Heady Stuff

Happy Birthday to me. I eyed a certain mirror in the boutique portion of our local market for months. It was finally marked down, but I failed to act before someone else bought it. It was a very good surprise to discover that someone else was my mister.
We added a pair of super-sized wall sconces to grace either side of the mirror, and the mister installed all the goodies.

In other news, I spent the better part of the weekend in bed with Bowling Ball Head. Fortunately, my brain failed to successfully claw it's way out of my skull. Unfortunately, the head cold coincided with Girls Night Out to celebrate my 38th birthday. (That's an indicator of the level of Badness: GNO is practically sacrosanct, and one is treated on one's birthday. That's not to be missed.) The near inability to so much as stagger down the stairs made driving, dinner out, and (Dear Heavens...) movie theater sound seem less than appealing.Thankfully, the Girls are all available to make this Sunday special instead.

Tidbits: Excuses

I have been an absentee blogger. The reason include, but are not limited to:

• Little Bit bumped up three full levels in her ice skating. That's the result of a whole, whole lot of time on the ice for her, in the bleachers for Mama, and in the car for us both. The twinkie skating dress has been ordered, and it is seriously girly. There will definitely be a picture post when she hits the ice in that sparkly, floaty, blue dress.
• Middle Child's knee injury turned out to be a hip problem. We now attempt to fit multiple physical therapy appointments into days with no wiggle room.
• I spend more time arguing with Middle Child than it will take to write this post. This morning there were 5 separate arguments before 7:30 a.m. The next 7 came in the half hour it took to drop her sister off for school, get her to physical therapy, and then on to school. I have threatened to charge her a quarter for every argument. Maybe a triple charge should apply prior to my first cup of coffee, too.
• Artist and I have been reading and discussing The Hole in Our Gospel by Richard Stearns in preparation for our upcoming trip to Puerto Lempira. Stearns refers to the need to understand that over 26,000 children die every single day from the realities of not having sufficient food, clean water, or basic medical care. I think of every single child living with less than enough whose name is known to me and pray that not one of those will become part of that hideous statistic. I cannot wait to wrap those kids in hugs. Hurry up, May 31st...
• The Boy's room is being transformed into a guest room with a beachy, homey feel. Soothing neutrals, chambray blue, and palest green fabric make up the quilt on the queen bed that was given to us to begin the process. When Evan called this morning, I described the changes, and he said it sounded like a room worth coming home to one day. How I hope...

Treasury

This weekend our pastor stood before a very suburban congregation and talked about building treasures in Heaven. Mmmph. Our group discussion questions kicked off asking about what treasures we are building on earth vs those in heaven. The topic just highlights how much stuff we have in our lives. The area where we live is a place where materialism is more blatant than insidious even with the recession not yet behind us, and it is easy enough to accept that excess is normal. What is not so easy is deciding where to draw the line between what's okay and what is excessive. With the week's study topic, I find myself evaluating much in our home and my own desires for that home.

Loading the 40 ft. container to ship goods to Honduras

Ten days ago, Amy (Nov. Honduras Trip Leader) and I watched as four pallets of the Waits Family's belongings were loaded onto a container to be shipped to Honduras. We were so glad to know that the family's goods were on the way since they would be moving into their home in late November. Laura? She was appreciative, but could not imagine what on earth was in the stacks of boxes that she might possibly need besides some cooking pots. Hmmm. Having visited their new home, I have seen how the place will strip away those desires outside of life's necessity. There is a strong lure in that simplicity.

And I find that in thinking of the vast difference between our friends' lives stripped bare of excess possessions, I see the danger of my own vanity squatting amongst the possessions meant to make our house a home. There is the ever-present risk of a heart that shifts from what is acceptable to the place of pride that is not honoring to God. Our home is a shelter for our family, it was the place of our reconciliation and restoration. Still, I must be wary that I not shift from the wish to offer a place of welcome and hospitality to family and guests to pride in this place. This place is, after all, just a place.

What we do, what we learn, who we welcome, and how we live in this place... those are things that matter. Those are very likely the real treasures which we are storing up. I think perhaps there are possessions which I can choose to pack up and give away. The next Garage Giveaway is only a few weeks away, and there is a personal challenge to go through this house and cull those items of good quality which will better serve another before that event. These are not items which will be replaced, but simply those goods which could do more good elsewhere.

Notations

Dear Child(ren) O'Mine,

Please note the following:

• Duct tape/Glue and band-aids are not interchangeable. In the future, please refrain from the utilization of band-aids for home repairs. In case you were wondering, I found the lamp you shoved in a closet that looks like a victim of a junior scout first aid lesson. It's better that I remain ignorant of the reasoning behind the hatchet job repair.
• Computer and video game privileges on school days are again in revocation. The opportunity to retain recreational electronic babysitter usage on a limited basis this year has been sacrificed. Complaints may be registered with the sibling who forgot to shower despite utilization of an hour on the computer night before last or the ones who now have "Chore Charts" hanging on the fridge as reminders.
• Please check the sizes on clothing before putting away laundry. Middle Child's shirts are obscenities on Mom's middle-aged torso. Dad's shorts expose the Boy's backside. (No one really wants to be certain of the answer to , "Boxers or briefs?") If one should mistakenly receive delivery of another's clothing, items may be returned the owner without a detour through the washing and drying cycles.

Love,

Mom

Picture Post: New House

Oops. I seem to have forgotten in the busyness of the day-to-day to take pictures of New House beyond those snapped during our initial walk-through and the inspection. This morning, I snapped pictures of most of the rooms. I figured the Master is going to stay private because, quite frankly, it hasn't had much done to it. The laundry room, garage, and the half bath are just not that interesting in my opinion. That said, here is the grand tour...

Floored

Note: the following message is not for those who cringe at words like, "vomit". We thought we would perhaps just leave the carpet in New House for a while. Then Buster threw up on it. The new flooring planks were picked up and stacked in the dining room to wait for installation. Well, what's the rush? This weekend is Easter... then Buster threw up on the carpet again.
Good Friday saw furniture moved, carpet pulled up, and a race to purchase a larger saw before DIY Big Box closed for the night. Saturday was a long day of the mister's hard work, smashed fingers, and the new floor creeping across the concrete from wall to wall. Sunday dawned, and we took a break from Home Improvement to celebrate Easter.
Immediately after marking the biggest day of the year with the great herds of the faithful, we returned home to breakfast al fresco on the back patio where all the dining room chairs resided temporarily. After six hours of solid work, the mister took another brief, but well-deserved, break to eat Easter dinner in the living room. We were at the dining room table, having brought the chairs in from the patio long enough to eat. (I can see the women's and lifestyle magazines racing to get to the newsstand with the headline, Progressive Easter Dining.) Anyway.
No sooner was our feast concluded than the man was back at work on the floors. As I finished the dishes, he discovered an insufficiency in his supplies. We headed over to DIY Big Box to procure one more package of moisture barrier. It was the closest thing to a date we are likely to enjoy in the weeks to come. On the way, we talked about what a pain the floors were, and how it was taking up all of the weekend. The mister again mentioned repeatedly thinking about leaving the carpet, but that Buster had convinced him otherwise.
While we were out, the phone rang with a call from the girls at home. From the mister's conversation, it became quickly evident that something had thrown up on the floor. At least the floor wasn't carpet.

Consider the Field

There's a woman in Proverbs who both vexes and challenges. Despite the many areas where the Proverbs 31 woman demonstrates the goal rather than the reality of day-to-day life around here, this week the first half of Proverbs 31:16, "She considers a field and buys it," has come to mind repeatedly. Our home is not simply our dwelling place. Neither is it only employed as our family's shelter, but as the base of operations settled on a mission field.

The mission field on which we stand is not necessarily a field of financial or intellectual poverty, although many here have found the security measured in dollars and sense shaken in recent days. There is low crime, but we hear from our neighbors that many have found themselves robbed of at least some measure of peace. The sympathy toward those suffering financial poverty sometimes comes easier than the ability to extend grace to those clutching self-made images and idols. (Mirror, Mirror on the wall, who's throwing stones around in a glass hall?) This is a different sort of field from the ones found in post-Communist Eastern Europe or in Honduras. One that can be disdained or utterly overlooked in its seeming ordinariness. Pleasant Suburb is nothing less than our home mission field.

The mister and I considered the field. We chose to buy it. The Title Co. sent the paperwork. The paperwork arrived at the wrong house. The recipient (a stranger to us) phoned rather than simply dropping the packet off on our doorstep. What followed was, improbably, a conversation/infomercial on missions. Caller had never been on a mission trip, and in the course of the conversation she asked about being scared. Hee. Sharing my own experience from the other night, I addressed Caller's concern about fear as my own was addressed. On the heels of explanation followed suggestions of local missions in our neighborhood and greater community that Caller might consider.

Two By Two

Sitting on the bench in the entry hall looking out the back doors, and they began to come two by two. Two dogs, claws clicking across the hard floors, came to see why the Lady was sitting in this location. They each chose a spot on the floor to rest their bones. Across the expanse of floor between my perch and the windows padded the smaller of two cats. Slow and low behind her stalked the bigger. Fortunately the hunter caught her furry prey after they left my line of vision leaving it visually unmarred, and the 2X2 count at precisely two.
The hunt's result was perhaps not seen, but it was heard. The yowling of the hunted was punctuated by something that probably belonged to her being repeatedly thumped by the hunter. The cat fight brought daughters two by two. Determined to ignore the rumpus which had drawn in dogs and daughters, I attempted to return to the reverie that accompanied peacefully looking out on the back yard and the drainage ditch creek. Tried and failed because the scrabbling of paws, claws, and feet on the floor, yowling, hissing, and, "Oh, poor baby... ow! She scratched me! Stupid cat!" were somewhat detracting from the peacefulness of the moment. It also brought on humming and intermittent singing of the Sunday School song about Noah's loading everything two by two into the ark.
This morning I am not expecting a peaceful moment. The daughters are off to school two by two. The dogs will be crated two by two. The cats will be doing whatever it is cats will do when the masters are away two by two. The mister and I will be off getting inspections done two by two. New House will be inspected this morning, and hopefully my Mommobile will be getting its state safety inspection at the same time. (This was not intentional. The realtor scheduled the house, and we tried to get the car checked yesterday only to be told to come back today.) Then we can swing by the storage facility to pick up the suitcases and supplies for packing two by two. I'll surely spend the day humming the little song about Noah.

Packing

Yesterday, I went to the pharmacy where two sets of antimalarial drugs and antibiotics had been prepared for Katie and I in advance of our March 13th departure for Honduras. These images are a siren song calling us toward whatever lies in store for the days in country. Yearning for this adventure to swallow us up for the days we have been allotted, we wait.
We were also waiting for the appraiser, and he decided to come today with an hour's notice. A cleaning flurry was capped off by his 30 minute tour of our home, but now we are free to begin packing the decorative items that were needed to contribute to the overall appearance of the house. (We want it to appraise well for the buyer, and so there's no uh-oh with her loan.)
So. We will be packing for Honduras. We will also be packing for our move. Simultaneous packing. Maybe even synchronized packing. Shelley-in-Poland suggests we exercise caution to avoid having our passports end up in a box and our kitchen stuff in a suitcase. Good plan.

Found

Well, forward march. We found our prayers for a quick sale immediately turning to prayers for us to find our next home. We prayed that all would go well with our Buyer and the inspection. It went very well, and Buyer waived her option period allowing us to make an offer on a home right away in hopes of having a loan in place by closing.
Thursday saw another string of homes for sale. These were either too pricey, backed up to Wal-Mart or 7-11, or were in awful condition. Some of them had the trifecta of crap possessing all three of those flaws. (Awesome.) Anything that did not fall into those categories sold before we could even see it, much less make an offer.
Becoming increasingly discouraged, I went with the realtor to see one last home that the mister and I had generally ruled out already. It did have the benefits of allowing the kids to stay in their current schools, and it was the same floor plan that recurred in half of our top four home choices. It was within walking distance of our current house and neighbors, and had a nice community pool and playground with reasonable dues.
The home was the very same floor plan we had offered on in the beginning with some key differences. This one was not what the mister bluntly referred to as, "a dump". Neither was it a showplace that would present challenges to live in and maintain. There was a covered over-sized patio with electric ceiling fans and lighting, a shed for storage to free up the garage for cars, a study with wood floor, the Boy's room featured its own full bathroom, a giant kitchen, a half bath for visitors, two sinks in the bathroom to be shared by the girls, and it was generally up-to-date with an overall warm, homey feeling. Hmmm.
Realtor Jeannie and I picked up the mister and the kids while scheduling a second showing. The mister commented that the house felt like home, and that he could see us there in a decade. I fretted and cringed over the price working and reworking the estimated budget that would leave us feeling house poor based solely on the mister's primary income. The reality was that the home met every single stated need on our list, and all but one want. (That want is not to be found in any of the home we saw. We avoid carpet like the plague.) The mister made the final decision to make an offer.
We had dinner that night in the same kitchen, but at a different home. Walker and her family live in the same floor plan. We failed to find a single thing at Walker's house we did not admire, and she dispelled much of my budget worry by confirming that the allowances made for utilities were on par with her actual bills. We waited to hear the Seller's response.
Saturday morning the word came of a counter offer. We expected Sellers to give either the price or the closing costs asked for, but they came back with most of both requests. The house would also receive a new roof. We stopped by our realtor's house to sign the contract. Walker commented that we would be house twins. (We already have a host of other similarities. Why not houses?) Our loan officer came to our house that evening to have us sign all the loan paperwork.
Now, we wait for inspection on New House in two days, and appraisals on both Old House and New House while hoping to have all the details wrapped up before Katie and I leave for our time in Honduras. March looks like it will be no less the whirlwind than February. Whee.

Say What

I remember being told that we were expecting The Boy. I especially remember my pique on discovery that babies take 40 weeks to gestate. How exactly does the popular 9 month myth manage to survive when women have been producing offspring since the dawn of time? It's generally a bit late to back out by the time that news is sprung for the first time.

I'm feeling about like that tonight. Saturday's showings were honored despite the offer, and had there been any already set for Sunday, then they would also have been honored. Today the assorted parties completed the execution of the contract to sell our existing home, scheduled the inspection for tomorrow afternoon, and the mister and I decided on which house we would place an offer this evening. I could not understand why realtors continued to book showings, and was none too accommodating, though still willing to let the property be visited. The lack of accommodation resulted in the showing service calling our still out-of-town, due-at-an-awards-program (where she was receiving an honor) realtor. She called us, and the announcement that we still need to keep showing until Buyer is through her 7 day option period. Just in case. She also attempted to soothe the "What?! Why?! Who sees a house that's not available?! Isn't this stupid?!" She pointed out that everything is moving very quickly. After all, the house sold in one day. How often does that happen?
So. Tomorrow morning we have back-to-back showings of our house that is not for sale, and three hours when we need to be gone so it can be inspected in the afternoon.
These are good things. Inconvenient, but good.

Picture Post: Staged

In the words of a friend, "Your house cleans up good!" With the saga posted earlier today, it seemed fitting to produce a picture post.

Turnaround

Huh. We started to seriously consider selling our home the first week in January. The decision to sell our existing home before purchasing a new one quickly followed the rejection of an offer another house. Having decided to sell, we took a variety of bids on assorted projects. The contractors all had opportunity to complete their jobs on our home sooner than expected allowing us to list just in time for our realtor to head to a conference in New Orleans and my mister to leave for a men's retreat this weekend.
My crazy knew no bounds. Middle Child got in trouble for using the restroom just as we needed to leave for a scheduled showing. Seriously. I raced in to clean the potty again while sniping about waiting ten minutes to use a public potty. I put on my belt, shoes, watch, and outer layers of clothing standing in the driveway and in the car so we were out in time. There was some substantial griping and whining verbal processing. (I'll spare Gentle Reader the details.) Our friends who took our dogs in, walked through with feedback, cleaned, helped stage, and prayed were the best of both support and encouragement. Walker even stepped in to wipe down the master bath counter in the frenzy before the very first showing that came earlier than expected.
Much earlier. The house went on the MLS Thursday night at 8ish. There was immediately a request to show the following morning right after the usual time Walker and I make our Friday morning circuit. Perfect. Except Erin woke up complaining of sore throat and running a fever. Uh-oh. In one of those not stellar Mommy Moments, I passed on the 10-something appointment at the pediatrician in favor of one that would coincide with the showing time a half hour of sore throat suffering later. While at the doctor, another showing booked. So, we killed a little time at the pharmacy waiting on the antibiotics to treat Strep. My e-mail pinged relentlessly with showings scattered across Saturday, but thankfully most were after the 24 hour period of antibiotic treatment to relieve Erin of her contagion.
The house showed well. Or so the assorted realtors said in their feedback. So well, that the first looker offered our asking price. And we accepted despite rumors of another to come. She wanted to close while KT and I are in Honduras, but accepted the counter offer of the 23rd. Of March. And we were waiting to look for a house until ours' was on the market. And our realtor is in New Orleans. Her husband is going to show us ten properties found by hurried cooperative online MLS searches, texting, e-mail, and phone coordination. As soon as my mister gets back into town to sign the contract and join us in our expedition.
The Lord is good. And He is speedy. Hopefully, all will go well with inspections, appraisals, funding, and house hunting. House hunting that immediately follows a message given at church this morning challenging us to consider our materialism and love of luxury. How timely!

Urgent

There are some friends one can call for anything. This morning, the glass guys were installing the shower surround that we put off until the last dying minute in the master bathroom. (The shower is large enough that we just used it without the enclosure, but I would not expect a buyer to overlook that glaring omission.) In the second bathroom, there were two guys blowing texture on the walls. In case their presence was insufficiently off-putting, the toilet was swathed in layers of plastic sheeting. My interest in the statuses of the two restrooms went from that of a homeowner to that of a somewhat wild-eyed, dancing woman as my morning coffee completed its journey. This is where the friend comes in.
Or rather, where I ascertained that she was out. Recalling a Facebook status update saying that my friend with three bathrooms only a mile from my own doorstep was subbing in middle school, I decided to text to see if her husband was working from home. Nope. They were both out, but I have a key. And the dogs know me. So, I texted my predicament, and then raced to the car with both her blessing and the news that spare toilet paper could be found in the master bath if needed.
Driving over, I hit the only red light between our homes. Sitting in the car listening to the rain fall did not help the increasingly urgent situation. Pulling into the drive, I hurried to the door. Standing with my legs crossed tightly and dancing about, the key was eventually fit into the lock despite fumbling fingers. Slowly opening the door, I reassured all three dogs that I came in pees peace. Pushing past the four-legged, tail-wagging friends, I made a beeline for the hall bath while thinking very, very nice thoughts about friends who really can be called for anything.

And am now realizing that today was only the beginning. Wednesday is going to be the end of days. The glass guys will be back. The painters will still be here. But wait--- there's more! Wednesday is infusion day adding a nurse, an I.V., and Mommy strung out on Benadryl to the mix. In case that's not enough, the children will be released at a half day from Pleasant Suburban schools. I wonder if it is too late to go back and lock myself in my friend's bathroom?

And has anyone else noticed how the number of posts having to do with racing to the restroom increased after that notice about the clinical study on "urgency" came in the mail?

Gathering

Praying over whether our home was to be purchased by a Potential Buyer (Internally, the voice of my departed grandma repetitively whispers, "A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush!"), or if we were to go through the challenges and expense of preparing to list in order to receive more of our equity from the sale. Thoughts of a previous prayer acknowledging that God is the determination of what is want and what is need entered. With the thought, the recognition that the new home offering a possibility of returning our son to our household, providing separate rooms for the girls and perhaps a work space for the mister is not sought after in frivolity. (The mister and had hoped that our starter home purchased 12 years ago would one day be our retirement home.) The wants are underscored by the perceived need, but, again, God is unfailingly a better judge of what is truly a need.

Having become somewhat peaceful in this comprehension, it was with a measure of amusement that a call came from Potential Buyer's representative saying that the timing was simply not right for the sale. Galvanized by the given direction, there was immediately a communication with our realtor and establishment of a time frame to place the home on the real estate listings as soon as work can be completed. Bids for whole-house painting and a replacement fence were immediately weighed, and one of each accepted. A storage facility was procured, and boxes of all belongings that could be spared packed. Furniture and boxes have been tucked away in storage, and the reorganization and cleaning have begun.

If you are one given to prayer, please keep the speed of and ability to pay up front for the assorted work in your prayers. The current great hope is to have the home ready to list in two weeks before the realtor leaves to attend a professional conference for a week. The future small hope that has taken root, but shies away from pushing up towards sunlight, is that perhaps an acceptable offer could be had in March before too much strain and urgency, or a third month of storage, is upon us.

Progress

In a surprise twist, a friend who was asked to pray about the sale of our home knows a potential buyer. The friend came by this morning and walked through our home snapping photos for Potential Buyer. This evening there will be a virtual tour long distance. If the price and the photos hold sufficient appeal, then Potential Buyer will fly in to take a real-life tour of our digs. If PB is not interested, then we will begin taking bids to fix up the ol' homestead before listing it. It would be far less bittersweet to leave our longtime home if we are handing over the keys to our past with an eye toward our friend's future.
In other news, we have a good report regarding our financing. We have prequalified to take our menagerie on to their new home while still owning this one. It will likely hold greater appeal to the masses if we move our offspring, critters, and possessions on to other pastures before asking someone else to imagine their own life fitting in between these walls. This afternoon we are headed north to look at a house. Ironically, it is in the mister's favorite neighborhood. It is a variation on a floor plan by our favorite local builder that we considered building a couple of years ago, but the price is tens of thousands of dollars less than it would have cost us to build it during the housing boom. Nifty.

Listing

We are upside down around here. Yesterday, a call to an old friend resulted in an appointment for this coming Saturday. She will walk through our home and compile a to-do list. She will also likely be listing our home for sale. It's time for us to move on despite 12 years in what the mister's and my mothers termed our "Starter Home". The mister and I rather thought we would one day retire here. That this would be our forever house, but circumstances have led us to decide that there is someplace else that will serve as our family's shelter. A place as yet unknown that will become our home.

Begin Again

2009. Hmmm... if there were a pencil or pen involved in this writing, it would be twisting and turning a la Anthony Michael Hall's character in The Breakfast Club during his consideration of the "Why Are You Here?" essay. Which could beg the question, "Why am I here?" Except that is hardly the direction Mama's thoughts wish to wander today. Today is more about yesterday and tomorrow.
Yesterday, there was a measure of satisfaction in packing away all of the Christmas decorations from the china to the stockings. The feeling of industry in storing away all the glitz and glitter of the Christmas season was capped off by the procurement of next year's gift wrap to be kept in wait with the recycled ribbons, tissue, and boxes of Christmas Past. The china wrapped and rewrapped in additional bubble cushions before being boxed up, so that the places of honor could be assumed by all the lovely goodies delivered by the Polish Pottery Fairy this year. The final act was tossing the last slice of apple pie which was mistakenly left out last night, and eating the final piece of pumpkin in unadulterated glee over the latest Breakfast of Champions of 2009 a moment of dietary weakness. It was lovely to make a late night drive to retrieve Middle Child from a movie with friends, and to enjoy the Christmas lights knowing they'll either be gone today, or the HOA will be in fits until it is so.
Today, despite the pie breakfast, the mister and I were out watching our breath precede us as we walked the dogs a couple of miles in case we have more freak December snow or freezing rain. (Buster hates water. He fails to see the charm in the stuff regardless of the form it takes.) The mister leaves freshly baked cinnamon rolls for the children to discover when they wake. My fingers fly over the keyboard in anticipation of an outing with him while they yet sleep. We're just running to the store, but it's still somewhere we are going without any of our offspring or any sort of medical practitioner.
The afternoon will be filled with preparations for a poker party tonight to see out the final hours of this year amidst friends and food. Both of the latter are special favorites. And the poker? Candy is the designated ante for tonight. It has been said that the amateur players in these games tend to win the most candy. Woo-Hoo! I am both terribly inept and untutored at card games, and have a tremendous liking for candy. This is bound to end well.

Anywho. The thoughts on this night and the day to come?

New Year's Eve holds a treasured place as the night that ushers in a new beginning. A beginning arriving whether greeted with bated breath and great fanfare as the clock strikes midnight, reached by the solitary soul staring as the lighted ball drops on a backlit screen, or creeping quietly past those sleeping. The New Year begins a clean sweep of the old moving unseen across borders and time zones with the earth's rotation. And in a day the old year will be done.

Open and Shut

It has been pointed out that most individuals would opt to redo something indoors, like a bathroom in winter and replace doors in warmer weather. Not us. We tear up the bathroom before it gets so hot that everyone feels perpetually sticky from heat and humidity. And doors? Well, we finally pulled the trigger on the patio doors despite temperatures cold enough to allow Texas to see an early snow recently. Because we can bundle up if it happens to get cold inside, but once one is maked there's little to do about the heat. Not that we run around here naked in the Summer with or without workmen on the premises. This is solely an example intended to clarify the logic in our out-of-season home improvement projects.

The mister and I tend to set a glacier's pace in our replacement plans. The old sliding glass door was installed when the house was built in the 80's. The seals on the glass gave way around 2004, but there were some hiccups in replacing them. We could not simply replace the glass, but would have to rip out the whole door. If we were ripping the doors out, then why not explore the option of french doors? It turns out that the hole in which the original doors fit is no longer a standard size for either a sliding glass or french door to be found in-stock at every Big Box Retailer. Nope. Big Box also seemed conflicted as to whether the sliding glass door or the french door was the variety unavailable for our patio entry and exit. Oh, and, just so we could prepare for the added demolition needed for installation of our shiny new doors? Head's up: the builder opted to fit the door in before covering the frame over with brick and mortar on one side and drywall on the other.
The new doors were delivered a couple of weeks earlier than the expected post-Christmas arrival. While we were in the midst of the church's Christmas Festival. Uh-oh. The installer opted to work Saturday, and "Ta-Da!" The whole thing looks rather nice, I think. Better still? In addition to the job being completed earlier than expected and at the price quoted, the doors will qualify for a tax credit. Bonus.

Damage

Today's skype download allowed Shelley in Poland to call so we could talk face-to-face via web cam. My girls had a ball playing with different features such as causing me to appear to burst into flames on Shelley's computer screen 2,000 miles away. Shelley helpfully suggested that it was a bit distracting for her to carry on the conversation with me periodically catching fire so that little function was eventually turned off.
She gave a virtual tour of her new digs in Gdansk which led to a discussion of how she could not really drive a nail through the walls to hang stockings or decorations with ease. I decided to show her the Contact non-damaging hooks we use on our walls. Except that when I jiggled the hook, I pulled it too hard. Way too hard. Because the "non-damage hook" did some damage. In fact, my tug took the paint right off the wall. It also took the texture along with the paint leaving 3"X1" spot of smooth drywall showing where the hook's adhesive had been moments before.
The mister chose that moment to reenter the room. Hand covering my mouth, eyes wide with horror, I edged away from the site. The hook was not-quite-casually tossed under the couch. Don informed me later that Shelley-on-the-screen-from-Poland also had her hand over her mouth, but her look was one of pure glee. There was somewhat strangled laughter on this side of the Atlantic and flat out belly laughs from hers', but I do not think I made a very good case for the adhesive hangers.