, cat, dog or chooks? I can hear them know going begeeeerk as chooks do when they look sideways at you) might have witnessed the blush.
What should I do? Should I acknowledge the jocks loudly to make sure I wasn't covering anything up?
Should I sweep them under the washing machine with the dust bunnies for the removalists to find should we ever move house?
Should I phone the owner and laugh, casually, about the discovery and invite him over for tea and slip them into a shopping bag with a dozen fresh eggs and some blueberry muffins?
Or should I just toss them with tongs in the wash with my darks? (At this stage I had not checked cleanliness of said underpants and did not plan to!)
I chose the last option, tossed them in and thought of England.
But alas, the cycle ended, it always does, and I had to deal with the drying phase.
Sunny day, so they should go on the line, but what if the neighbours see? What if the husband pops in?
Can't use dryer, electricity bills to think of, so will hang discreetly on inside airer between hockey skirt and socks still on line from red wash. Near a navy school jumper. Looks quite deliberable. Phew.
Now, to the folding!
Where am I going to put them? I can't leave them on laundry bench? I can't put them in the kitchen by the phone to remind me to contact the owner for collection? Perhaps I'll just toss them back in the wash? Without tongs this time. I know they are clean.
Saved by a text.
Owner of underpants sent message to say his son did not need a lift to school in the morning as is our custom. Fine, I said, and by the way, I have your underpants. I found them in the laundry.
I've started leaving bras around the house to make me look good, he says.
Not funny, I'll deliver them in a brown paper bag if I can work up the courage.
Can't wait. I'll buy you coffee.
Lucky I don't drink coffee.
Perhaps, if enough time passes, he'll just forget the navy jocks, and they'll go the place of odd socks.
He's bound to have at least one other pair.
It''s been six months since I did any laundry for a male over the age of 12, and it's certainly not something I plan to do again in a hurry.
It was no mystery, no wild tryst, just the remnants of doing a friend, also recently separated, a favour by letting him use my waching machine while his is bung. (No need to read anything into the word *friend* or pronounce it with a raised eyebrow as my mother might, he really is just a friend.)
But, still, I found myself looking over my shoulder to see if anyone else (who else? the children, cat, dog or chooks? I can hear them know going begeeeerk as chooks do when they look sideways at you) might have witnessed the blush.
What should I do? Should I acknowledge the jocks loudly to make sure I wasn't covering anything up?
Should I sweep them under the washing machine with the dust bunnies for the removalists to find should we ever move house?
Should I phone the owner and laugh, casually, about the discovery and invite him over for tea and slip them into a shopping bag with a dozen fresh eggs and some blueberry muffins?
Or should I just toss them with tongs in the wash with my darks? (At this stage I had not checked cleanliness of said underpants and did not plan to!)
I chose the last option, tossed them in and thought of England.
But alas, the cycle ended, it always does, and I had to deal with the drying phase.
Sunny day, so they should go on the line, but what if the neighbours see? What if the husband pops in?
Can't use dryer, electricity bills to think of, so will hang discreetly on inside airer between hockey skirt and socks still on line from red wash. Near a navy school jumper. Looks quite deliberable. Phew.
Now, to the folding!
Where am I going to put them? I can't leave them on laundry bench? I can't put them in the kitchen by the phone to remind me to contact the owner for collection? Perhaps I'll just toss them back in the wash? Without tongs this time. I know they are clean.
Saved by a text.
Owner of underpants sent message to say his son did not need a lift to school in the morning as is our custom. Fine, I said, and by the way, I have your underpants. I found them in the laundry.
I've started leaving bras around the house to make me look good, he says.
Not funny, I'll deliver them in a brown paper bag if I can work up the courage.
Can't wait. I'll buy you coffee.
Lucky I don't drink coffee.
Perhaps, if enough time passes, he'll just forget the navy jocks, and they'll go the place of odd socks.
He's bound to have at least one other pair.
Saturday, 28 April 2012
Saved by Jesus at an open house
No open house for me today, but I took the opportunity, between the hairdresser's and the netty, to drop into a few potential purchases.
The first one had a steep dodgy drive, so I didn't get past the gate. Note to vendor: I live in steep dodgy heels, and am not taking my life in my hands/heels to check out your house.
The second one had a queue of folks lining up to take off their shoes. Note to vendor: If I have to take off shoes to check out your house, there's no way I'll be buying it.
The third one was a renovator's delight, and I was delighted with the goss session I had with the real estate agent about a former bully boss who is also in my acquaintance. Note to vendor: even in a renovator's delight, do not hold your combustion fire flue together with gaff tape.
The final house was a beauty, if somewhat unfortunatley situated between a main road and a drain. Note to vendor: please ask your tenants to head out for coffee during open house. This lot stayed in, and took the opportunity to spread the word of the lord. Now, I must say, the preacher man was a lovely fellow, as was his wife and child, and I am glad that he was saved by Jesus nine years ago when he realised he was a sinner. He seems truly happy, and I told him so. But, I'm shopping for real estate, not religion.Yes, I want to see the light, but only if it's from a northerly aspect. And I don't want to be rude, but will you get out of the way so I can peer in the corner cupboards and turn on the taps for water pressure.
I guess when you're in the business of religion, like real estate, everyone's a customer. But no sale today. I took the agent's brochure, and the preacher's brochure "Why did Jesus Christ have to suffer and die on the Cross?" and continued on my journey.
The first one had a steep dodgy drive, so I didn't get past the gate. Note to vendor: I live in steep dodgy heels, and am not taking my life in my hands/heels to check out your house.
The second one had a queue of folks lining up to take off their shoes. Note to vendor: If I have to take off shoes to check out your house, there's no way I'll be buying it.
The third one was a renovator's delight, and I was delighted with the goss session I had with the real estate agent about a former bully boss who is also in my acquaintance. Note to vendor: even in a renovator's delight, do not hold your combustion fire flue together with gaff tape.
The final house was a beauty, if somewhat unfortunatley situated between a main road and a drain. Note to vendor: please ask your tenants to head out for coffee during open house. This lot stayed in, and took the opportunity to spread the word of the lord. Now, I must say, the preacher man was a lovely fellow, as was his wife and child, and I am glad that he was saved by Jesus nine years ago when he realised he was a sinner. He seems truly happy, and I told him so. But, I'm shopping for real estate, not religion.Yes, I want to see the light, but only if it's from a northerly aspect. And I don't want to be rude, but will you get out of the way so I can peer in the corner cupboards and turn on the taps for water pressure.
I guess when you're in the business of religion, like real estate, everyone's a customer. But no sale today. I took the agent's brochure, and the preacher's brochure "Why did Jesus Christ have to suffer and die on the Cross?" and continued on my journey.
Friday, 27 April 2012
What cats know
Does my cat know that I need a bit of TLC tonight? Or is it just that its chilly and she's taking advantage of my undivided attention? (no kids, no dog)
I'll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume her climbing onto my lap at every opportunity and nudging my chin for a pat is her knowing that I'm a bit sick and pathetic. Only a cold, but maybe it's a man-cold and therefore much worse (can women get man-colds? I think so).
We've all heard the stories about cats knowing when someone is about to die (I'm not about to die, let's not overthink this), you know, when they go to the bed of the dying patient in the nursing home.
And they certainly can detect mood swings. (not that they don't have enough of their own)
But my cats have always known when I need them close.
My mother used to shriek at me to get that cat out from under the doona, and I still prefer sleeping with a cat than anyone else! And in the dead of winter, I most certainly encourage Hermione to get under the doona. Otherwise she camps at my feet (or sometimes on the floor by my bed).
She went through a stage when she was younger of sleeping on my pillow, wrapping herself around my head, and subjecting me to grooming at any time of her choosing. Having a cat lick your hair may fill some of you with horror, but I took it as a great compliment.
Often there would be biting, but only if I moved mid-groom.
My other long-term feline companion, the dearly departed Bo, used to sleep on my pillow too, but only when I wasn't there. If I was off at uni, or wherever I roamed in those days, she would sleep on my pillow next to Stefan to keep it warm and him company.
She, and every other cat I have ever known, would most certainly get in a suitcase if anyone was packing to go anywhere. Many moons ago, when I was preparing for a solo trip overseas, Bo camped for a fortnight on my backpack. We all had furballs by the end of it.
The day before I left, she caught one of our carp from the sunken bathtub pond in the backyard and brought it in and left it on the backpack for me. It was still flapping when I discovered it, shrieked like a big girl and phoned Stefan. I didn't have the sense to put it back on the pond! I just chased her with the broom. Anyway, I appreciated her gesture, even if the fish did not.
When she died, or rather had to be put down because of cancer, we had her cremated.
Lydi, who was probably in kindy at the time, felt it important to tell visitors that our cat had just died and she was on mum's dressing table. Her ashes, I was quick to point out.
And they're still there.
I'll give her the benefit of the doubt and assume her climbing onto my lap at every opportunity and nudging my chin for a pat is her knowing that I'm a bit sick and pathetic. Only a cold, but maybe it's a man-cold and therefore much worse (can women get man-colds? I think so).
We've all heard the stories about cats knowing when someone is about to die (I'm not about to die, let's not overthink this), you know, when they go to the bed of the dying patient in the nursing home.
And they certainly can detect mood swings. (not that they don't have enough of their own)
But my cats have always known when I need them close.
My mother used to shriek at me to get that cat out from under the doona, and I still prefer sleeping with a cat than anyone else! And in the dead of winter, I most certainly encourage Hermione to get under the doona. Otherwise she camps at my feet (or sometimes on the floor by my bed).
She went through a stage when she was younger of sleeping on my pillow, wrapping herself around my head, and subjecting me to grooming at any time of her choosing. Having a cat lick your hair may fill some of you with horror, but I took it as a great compliment.
Often there would be biting, but only if I moved mid-groom.
My other long-term feline companion, the dearly departed Bo, used to sleep on my pillow too, but only when I wasn't there. If I was off at uni, or wherever I roamed in those days, she would sleep on my pillow next to Stefan to keep it warm and him company.
She, and every other cat I have ever known, would most certainly get in a suitcase if anyone was packing to go anywhere. Many moons ago, when I was preparing for a solo trip overseas, Bo camped for a fortnight on my backpack. We all had furballs by the end of it.
The day before I left, she caught one of our carp from the sunken bathtub pond in the backyard and brought it in and left it on the backpack for me. It was still flapping when I discovered it, shrieked like a big girl and phoned Stefan. I didn't have the sense to put it back on the pond! I just chased her with the broom. Anyway, I appreciated her gesture, even if the fish did not.
When she died, or rather had to be put down because of cancer, we had her cremated.
Lydi, who was probably in kindy at the time, felt it important to tell visitors that our cat had just died and she was on mum's dressing table. Her ashes, I was quick to point out.
And they're still there.
Wednesday, 25 April 2012
(matt) newton's third law of motion
For every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. When you hit someone, lovely, the police will be called. Especially now you're Australia's answer to Charlie Sheen.
Matt, pet, should the court let you off, get off the booze, get on the meds and get home to Australia. There's bound to be another Underbelly. Or you could be Nina's half-brother twice removed in Offspring.
Patti, get off the soapbox, get on a plane and go bring your boy home. There's bound to be another incident. He needs his mum.
As for ol Moonface: just smile and wave, Bert, smile and wave.
Matt, pet, should the court let you off, get off the booze, get on the meds and get home to Australia. There's bound to be another Underbelly. Or you could be Nina's half-brother twice removed in Offspring.
Patti, get off the soapbox, get on a plane and go bring your boy home. There's bound to be another incident. He needs his mum.
As for ol Moonface: just smile and wave, Bert, smile and wave.
what the head knows the heart may not feel
If only what the head knows, the heart would feel.
I'm a thinker and a doer, not so much a feeler, or so my management profile tells me.
Task-oriented, not people-oriented.
No time for feelings. They get in the way of actions.
That's overstating, oversimplifying, of course. I'm a mother, too.
But once you resolve to work on your feelings, your people skills, you open the floodgates and there's no turning back the tide. Having determined to be nicer to people, I wonder now if I've just gone soft.
Like camembert left out too long. I'd much rather be a sturdy cheddar, a stinky blue vein even.
And so, I find myself smiling at people who annoy me, and helping those who dither.
And not even so I can whinge later.
Pathetic, really.
And, I find myself feeling glad that my children seem at home with my husband's new partner. Or rather, telling myself I should feel glad. When what I really feel is sad.
Don't get me wrong. There was no betrayal on his part. He has just moved on.
My head knows this is good. My heart, it's pierced with a dagger.
I'm a thinker and a doer, not so much a feeler, or so my management profile tells me.
Task-oriented, not people-oriented.
No time for feelings. They get in the way of actions.
That's overstating, oversimplifying, of course. I'm a mother, too.
But once you resolve to work on your feelings, your people skills, you open the floodgates and there's no turning back the tide. Having determined to be nicer to people, I wonder now if I've just gone soft.
Like camembert left out too long. I'd much rather be a sturdy cheddar, a stinky blue vein even.
And so, I find myself smiling at people who annoy me, and helping those who dither.
And not even so I can whinge later.
Pathetic, really.
And, I find myself feeling glad that my children seem at home with my husband's new partner. Or rather, telling myself I should feel glad. When what I really feel is sad.
Don't get me wrong. There was no betrayal on his part. He has just moved on.
My head knows this is good. My heart, it's pierced with a dagger.
Tuesday, 24 April 2012
wo needs an aitc anyway?
My laptop seems to ave carked it and te callenge wit tis communal family one is tat it as no key between g and j, Im sure you can guess wic one it is by now!
migt be time for an ipad, after all. maybe as a blogger it is tax deductable?
altoug not sure i can get used to typing on dodgy pretend keyboard.
still, if I can get used to not aving an ? key...
migt be time for an ipad, after all. maybe as a blogger it is tax deductable?
altoug not sure i can get used to typing on dodgy pretend keyboard.
still, if I can get used to not aving an ? key...
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