Mkay, so you know we moved, right? Yeah, right, like anybody missed that one. That’s been the MJ’s funeral of my life for, what, ten years now? Well, it feels like it to me… prolly it feels the same to you too.  But wait, there’s more! Because, at the very same time, my sister and her hubby and the delightful Kaybug are also moving. To Florida.  To Lakeland, even.  What a coinkydink! So, not only am I living my own personal moving angst, I’m living theirs too! Yay!  And, with a ten year old in the mix, I’m learning up-close what you deal with when you move a child. And I’m really glad that I don’t have that to deal with on my own.  Really. Glad.

The big difference? Schools.  And it’s a really big difference.  Because the Florida school system is way ahead of TN.  Like majorly ahead.  Like entire skillsets ahead.  Because my niece is starting 5th grade this year and she’s never been introduced to writing stories or essays.  At all.  But in Florida, because of Florida Writes, Fourth Graders had to test on this skill on the FCAT.  TCAPS? Readin’ and ‘rithmatic only for fourth graders, thankyeverymuch!  No ritin’ needed yet, because I guess forging Oxy and Hydro prescriptions only takes a few words… they can pick those up in 5th grade… right?  Sad that of the two states, only Florida sees the need to start preparing kids for silly things like, oh, I don’t know… THE SAT???  But, anyway, because of this deficiency my precious niece (and everybody else in our house) is having to endure summer tutoring.  And from the sound of the coaching lessons, apparently somebody should call DHS because summer tutoring is undoubtedly child abuse of the highest level.  Actually, I’m thinking my sister and her hubby are both qualified for jobs at Abu Ghraib, because their torture skills with this homework stuff are right up there with thumb screws and waterboarding – simultaneously.  Apparently, also from the protestations we keep hearing, this is something so horrible that no other child in the ENTIRE WORLD has ever had to do this.  Go figure.  My niece is living a colossal parent fail.  Poor thing.  I know I feel sorry for her. Not.

But, lest you think the academics are the biggest difference, there’s more.  Like the county-wide uniform code.  FTW!  Just ask my sister and my Mom.  Finally… school shopping with an cheaper and easier button! Just pick up some khakis, a skort or two, a few polos and cotton shirts, and you’re done! It’s garanimals – for everybody! Yay!  And, before you start blathering about expense or personal style, just STFU! First of all, uniforms cost considerably less than regular clothes.  Really.  Don’t believe me?  Head over to Justice, or the Hannah Montana section of Wal-Mart.  Then go look in their tiny uniform section.  And that’s my point exactly.  $7.99 for pants.  $5.99 for polos.  Damn.  As for stifling young Einstein’s creativity by forcing him to conform in his dress code?  I feel that this is the point that I will respectfully suggest that a better outlet for your little budding quirky genius’s abundant creativity would be art or music, or science.  You know, something useful.  Not his perfectly coiffed faux-hawk or his ohsostylish fake Christian Audigier teeshirt with the fake tattoos.  And, no, with this I am not saying that the perfectly coordinated Gymbo combo isn’t just the bomb, but now my Thi Thi will be able to save it for the weekends, not see it ruined on the frickin’ playground.  I, for one, think this rocks! And, furthermore, color me, as an unreformed feminist, happy as hell that my niece (a very smart little girl who has carried straight A’s all the way thru school so far) will never again run the risk of receiving as her superlative "Best Dressed".  WTF? And yes, she got that award the year she read more books than any kid in her class, and achieved more AR points than any other child.  Way to go school system!  That’s how you reinforce the message that being smart is cool… er, um, yeah.  Lucky for her teachers that it wasn’t my child.  Because I know without any doubt that the day they handed out those awards would have been the day I became "that mother".  Another thing my child I didn’t have can be thankful for. 

But wait, after all those sunshine and rainbows, there’s even more!  As in less.  Because in the Nirvana called Polk Co. Schools, there is no four mile long supply list, kept in a deep dark secret place until the first day of school… after tax free days are long over and done.  Yeah.  Amazingly, the magical lists down here are already out.  Released ahead of time, so you can shop the sales.  And almost too good to be true, all 6 levels of Elementary School are printed on one page.  I know, seriously, WTF? How can this be?  But they are.  And even more astounding? No toilet paper, paper towels, or hand sanitizer (in the convenient 72 gallon jug).  Nope, nothing on this magical list other than actual school supplies.  Like pencils.  And paper.  I know this is almost revolutionary today, but we were told by a school administrator that the Superintendent of Schools in Polk Co. was the one who spearheaded this move.  She was the one who said that no supply list for any grade should cost more than $10 per kid.  I know, crazy.  But it’s a good crazy, and I like it.  Because I’ve looked at my niece’s ever-lengthening list from her east TN school each year, and the activities fee they paid on top of that, and I’ve always been amazed that the schools can get away with it.  And I’ve just got to ask how long schools think they can get away with asking parents to provide virtually all of the disposable supplies required to educate children, and also continue to pay taxes that are supposed to do just that.  Because I’ve seen upclose the quality of that education.  And it’s sad.  To see a diplomaholder of 18 who isn’t prepared to do anything really.  Other than, of course, an amazingly fruitful career that includes the words "you want fries with that?". 

And after all this, my only thoughts now are thank you Jeebus for making all of us move.  Oh, my niece isn’t too happy about it right now, but she’ll adjust.  And she’ll come out of a public school with a college-bound background, prepared for the world, if she keeps up her current education work ethic.  Which is as it should be.  And I know that east Tennessee is without a doubt one of the most beautiful places on Earth, it is always going to be my home.  But you have to see there’s a problem if the only way you can ensure that your child is going to be ready and able to go to college is to pay for a private school education.  We did.  She is.  But we shouldn’t have to.  And before you start getting all statisticky on me, I know that Florida schools are not perfect.  I’m well aware that they have virtually all the societal issues that Tennessee schools are dealing with.  But they’re doing something right down here.  Maybe they’re making Education more of a priority?  I don’t know, but I’m glad they’re doing it, whatever it is.  

Yay them! Yay us! And most importantly, yay Kaybug! You’ll do great… I know… remember, you’re just like your Aunt Missy!  God help you.

Okay, not so much.  So, what’s up with all of you? Yeah, it’s been a while, and truly I haven’t been ignoring you all… really… okay, maybe, a little.

Okay, truth is that this transition has been a bitch ya’ll. Seriously.  I thought this would be easy.  Wrong.  Nothing is working like I want it to. Employment situation isn’t any better here than it is in Knoxville.  Mabel is allergic to Florida, has nasty skin rash – constantly! Can you tell? It’s been non-stop fun!  And me?  Oh, I’ve just been bottling up the angst and crap and not dealing with it… same as it ever was. 

Who me? Unhappy? Never!  Um, yeah. 

So, anyway, amazingly I don’t really miss Knoxville… yet. But I know I will.  But right now there are too many loose ends still to be tied up and I think on some level I’m reluctant to pull the trigger on finishing that chapter of our lives.  Even though I’m looking at houses, joining organizations, and doing my best to fit into our new life here.  So why the reluctance to close the other chapter?  I. DON’T. KNOW.  Denial maybe?  After all, it is my favorite river cruise

Anyway, that’s the gloom and doom update from the Sunshine State.  The upshot: I feel like a stranger, living in a place I know, but with all the people I know from there not there anymore.  Weird.  Very weird.  Maybe you can’t go home again? Maybe.

Anyway, sorry I’ve been not so much here.  I’ll try to do better.  Check back with me in the Fall, when I’m still celebrating Summer. I’ll be better then.  Maybe.

Maybe.

And it really needs to stop.  Really.  So all you people out there who might be considering expiring any time soon?  Yeah you, you know who you are.  Just stop it! Right now!  I mean really… jeezum pete!  And as a second request, if you do have to die, please try to keep some decorum about yourselves, mkay?  Location and circumstances aren’t enhancing your street cred.  You just look ridiculous.  And here’s a request for the press members who’ll be covering your demise – keep it to one tasteful and short obit, maybe a picture or two, and then just move on.  Because, seriously, all the detail is JUST. TOO. MUCH. 

To my point, after the last ten days of "all Jackson all the time" I think it’s appropriate to ask exactly who it was that dictated that we needed to know every little jot and tittle about Michael Jackson’s life and death?  Do we know that much about the guy and gal next door?  Do we want to?  No, we don’t.  Well, except for Bob’s ex-wife BEW.  She, apparently, is completely fascinated with our lives, so for her edification here’s the details- we are, frequently, and it’s the best!  And just like none of you needed to know that about us, none of us needed or really wanted to know who fathered Michael Jackson’s kids. The fact that it wasn’t him isn’t what I’d call earth-shattering news.  After all, this is a man who publicly stated many times that he preferred sleeping with young boys.  Knowing that, is it surprising that even his sperm would be repelled by women?  No, not really.  So to learn that he used somebody else’s reproductive products and abilities isn’t surprising.  Nor is the fact that his marriages were a sham.  Or the fact that apparently he was a walking combo Pharmacy/Needle Target.  You can’t be that damned weird and clueless without the involvement of serious pharmaceuticals.  Really.  But if you were surprised or fascinated by any of these not so earthshaking revelations, then I’d suggest you need to get out more. Or get a life.

Likewise, I think the fact that Steve McNair was apparently a great QB has absolutely nothing to do with his prowess as a husband/father.  From the backstory (which, again, is none of our business) there was plenty of room for improvement in that area of his life.  But, really, that was between him, Mrs. McNair, and a frying pan.  Not us and ESPN to be involved in.  What his relationship was to the young woman also found dead is also immaterial.  And sad.  And horrible for all of their families to read about. But we’re reading it. Every word. Even though we shouldn’t. Because it’s in our face.  Even though we should stop.  Because it’s none of our business!

As our culture of celebrity shows, in this country we are desperate for royalty.  But ours is a love-hate relationship with those heros and gods.  We elevate them, but we reserve the right to knock them back down.  Make them our size again.  Sadly, we don’t stop to consider the innocent victims in this game.  The family members who aren’t famous.  Who just lost a loved one.  Who have to go on.  Have to mourn the real person who died.  Mourning them while mired in the muck that we demanded be raked.  Because we weren’t happy knowing simply that they were gone.  Oh no.  We have to know how and why.  And why? Because we created their fame.  We own them. And now we’ve destroyed them, even after death. 

I guess I could rant about stupid husbands making stupid choices, or about stupid drug abusing singers taking ridiculous amounts of drugs, but I chose not to with this.  Instead I’m ranting about us.  Stupid people reading words that they shouldn’t.  And I choose to say no.  I’m boycotting.  Starting now.  Just as soon as I finish reading Perez Hilton, that is.  Because I have met the enemy too.  He is me.  Talk about the Man in the Mirror… I think I know him!  Wow!

I know, normally the premise is that you wouldn’t even start looking for a house until you know exactly what you want, right?  Right?  Um, wrong.  So very wrong indeed, if you’re unlucky enough to be our realtor anyway.  Because that poor woman is slowly being driven nuts by us.  Us and our indecisiveness.  And our waffling.  And our general lack of enthusiasm toward this hunt for THE PERFECT HOUSE.

And yes, since we’re of a certain age, once is all we’re buying.  Just this one time.  For good.  So whatever we buy? Of course, it must be perfect.  Must be the right size – not too big, not too small.  Must have the right upgrades – because, of course, nothing plain vanilla appeals to either of us.  And, naturally, it must be in the right neighborhood – the suburbs and all the many gated cow pastures contained therein have never appealed to us.  So, for us, finding a house is, to be blunt, somewhat less fun than Waterboarding.  Um, yeah.  Actually I think our realtor is going to volunteer for Waterboarding, after we finally close on something (if that ever happens), as a spa treatment.  Maybe we should give her that as a gift?   

But anyway, back to the story.  We started this hunt in March, the weekend that Bob moved down here, and we concentrated only on south Lakeland.  Because that’s where I grew up.  That’s where I was comfortable in this town.  However, in the 20 years since I left here, I’ve done a lot of growing up and changing.  And so has Lakeland, but it’s not the town’s fault.  Because, being the idiots we are, we ignored all that knowledge and started the hunt in the south suburbs.  Home of plastic, shiny, new.  Even though we hate suburbs. Even though we don’t like plastic, shiny, new.  I guess because we thought as soon as we crossed the state line that we’d become radically different people and our tastes would change from quality to… oh… how do I say it kindly? Not so much?  Well, after four months of looking but not finding a house we like, we have finally found one thing.  What we’re attempting to do is not going to happen.  We cannot change our housing style as easily as we changed our zip code.  Our real estate personality is pretty ingrained, it turns out.  It’s old, it’s established, it’s got lots of very large trees, and it’s never been a part of a suburb.  It’s in-town, with a porch and lots of windows.  Not 10 miles outside of town, with a sparkling (ha ha – another story for another day) pool and a garage door as its major architectural feature.  It’s historic, with a few creaky floors and a (hopefully) checkered past.  And thus, for us to look at new = teh epic fail.  Of all time. 

But we did.  In fact, I think we’ve looked at every house between $150000 and $300000, that is on the market in 33812 and 33813.  And I’d be lying if I said that anything we’ve looked at out there was "the house".  None of them were.  Well, except for the ginormous custom home with the (supposedly) gawdawful wallpaper in the kitchen.   I actually liked that wallpaper, just so you know.  But other than that, none of the buhjillion eyesores new homes we’ve looked at said anything to us.  Other than yawn.  There’s lots of sameness.  A tone of majorly boring.  And a nice topping of Ho hum.  Which made me finally realize that most people out there in the ‘burbs are truly the Vanilla of our world.  Plain old Vanilla, just trying to blend in, with no place for anything different, like Rocky Road.  And don’t even ask for mix-ins… you’ll kill the property values with that shiz. 

So, after 3 months of looking, we were no closer to finding our perfect fit than we were in March.  But we were getting closer to living in that box we talk about all the time.  Which really isn’t our desired outcome to this.  Really.  Because it’s the rainy season and all, you know? And boxes aren’t exactly conducive to our needs at this time.  So we changed things up.  Started looking in-town.  In neighborhoods that look like our old neighborhood in Knoxville.  Old, established, historic, INTERESTING! And, lo, the Angels sang.  But, to be sure, we’ve seen some real mistakes that are dressed up as restored historic construction.  Some real dogs with fleas, and dry rot.  Some rather odd ideas on how to repurpose rooms, and some places that should be listed as "knock’er-downers" instead of "fixer-uppers".  We found a spider residing in a FSBO who thinks he’s already gone thru closing and is in Escrow.  He’s not planning on leaving.  We did.  But we’ve also found some jewels. And most importantly, we’ve found places that we could actually see ourselves living.  Forever.  Happily.  And that’s made all the difference.  Because now we’re excited about this search.  Now we’ve become excited about living here. Finally.  And it’s about time, don’cha think?

So the moral to my tale? And there is one, after all this.  Don’t try to change who you are.  And don’t try to change your real estate profile just because the best deals are something different from what you like.  A good deal is only good if you like the results.  If the house isn’t what you want and like, no matter how cheap it is you won’t ever be happy.  Really.  But, of course, the search continues, this time in the right place though.  We really can’t wait to post "We found it!" Hopefully soon… hopefully.  Meanwhile, send our realtor a sympathy note.  She’s a saint.  With crazy customers. 

God bless us every one? 

Okay, so we started this hunt very hopeful.  Now, 4 months later, not so much.  I mean, really, what I’ve learned about my fellow man in the past few months seriously worries me about our collective future.  And explains a lot.  And, after all this, we really aren’t any closer to determining what we want, but we’ve certainly compiled a massive list of what we don’t want.  And because I do like to do community service with this blog, here is the list of Home Seller Don’ts that I’ve compiled so far: 

1. Weirdness should never be confused with having unique taste.  Really.  So you, Mr. Freakman, your collection of Star Wars plastic figurines should not be displayed in a $1000 cabinet. This just makes you look like an obsessed fanboy.
2. Some people should be barred by threat of death from Wallpaper books.  In fact, wallpaper might be the most dangerous substance known to man.  A newly discovered weapon of mass distraction.
3. While it might have been true that the builder had 26 floorplans to choose from, it appears from the housing inventory that he only built 5, over and over and over.
4. If you are showing your house, turning off your TV and getting out of it should be the first rule of business.  Seriously, if I have to walk between you and Wheel of Fortune 4 times, it’s a sign that you might not really want to sell your home.
5. Do not fix any kind of Curry the day you are showing the house.  Or Bacon. Eat out. It’s a good idea. Really.
6. Religious knickknacks do not work as a primary decor theme.  Yes, we get that you love Jeebus, a lot.  But seriously, even he would consider a restraining order if he saw the 82 replicas of him and his cross that you’ve put in every room.  This is a problem, not a belief system.  Get a grip, or therapy.
7. Cleaning is not a four letter word… if you want to sell the house, clean the house.  I’ve got my own dirt thanks, don’t need to buy yours.
8. If your dog is smelling very doggish, trust me when I tell you that this will not increase your curb appeal or resale value if he’s your designated greeter.  Do us all a favor and get the animal out of the house.  I know he’s a member of your family.  But to me he’s an uncouth, smelly, canine version of the crazy uncle nobody wants to come to Thanksgiving.  Now why is it that you think perfect strangers would want to meet him? Really? Hmmm.
9. Mow your grass. See rule 7. 
10. Little Tykes is not a home interior design theme.  Yes, we know you have kids. The pink Little Mermaid/Princess/Ladybug room theme gave that away pretty fast.  So did the measurements penciled onto the door facing in the kitchen.  And we love kids, really we do, in a nice sauce with a good Cab Sauvignon?  However, we really don’t want to have to risk life and limb by having to step over 3 tricycles, 2 sets of Legos, and a whole truckload of Fisher Price/Barbie/Hot Wheels as we cross your Living Room/Dining Room/Great Room Floor.  And, psstt! You heard it here first!  That lovely Turtle Sandbox? Wasn’t ever designed for usage or display in the Formal Dining Room.  Just sayin.

There, that’s the short list.  And might I add that I really feel sorry for all Real Estate Agents having to show some of these eyesores sorry, I meant these

4 br 2 ba, excellent location, great schools, perfect condition, bring the family, ideal for kids! 

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There’s so much I could write about right now.  A certain person in AK who played her biggest wildcard yesterday, whether John + Kate + 1 mistress / a bunch of tabloids = a big $ divorce, or Michael Jackson’s death and myriad drug problems, but I’m not.  Nope, not gonna do it.  Because I’m so tired of all that crap.  And so are you.  Really.  And because of that, it’s time for something good.  Something uplifting.  Something that makes us all feel fuzzy.  My husband.  Um, yeah.  Right.  No, he’s not Mother Teresa.  Yes, there are times when he’s challenging to live with.  And I know all the quirks and challenges make everybody in our lives wonder why it is that I love him so very much.  What was it that made me say "he’s the one" so quickly, with very little regret.  Okay, maybe nobody actually wonders that, but regardless I just have to share this.  Because this story? This is the reason.  This is it. 

Last night we went to the fireworks at Lake Mirror – Red White & Kaboom – took our two cans of Spaghettios as a donation, and enjoyed the peoplewatching, lots of explosions, and a nice pleasant evening walk.  On our way home we made a couple of stops, not important, blah blah, but the last little stop was the best.  Slurpees! Yay! Slurpees are the best!!! And we both grew up on them – in California and Florida respectively- and we both still love them just like little kids.  For the uninitiated, a Slurpee is like an Icee, on Steriods, with everything that makes it so much better!  But anyway, last night we stopped to get one as we were going home.  I was mixing my concoction, because that’s the fun of a Slurpee- layering the flavors and creating a totally new flavor in the process- and we both noticed this cute little girl with her Dad, who was doing the same thing.  And she was so excited, giggling and lisping "oh Daddy, this’ll be the best one ever!" as she built her concoction, occasionally stopping to taste and say "yummy!"  She also noted that I was doing the same thing and she pointed that out to her Daddy too, saying "look! She’s like me!" Bob and I both smiled at that and he told her you never got too old to mix a Slurpee!  After they finished her masterpiece the two of them wished us a good night and moved on.  But we ran into them again at the register where we were all checking out.  They had a couple of other items, but the most important was that precious Slurpee.  And, sadly, that’s where things were going wrong.  Because her Dad only had a $100 bill.  No change.  And because of the world we live in today, convenience stores don’t carry that much change at night.  So they couldn’t buy their stuff.  And the little girl was heartbroken.  Completely.  And that’s when I fell in love with my husband once again.  Because he intervened, stopped her Dad from leaving, and bought the tiny mite’s Slurpee for her. 

And, once again, he taught me the value of doing a random act of goodness, for no other reason than to make a child smile.  Because he too has a little girl- Miss C – and something like that would have ended her world too, and he knows that Daddies make things better.  And he did.  I’m still smiling.  I love him.

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Yep, I think I got that note several times, growing up, back in the days before Skype, IM, chat, Pieplace, and Spacebook took over the communications game. You know, back in the days when private messaging consisted of (horrors!) a pencil, a sheet of notebook paper, and paper-folding skills that rivaled anything those Japanese ladies can do with candy at EPCOT. Because I can tell you from painful experience that if you didn’t fold the note in a really cool fashion nobody wanted to read it anyway.  You – and your note – were both marked as "lame" and both of you got the NO checkbox. 

But, of course, the modern technology (and The Google) has changed all that.  Now you can reconnect with any number of people  – friends or not so much – with simply a click on "add as a friend."  And this revolution in reconnection has shown me some things that are amusing, a few things that I expected, and -most importantly- things that have let me know that no matter how much botox we get (not me, thankfully, remember – fat don’t wrinkle!), no matter how much hair we lose, no matter how good we’ve gotten at being adults, who we are really never changes from when we were kids.  Not very much at all.    And I say this because, if you look through my "friends" on Facebook, you’ll find that the only people from "back in the day" that I’ve reconnected with have been people who were my friends back then.  My circle of friends hasn’t grown by one person since 1982.  Sad, isn’t it?  Okay not really. 

To be clear, I was never a "cool" kid.  In fact, I was probably more accurately described as a geek or a dork – more focused on school than the next cool party or fashion trend.  And my friends were like that too.  We were outsiders, not in the fashionable cliques, and we really didn’t hate that reality too much.  And since school ended, lo these many 27 years since, none of us have been to a reunion or tried to reconnect.  Until Facebook.  Facebook brought us all back together, mostly, and we’re sharing our lives virtually, and it’s really nice.  But, sadly, as with all good news there’s some bad.  And the bad side to all this reconnecting I’ve done on Facebook?  The reality that while all my old friends were so eager to accept my invites and become adult acquaintances who share our lives, the remainder of the 610 members of the class of 1982 at Lakeland High School all fall into the "not so much" category.  And I say that only because whenever I’ve tried to reconnect with any of them all I’ve gotten for my trouble is a bad case of Inbox Rot.  I know, amazing!  Even from the guy who is living in Knoxville (just like I did), who had lots of classes with me, and who knew me well enough to sign my yearbook with very friendly words all three years of high school.  And, yes, I’m talking to you, Craig Hohl, you and your bitchin’ bald head, OBTW not rockin’ such a cool look anymore there Dood!  Oh, there are other instances… and every one of them stings a little, and every time it happens it merely reconfirms my idea that I was probably right to view invites to our reunions with a jaundiced eye.  Maybe because I’ve always known that those people who thought they were "all that"… weren’t.  I just figured that they would one day grow up and realize how shallow they were.  Sadly, I was wrong, they still haven’t.  So, I’m sure whenever they gather, they’re all still hanging in their same little cliques, showing off their latest trophies, their newest surgeries, whatever their latest accomplishments are that make them all still feel like they are "all that".  But they still aren’t real.  Still shallow.  Still fake.  And that’s the reason I didn’t like them back then either.  And that’s why I won’t be there with them.  Because I’m real, living a real life, with real problems and real friends – new and old- and I don’t live my life or choose my friends with the sole focus of fitting in, the sole focus of being cool.  Because I am, and I always was.  Cool, that is.  So from now on I’m checking NO.  To high school drama when I’m 45.  To mean girls and boys.  Because I’m cool like that.

I know.  Me? Cool?  Yep.  After all these years.  Who knew? Not them, apparently.  So let them know.  They’ll be surprised.  But I’m not.

@alroker There’s BBQ in it for you if you’ll tear up Spiedi for real this time. Trust me, Jeebus is cool with it. He hates them too #

Hubby just told me to pretend to talk on my Ipod Touch. @bobb0406 sucks. None of the cool kids will ever talk to me now. Sad #

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