weekend breeze. decaying leaves. chili cook off. squeaking shoes. hair unwound. baby’s getting bigger now. fritos and beer. candy and kisses. love notes on my windshield. watermelon lollipops. crickets and burning branches. best friend and a lost friend…tiny dirty feet running through the grass.
sitting in a dark hallway, surrounded by glass, water reflecting on our skin. tiny fingers pointing, tiny eyes open wide. the perfect laughter of my child echoing in my ears, bouncing off the smoky walls in crystal prisms. sharks and turtles and coral, stingrays and fish and all the things he’s never seen, infinite wonder waiting just below the surface. running in the dark, back lit by a wall of blue, of swimming shadows.
sitting in a dark hallway, surrounded by glass, water reflecting on our skin. tiny fingers pointing, tiny eyes open wide. the perfect laughter of my child echoing in my ears, bouncing off the smoky walls in crystal prisms. sharks and turtles and coral, stingrays and fish and all the things he’s never seen, infinite wonder waiting just below the surface. running in the dark, back lit by a wall of blue, of swimming shadows.
…lips stained red from a bottle of wine.
B unpacking flamingos / laughing in the bathtub / snuggling with Captain Matt in front of our fireplace / day 1 of pacifier weaning / IKEA ice cream / sitting in his laundry basket / bathtub reflection / first crayon masterpiece / playing in the grass / leaving toys in my shower / about to tackle mommy / getting into his jeep / typing away / I have no idea / sassy pants / face scratch / sneaky baby / record player / chicks laying eggs. finally / staring out the window / reading the newspaper / mopping / playing in the toy box / basketball shorts / destroying his bedroom.
On Sunday night, I was giving B a bath. So he’s slinging water at me and growling at his rubber ducks when I look over and see something all over the white vanity and cabinet doors. I squint, thinking it’s just the shitty lighting playing tricks on me. No. No it was not. The counter, sink, and cabinets were covered in bloody fingerprints. Big ones. I knew it wasn’t me. And I knew it wasn’t Brigs. And it definitely wasn’t Alex. B was still playing, so there was an awkward moment of silence while I contemplated who, exactly, was in my house bleeding all over the place, and settle on the fact that it was a bloody Hep C positive vagrant. Or a poltergeist and I just don’t have the energy to deal with that right now. I texted Madre since they had been over earlier (the only people who had been to the house in days). “Hi. Did you or padre cut your hand today and touch the bathroom sink?”
“Nope. Wasn’t us.”
Well, then.
I send her a video of the blood smears.
“I used the bathroom when I first came over and that wasn’t there.”
fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.
B was still playing and I kind of start to panic because SOME STRANGER/BLOOD DEMON WAS BLEEDING IN MY HOUSE.
After a few minutes we mutually decide it was Padre because (1) he had removed and sanded down the bathroom door for me earlier, so was clearly in the bathroom (2) he’s always bleeding, like…90% of the time and doesn’t even realize it (3) I found the door bolt pin things under the sink so I know he had to touch the cabinets.
Crisis averted, I think, but it was a very tense 10 minutes.
B has been sleeping just fine for the last week – 12 straight hours at night just like normal. Except Saturday. Saturday he woke up around 4 freaking the hell out. So I waited a few minutes to see if he would fall back asleep. Um, no. So I held him until he calmed down, gave him a kiss and put him back in his crib. More screaming. I wait 10 more minutes. I go back in. I pick him up, check his crib, rock him until he settles, lay him back down. More screaming. We do this for an HOUR when around 5 he finally falls back asleep. Not a huge deal. So we’re playing in his room the next day and something in the white fur rug next to his crib catches my eye. It’s big….really really big. And whatever it is, it’s half dead. I poke it with a baby wipe. It’s a mother-effing spider. Not one where it’s just all leggy and gross and misleadingly large…one of the big bastards with an abdomen the size of a ping pong ball and spots and big legs and devil fangs. I step on it and there is actually an audible pop – I’m not even lying it was that big. I get it out of his room, tear his crib apart making sure there aren’t more (because obviously there’s a family of them and they’re after my baby), search through all his stuff and behind all his furniture until I’m mildly satisfied there are no more spiders. And then I start to feel really sick. Throw up sick. I strip B down and check for bites (none) and have this disgusting, nagging feeling that that beast of a spider was in his crib last night and that’s why he woke up crying. And so I kind of hold him for a minute, rocking back and forth, and try not to puke everywhere. And then I bought fumigators.
The end.
The song that’s going to get me through the night.
—————————————
No this is not my guitar
I’m bringing it to a friend
And no I don’t sing
I’m only humming along
Up here in the air
I’m just mumbling at the clouds
Wanting to be known
While I pass the lonely hours
I came down from the room
I saw you in the rain
Laughing with some people
Hair dripping down your face
Your calm hypnotic eyes
Your Scandinavian glow
I felt them like a flame
Candle in my cold bones
Tonight you were my muse
As I belted and I strummed
Trying not to drown
In the helicopter drone
-Alesund, Sun Kil Moon
The month we were still stuck in that dreamland, in that period of time where you have to reconnect to the entire world…that time of emergence into becoming mother and father. the month of gold glitter and a midnight kiss. the month we were left to our own vices. the month of regret, of lullabies. the month we conquered dinosaur world, the month this smile was all that mattered.
the month where things began to settle, our footing became more steady. the month alex redesigned the blog, the month of the thunderbird. the month I was a ballerina, wound up in a jewelry box. the month of amore, of always, of the dreaming tree. the month where we found freddy. the month we took brigsby to the beach for the first time, curled around him, sleeping in the black sand. the month we went to his first gig, the one where everything was magic.
the month where a clock ticked once and I was older. the month of my first playlist, of warped dreams, of the death of my sweet constantine. the month of a hundred paper wallflowers, the month of narwhals. the month I found the condom purse and a green wig. The month alex took me to paradise, planned our perfect life together, held our charity chili cook off. the month where the days began to move faster.
the month of our velvet revolution, where we disappeared into the renaissance festival, under the shadows of trees, the canopies of colored tents. the month my hair burned red, the month we found our donatello. the month where spring came and found us, of an old vintage dress. the month where easter came and easter went.
the month we lived in technicolor, walked on clouds. the month we lived like gypsies, had our derby party, drank margaritas, had my first mother’s day, took pictures in the woods, where I told you 50 things. the month we got lost in a sunflower maze, where the honeybees dripped sugar and the dragonflies sang, a weekend where time stood still. the month I made a terrarium, the month I was the last man standing, running wild on a moonlit beach.
the month we wished upon the stars, of the resurrection of shelby black. the month we found the cemetery. the month the Dear Brigsby letters started, one from Australia, one from home, and we danced across the universe. the month alex had his first father’s day. the month we got the baby chicks, the month we ruled our little kingdom with reckless abandon, crowns falling precariously off our gilded heads, reigning over our empire as a family of three.
the month of our bohemian revolution, outside in the electric heat, spraying showers of sparks from our fingers into the night. the month of our annual 4th of July party, of hours spent in the car pulling over at rest stops, of our very first road trip, our liquid spear waltz through the keys and to miami. we held our charity golf tournament and Dear Brigsby letters kept coming in, one from carmen, one from cori, one from alaythea. the month we caught on the diana, days lived in the splendor of a golden haze, unaware of what was waiting.
the month that nearly broke me. I felt the disconnect immediately when I found out I was pregnant, in one mind crushing wave. so we walked and we dreamed and alex held me in his arms. my dad left the haunted house and moved out to the grove…day after day making the drive, watching the boys build their deck… the farm seemingly endless in the background. with bleeding hearts we decided to gauge our roots from the ground below us and plant them somewhere new. and as the days passed, I thought of our once upon a time, when all we had was each other. I clung to my new reality and everything was ok.
the month where we found a home, the month that gave me everything I needed. the month I told you my secret, of the state of my mind, of the disconnect. we spent the day with Incubus, shot guns, ate lunch out on the farm while the black clouds built above our heads. we watched the show that night, sitting up front, alex and I quietly singing the words to each other of every song that played in the background in our earliest memories of each other. we spent a day at the beach, one perfect day, just the three of us and sand for miles. I dreamed of a little girl, and wondered if she was real. and above all things, I believed in love.
the month the songs inside my head got stuck on the rhythm of the war drums. the month we kept old traditions. the month I made a no sew cardigan and the internet kind of freaked out. the month I made promises to my son that I vowed to keep. a day spent at sweetfield, sun fading to black, stars fading to the light of a thousand jack o lanterns. alex got older and my brother did, too. the month for sugar skull face paint, pumpkin carving, costume parties, and trick or treating.
the month where the days started spinning so quickly that they blurred into a single buzzing memory, back lit with uncertainty, no distinction of night from day, week from week. the month I said goodbye to the little girl in my dream and came to intimately know a son, instead. the month mr. owl was held ransom. the month I made a feather lantern and a peace wreath to distract myself from the nightmares, from the tragedies that haunt us still. the month we baked pies and sat down as an entire family around the claw foot table for thanksgiving…for the first time in a long time.
the month where christmas was a small thing, tucked away inside our attic. the month that marked 3 years of marriage, sanctity in each other, tangible love. the month georgia armstrong tried to ruin my life. the month my son turned one and I was brought back to the foggy place where we first met. the month of our white winter hymnal, of our kaleidoscope christmas, of the transition of days.
and when it’s all said and done, we’ve made it this far, to the end…only to start back over exactly where we started a year ago, and every year before that…to live these days over and over again, looking for something new every time the year ticks by…painting new pictures on an old canvas…layers of paint that tell our story.
In July we found out I was pregnant. The next day, we started looking for another house. A few weeks went by and we looked at one that at the time kind of grossed me out and I wasn’t exactly thrilled with. But my husband, being the manly demolition man that he is, and my Aunt Julie, being the amazing real estate agent she is, pointed out several things about this gross house that made it not so gross. Within 6 hours the house was suddenly perfect. And we wanted it. Bad.
So that night, Julie brings over ice cream and we write out an offer. We lowball a little because it was a gross abandoned short sale. We sign things. We give the seller a week to accept or reject our offer. We give our paperwork to Georgia Armstrong, the seller’s agent.
And we wait.
And we wait.
And we wait.
And a week comes and goes. And I get kind of pissy. Georgia dodges phone calls.
And another week comes and goes. And what the hell Georgia – what. the. hell.
Georgia finally calls us back. The seller, living in Texas and never having vacated the property, was waiting for the offer to be faxed. Georgia never faxed it. So the seller attempts for two weeks to get ahold of her. IT TOOK TWO WEEKS FOR GEORGIA TO CHECK HER MESSAGES AT THE OFFICE. And then she finally faxes our now two-week-late offer and tries to play it off.
I am not pleased.
We give the seller another week.
And we wait.
And we wait.
A week comes and goes.
Georgia promises weekly updates. She skips the first one.
Another week comes and goes.
After being voicemail/text message/email molested, Georgia finally decides to call Julie back. “The seller,” she says, “is waiting to get advice from her lawyer about whether or not she should do a short sale or deed-in-lieu. He’s researching.”
What? Seriously? Fine.
And so we keep waiting.
And waiting.
And Georgia’s story changes. Now the seller hasn’t even gotten ahold of the lawyer yet to ask. I don’t think Georgia has any clue what she’s talking about.
And we keep waiting.
But enough is enough and Julie calls Georgia’s broker. Broker tells the seller she has 48 hours to accept our offer or their office will drop her listing altogether.
Within 12 hours, she accepts. Thank you Broker for doing Georgia’s job and doing it well.
So we do more paperwork, write a contract on the vacant house, list a proposed closing date of October 21st, and send that shit to the bank. We write a check for several thousand dollars to the title company to be put in the house’s escrow account. “Now,” Georgia says, “since the title company has your title money, the home will be off the market and no back up offers can be taken.”
Awesome.
Georgia also says we have to wait 7 days for a negotiator.
7 days come and go.
On the 8th day, she changes it to 30 days.
So we wait. And wait. And wait.
Georgia avoids Julie and anything having to do with our contract like the bubonic plague. She also is missing documents from the seller, which she is now, in no particular rush, trying to get from her. So things are pushed back even further.
And then we have to extend our closing date out another 3 months because Georgia just can’t get her shit together and has dragged the whole thing on with her incredible ineptitude.
Around day 30 we finally get our negotiator. Several weeks, they say, for a decision. Soon, they say.
Around day 32 my best friend Michi comes to town. She wants to see the house. We do a drive by.
And there is garbage out front. And the lawn is mowed. And the spiderwebs are gone, as are the weeds…
“And look,” says Michi, “there’s mail in the mailbox.”
I creep to the windows. Someone is in my house.
I call Julie, who is extremely confused. There’s no way anyone can be living there. The property was listed as vacant. We put a contract in on a vacant home to which no changes could be made.
I freak out. I freak out.
Julie calls Georgia. Georgia’s assistant, Jessica, finally calls her back. We find out it’s some new program called Home Caretakers International. They put people in the abandoned short sale/foreclosure properties to maintain them and whatever. And they get cheap rent, but the real estate office has full access to the home at all times and they have to disappear for all showings.
Ok, now. I see how this is a good thing. And I understand that since we don’t own the property yet, that it isn’t our decision. But Jesus Christ Almighty, it should have been disclosed to us considering our VACANT property contract was now breached and Julie should have been given copies of their contract to confirm they didn’t screw with our contract and potentially impede the sale and closing process. Julie’s pissed.
I want to punch Georgia in the face.
And now I’m starting to lose faith in this whole ordeal. So I pull up the real estate listings again to see what our other options are, just in case.
And on page one, is our house, newly updated and listed at the price we offered. The house that we spent the better part of three thousand dollars to keep off the market. The house that suddenly has renters living in it. The house we had a contract awaiting approval on.
I call Julie. She refrains from cursing out Georgia and we give her the benefit of the doubt. She leaves a rather brusque voicemail.
Julie calls the Broker. Broker says that she can’t technically get in trouble because of a new loop hole that applies to short sales. She can technically re-list the home, even with our escrow money, and take back up offers as long as the home is listed in the new category of ‘active with contract.’ He says it’s highly unethical, but not illegal. And she should have informed us prior to doing so. But she is a dirty scoundrel and a terrible real estate agent, so clearly, she didn’t.
Julie calls her again.
For the first time in months, Georgia calls her back. And as condescendingly and rudely as possible, informs my aunt that we have no rights, don’t matter, and that she is the better real estate agent and Julie needs to shut us up and get over it.
Julie is upset. I am livid.
The next day, the negotiators send over a counter offer for 12K more than we offered initially, which is still a good deal, but needed to be considered carefully. Assistant Jessica sends Julie an email telling us this rousing new information…not Georgia. Julie wants to see something legit from the bank. Georgia fails epically.
We decide that morning -which is a Sunday and virtually the only good time for us to look at real estate – that we want to see the house again before committing to another 12K. Julie calls and sets up a showing for that evening.
The renters cancel it.
I freak out. Again. Julie calls Georgia to tell her to fix it – because the renters are absolutely forbidden from canceling showings via their contract. Georgia says it isn’t her problem and that we can see the house again some other time. I can hear the bitchiness through Julie’s cell phone.
So we set up a showing for the next day, meaning Alex has to leave work early.
We decide we still want the house. Suddenly, Julie starts getting pushy emails from Assistant Jessica that they need a decision, like NOW. Hold on. It’s been 24 hours. Shut the hell up.
That same night, we secure a new pre-approval letter from our bank and sign all the appropriate papers accepting the counter offer.
Julie sends them to Georgia’s office the next morning.
And we wait.
And we wait.
Two weeks have gone by. Julie tries to find out what’s taking so long.
Georgia still hasn’t even submitted our papers to the bank because, ya know, she’s waiting on even more stuff she needs from the seller and is no hurry to get it….after jumping our asses to get them what they needed in a 24 hour period.
I hate Georgia at this point with a furious passion.
Finally Jessica tells us they submitted our papers.
And so we wait again.
Several weeks later, on a Tuesday, we get an email from Jessica (filled with typos) that our approval letter will be there tomorrow, to contact our lender, get an inspection, and secure home insurance.
Done. Done. Done. We set our closing date for December 16.
A week later, several calls to the insurance company, one home inspection, and an irritated loan officer later they still haven’t sent our lender the approval letter. And obviously, we can no longer close on the 16th.
Every day is a new excuse, sent from Jessica, all filled with typos.
Legal department, second mortgage, blah, blah, blah.
And then yesterday we find out – from Jessica – that Georgia got our approval from the first mortgage company without telling them we had to wait for an approval from the second mortgage company as well, so they agree to the 16th as the closing date. Well the second company drags ass.
AND NOW the first company says they refuse to extend the closing date past the 16th. And our lender says the 16th is absurd and completely impossible, 3 weeks maybe.
Clearly we have reached an impasse. I break down in tears. I want to know where Georgia is, why idiot assistant Jessica is the one handling all of this, and how Georgia even got her real estate license to begin with.
Our lender and the title company are both trying to rationalize with the stubborn mortgage company and get an extension.
In the meantime, our lender has the approval letters (finally) but can’t do anything without the extension.
So….yeah.
It’s just a shitty, unbelievably frustrating situation. I’m having a baby in 3 months and our dining room is full of boxes and we can’t have a Christmas tree because there’s no room and we need to get renters in the townhouse while juggling a move and lots of fixing up and renovations to the house before we can even move in.
Georgia Armstrong, it has now become my life’s greatest mission to destroy you.
WATCH YOUR BACK.
<<<<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
*Georgia Armstrong is not her real name, but actually an extremely clever pseudonym. I do have some decency.
Happy December.
By now, everyone should know that December is my favorite month.
I made my first life-changing decision in December.
Alex gave me a ring and promised forever in December.
I married him in December.
I had my child in December.
Then there’s Christmas.
And New Year’s.
Christmas was my mother’s month too…
…for no other reason than she seemed more alive.
December’s sponsors are up…please go introduce yourself if you feel so inclined.
$5, $10, $15 sale in my shop until tomorrow…vintage things that would be perfect under your tree. I do vintage better than Santa, trust me.
www.shelbyblackvintage.etsy.com
don’t forget to enter the giveaway for a suede carpe diem bracelet from Awesomely Awkward…
…a winner will be chosen Wednesday!
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That’s all.
xo
