Plotting to leave the neighborhood

We put our house on the market.

There are a lot of really exciting things about that and a few really sad things. Our friends here in Town-that-thinks-it's-a-city are some of our closest. It is ironic that we are planning a move back to the town that I grew up in, but my oldest, closest friend lives right here in Town-that-thinks-it's-a-city. There is considerably more "diversity" and "culture" here that we are leaving behind (aka- gays and yummy restaurants). But the decision was based mainly on a daily work commute that has become unacceptable to both of the adults in our house. "Decreasing our carbon footprint" has entered into the discussion as has the conversion of some of that wasted time on the highway into some semblance of a daily cardiovascular workout.

Now that the decision has been made, I am less anguished (less afraid it might be a wrong decision) and more EX-cited about the actual moving (I love moving!) and also the end result (less driving everyday).

Our lawn obsessed, (formerly) nicotine-addicted neighbors asked us a six weeks ago if we minded if they mowed our lawn and power-washed our house. They posed the question to Katy who does more of the laundry and dishes than the yard maintenance type work around here. I'm sure I would have gotten offended, defensive, and huffily refused the unsolicited "favor". In the way of an explaination, you need to understand a few blue-collar fears were ingrained in me early on: 1) ownership is 9/10 of the law - if people encroach on your space, they are probably trying to take it and 2) Liability, liability, liability... if people get hurt on your property, they will leave you bankrupt and property-less.

But katy responded to the neighbor in a SarahPalin-esque non-blink:
"Knock yourself out," she told them.

Their rationale was as telling as the request: "We're putting our house on the market." Apparently, the small amounts of mildew on the siding on the back of our house (please recall, I powerwashed the thing myself a season ago when i was 8 months pregnant and prepping for kate-a-palooza) and our lawn (admittedly, I keep it about 1/2 inch longer than theirs as a rule) was at serious risk for decreasing the value of their property. (Comparison has been noted on this blog in the past.)

What surprised me even more than the announcement that they had bought a home in North Carolina and were moving, and then even more than the "If you can't keep a home (and a yard) as we do than we'll just keep it for you" self-enslavement, was the fact that they maintained the every-other day lawn service until this past week. I'm not exaggerating, it was at least every other day... our lawn never even approached a length that my conscience would allow me to burn gasoline to trim it.

Before you get all, "these people sound really reasonable," you should know they readily admitted to us that they have been calling the town on the neighbors across the street and they are "about to be fined" because the paint job on their home is unacceptable. I guess it is unintuitive (to me) obnoxiousness like this that keeps our property values in good standing, but I've never really thought about "telling" on someone to the town if their house makes them look like they are a little down on their luck. The cats and the inhabitants of that house (not to mention the gutters and paint job) have led to kt and I referring to that place as "the group home" since shortly after we moved in. But the truth is, I've always taken some silent comfort int he fact that because of the group home, there is no one that could point to my house and say, "Them!" Unless they were talking about how hot we are or the fact that we pretty much forget we are G.A.A. and kiss through a greeting in the driveway every morning and evening.

The good news: LO(F)NA neighbors sold their house after only 8 days on the market at about 30K more than we bought our place for. So, we feel confident as we approach the sale of the property that we won't lose money on our house.

More olympics and other tales of huge teeth

To bring up some other of my Olympic concerns:

1) Dara Torres - also a swimmer I would love to just love and not mock. BUT, I am not strong enough. Though, I am not worthy to carry the 41 year old's shammy cloth around in terms of her strength, fitness, over-all greatness, and champion stature, mock her I will. Oh, I will... even if I am short of breath from walking up one flight of stairs while carrying a milkshake to read about her new world record on "the intrenets". Thing is:
You can come out of the closest, Dara...
And people will still like you.
Look at Ellen and Portia!
It is 2008!
Go win your 3700th gold medal, or whatever, and then go get yourself a Lady-friend. Someone as strong on land as you are in the pool- who won't let you stay closeted. Together, you can raise the daughter you worked so hard with that "reproductive endocrinologist" partner of yours to create.

2) Synchronized diving. That's it. I don't have much else to say except W.T.F.
This sport is obviously very difficult, but it cannot be as difficult to compete as it is to watch. Just awful. Boring and weird and bizarre. And will that female commentator just please just shut her annoying #@%$ pie-hole. How did she get this job? Why is this so painful to watch? Let's be honest, it is mostly because of her inconsistent, nasally, inaccurate, allegedly-expert, banter. It looks like others agree.

I'm sure there will be more, but I will leave you with some personal updates: This week, JB had these enormous 2 top teeth finally poke through. They are about 1/2 the size of his head. No wonder he's been a little "not himself".

We are still kind of "stinky" and I think we have decided to throw away both the rug that is in our basement and the one in the garage (it was kind of weird to keep that rug in the garage anyway, but it was a nice touch for last year's Kate-a-palooza*). We thought all the wet-vaccing and some heavy duty cleaners would work to decrease the stink, but because of the timing and our lack of Olympic-sized commitment to the pursuit of wet-vaccing 5 days a week post storm, this is likely the most effective path.

We are going on vacation. I don't know the computer situation. I hope there is access, but blog posts will probably not be that frequent.

*The party-title "Kate-a-palooza" was just a cheep knock off of "Bill-a-palooza"... Even though that event was a cheep knock off of "Mitch-a-palooza", my sister keeps insisting on a foot note.

Breaking news! Dr. Brokeback finally shows up.

Yes, this post was a long time coming. I’ve been on vacation for weeks, and I’m finally Broke(back).

Let me first start by saying that if you have never seen an ice luge, you have never lived.

And then let me dedicate this post to my dear friends Katy and Tracy and also to all of the anonymous readers who are so closely following this pregnancy. (I swear that they exist. I hung out with at least one devoted but anonymous fan last week. She confided that although she has never met the amazing women who write this blog, she is very emotionally invested in the future of their family. In think there’s a chance she’ll make a contribution to the boy’s college fund. I’d send a shout out, just in case. I do know that she wants to send a shower present despite the fact that she’s worried that it might be weird. I assured her that no one says no to a hipster onesie.) And now I will move on to my reflections on Kate-a-Palooza.

Katy and Tracy and I started our week of vacation at Katy’s thirtieth birthday party. I viewed the party as a chance to get in some well-wishes and I hoped to see some old friends. I got both of these things, but I also experienced something that I had totally forgotten.

I actually should have remembered “the Weber-Tierney phenomenon” because I still tell everyone I know (or, at least, anyone who will listen) the story of their wedding: I was expecting it to be a giant lesbian party, with hundreds of attractive women throwing themselves at me. Instead, I found myself sitting at the reception with the only other two lesbians in the place. There were no half-naked women looking for solace (well, at least none within 20 years of my age or sharing my sexual orientation); instead, the party was mainly populated by the incredibly supportive extended families of the Weber-Tierneys. Aunts, uncles, and third cousins twice removed all showed up to celebrate Katy and Tracy’s relationship. Their upcoming status as the first civil union in Connecticut (and the resultant Washington Post front page picture) paled in comparison (And I love fame and/or publicity.). As I shook my booty to the Chicken Dance next to a drunk red-headed relative, I had a moment where I nearly forgot my cynicism. Well, not quite. But it felt good for a moment.

I arrived to Katy’s thirtieth birthday party again expecting hoards of single, interested lesbians with nearby hotel rooms, but once again my dream was dashed. Although there was one incredibly hot but taken straightish friend (sigh), the party was again mostly supportive family. It was also amazing homemade and catered delicious grilled and Italian-themed food. And there were tents and kegs and a pile of cakes, brownies, seven layer bars and something I refer to as “peanut butter chocolate bliss,” and then there was the ice luge (I’ll get to that). As I stood by the dessert table, my mouth so stuffed with high sugar, high fat sweets that they spilled onto my lips, I felt a wave of something I don’t feel all that often. It wasn't hyperglycemic-induced nausea, either. The love and support in the house was palpable.

As the party wound down (I had to drive to Provincetown that night, after all), the crowd gathered in front of something called an “ice luge.” It was a three foot tall ice sculpture sitting on a table with grooves running down the slanted front. The basic idea is that if a person was to stand at the bottom of the slant, a drink could be poured from the top right into that person’s waiting mouth. My flashbacks of spring break, Ft. Meyers, 1989 went away after my third shot of cranberry and soda (I couldn’t drive drunk, after all). And as I watched my friend’s three year old daughter shoot apple juice (teach them young, I say), I smiled and hoped that one day I would have a party just like this one.

I hauled ass to Provincetown as the night wound down. Katy and Tracy would arrive the next night after a long day of party clean-up. We had a great time during our vacation week despite chilly weather. I’ve never seen a pregnant woman like Tracy, I don't think. Her level of trooper-dom sets an amazingly high standard for potential pregnant women everywhere. I knew she came from hearty stock, but as I stood, hands empty, watching her 33 week pregnant body lug thirty pound kegs and giant coolers full of gourmet food, I was even more impressed. Yo, Dog, you’re amazing. Rock on.