Manny Sandwich

While making a Man-Man Sandwich earlier this week -- when Andrew and I pick up Mr. Manny and squeeze from either side and yell, "Manny Sandwich!" -- we noticed a terrible, greenish, gooey film covering his right eye, which was sort of droopy and forlorn.

Man-Dog's been pretty healthy for majority of his life, three and a half long years, twenty two months of which have been with me. It wasn't long into that time together, that I discovered that Manny was a *gasp* Latchkey Kid. Since Andy travels most of the week, Manny was left in a popular daycare, where his supervision consisted of a chain smoker who wandered among a dozen or so dogs in a large, fenced area. Dogs who inevitably ended up scratching and bruising Manny. This was known as Play Time.

It provided a great lesson in my new relationship with Andrew, who didn't see a problem leaving Manny among a group of dogs who looked like they were cared for about as well as a tribe of sewer rats. So I let the doggie daycare go for several months.

Because we were getting more serious, though, and because one night while watching a DVD a single tick was discovered on Manny's back that I declared "absolutely, unequivocally came from one of those reckless animals he plays with at daycare -- probably the one with the eyebrow ring and anarchy tattoo who cuts himself in the paws and was caught with the fake I.D. last month," Andrew decided to pull Man-Man from his puppy Kindercare program.

I'm not sure if it's because his eye is still bothering him from our obscenely expensive visit to the vet on Monday, or if it's because after a year of spending his days with me, including three moves, three new brothers and sisters, and a diet that cuts his cookie intake to less than forty two peanut butter flavored Milkbones a day, but he's looking at me in this picture like, "Daycare wasn't that bad, Mom. Can I go back, please?"

Twenty Third Bag Of Mail: Getting A Home Loan

"Hi Kelly,

My name is Heather and I read your blog EVERY day in my google reader. I LOVE your passion for real estate. I'm twenty two and in the thought process of deciding whether or not to buy a home. I have a couple questions and I'm not sure if you would know the answers but I thought I would ask.

1) Who in the world do I talk to regarding getting a loan?

2) My partner and I want to combine our wages together to get the loan, BUT she doesn't want the loan to be under her name because she owes a little money to the IRS. (Yeah, I know bad, right? We're working on it slowly.) Being that I'm only twenty two I have limited credit (but good credit), but I don't make enough by myself to get as big of a loan as I would if we combined our wages. (Does that make sense? I'm sorry if it doesn't. She's the bread winner.) Do you think we could get a loan WITH her wages combined with mine but WITHOUT her name?

I know that you aren't a loan broker or whatever they're called, but I'm just a tad bit scared to talk to one about this, is that stupid?

Any advice you have would be greatly appreciated.

Thanks so much for taking the time to read this.

Heather"

Heather, are we being honest here? If we're being completely honest then I have to tell you that I'm way too pre-occupied with the fact that your email sounds like it's written to someone who's, like, the wise, old, ripe age of thirty. That, and that my initial response was to completely sound like a way old fogey, crotchety, thirty year old. Because my very first two thoughts when I read your email went something like this...

1. It's not stupid to be cautious about consulting a mortgage professional. Especially since they likely work on commission and a home loan is a big decision. It's always a good idea to ask someone you trust (who knows a bit about real estate) to refer someone reputable. But for heaven's sake, please be careful about asking folks on the internet (and this DEFINITELY includes professional referral services)! For all you know, I could have had dog brains for lunch.

2. You're, like, 1000% certain that you and your gal pal are going to ride off into the sunset on a unicorn and spend all of eternity together (it could sooo happen!), right? But consider the legal and financial implications if you don't. Could I sound anymore like the father in Dirty Dancing if I tried? I DIDN'T THINK SO.

If you're still here, and haven't banished me from your Google Reader, then I'll say this... Buying a property at your age in this market is perhaps the smartest thing you can do eva evaaa, Miss Heather. Your head's in the right place. Figure out a way to make it happen. Consult a mortgage professional who works directly for a bank (rather than a broker). They'll be able to offer the best packages. Look into FHA loans and work with an experienced Realtor who may be able to get you cash back at the closing. In terms of keeping your girlfriend's name off of the loan, there are ways to do what you're asking to do, but some of them walk a fine line between legitimate and mortgage fraud. And, personally, I like to stay on the right side of that line. By a continent or so. I've seen Lock Up, and peeing alone is something that I realize is an inherent need for me.

That said, if you and your lady do end up (now or in the future) going in on a piece of property together, consider titling it in both of your names as Joint Tenants With Rights Of Survivorship. This will allow the other to take it over should one of you pass away without the property having to go through probate. It's something that I'd always suggest for partners sharing title who aren't married.

Last, if it were me, I'd buy something much smaller on my own. Let's just say that I could tell you stories, Heather. Boy, could I tell you stories. But just think about it for me, would you? You can always add her into the mix later, right? Just think about it.

Thanks so much for reading and taking the time to write to me. You know, old fart me.


I am not an attorney. For legal advice, please seek qualified legal counsel.

When Where What 028

when: last night
where: yes, I'm cooking in it, do not doubt my superpowers
what: gouda, cheddar, macaroni noodles, and broccoli also known as AWESOME

Before + Progress Pictures + Video: The Historic House By The Water: Kitchen, Part 3

This morning I woke up and immediately began sketching sections (which are grossly inaccurately scaled, obviously) of the kitchen.

I'm certain that the success of my decision to make the room into one big kitchen while still separating delineated work areas will rely heavily on the finishes that I choose and the way that I detail the new countertops, walls and ceilings. Opening up most of that load bearing wall and running an uninterrupted line of cabinetry and countertops along the back will help create a space that's larger and more cohesive with better natural light. Using more formal finishes (think polished stone, smooth ceilings, and cabinetry with glass) in the area near The Dining Room will help it feel more public, while I want to keep the finishes in the semi-private area near the french doors more industrial (think exposed wood beams and brick, stainless steel prep tables, and open shelving).

Just to refresh your memory, take another look at our starting point.



Pretty bad, I know. It's okay to cringe.

Here's a five minute sketch of our tentative ideas.

And here's Contractor Bobby and Contractor Doug tearing into that wall so that we can get an idea of what we're looking at. I also describe our plans for the space. Sorry, though, no firearms this time. It can't always be 007 style over here. Sheesh.

Here's hoping it all pans out like I plan. Andrew's been out of town, but I'm sure he'll be thrilled by my latest scheming. I'm sure. But just in case, don't anyone bring up the fact that our kitchen looks like a bomb threw up. An expensive bomb.

Anyway, at least I had a fabulous morning.

I love this stuff.

See Part 1 here.

See Part 2 here.

Before + Progress Pictures: The Historic House By The Water: Kitchen, Part 2

Before + Progress is an ongoing series keeping you up to date on whatever project is currently occupying our time. There is still lots to be done at this point to make the Progress photos actually qualify for the coveted After stage.

Double click on the photos to enlarge.

I really enjoy when you tell me what you think. If you haven't figured it out yet, well, that's in large part why I bring up such loaded topics like this, this, this, and this. And I want to thank everyone for sharing their opinions in such a respectful way and as part of a larger conversation.

But.

We also talk about really important things like my ceiling and such over here, don't we? So let's get to it.

First we started with this fugliness:



And then there was a war:



But today there came peace throughout the land:



In the way of furring strips and recessed lighting. Let's see it from a different angle:



So go ahead. Tell me what you think.


See Part 1 here.

Look, It's My Giant Heart

With a much faster pulse than either my junior year college track coach who forced me to wear a monitor or the exhibit instructor of Giant Heart at Chicago's Museum Of Science And Industry ever guessed, I've wondered lately how much the stress of the last decade has affected my health.



And what my heart rate was when Andrew and I decided to file our taxes together this year. With his accountant. Who's email address includes the phrases Rock Star and CPA.

Before + Progress Pictures: The Historic House By The Water: Kitchen, Part 1

Before + Progress is an ongoing series keeping you up to date on whatever project is currently occupying our time. There is still lots to be done at this point to make the Progress photos actually qualify for the coveted After stage.

Double click on the photos to enlarge.

When we first saw the price tag on The Historic House By The Water we could hardly believe it. The asking price was over one hundred thousand dollars below a house that was for sale two doors down, and fifty thousand less than the next door neighbors. Plus, it had a number of major upgrades that neither of those could boast.

And then we saw the kitchen.

The "renovated" kitchen, I should add. Which, of course, we're now renovating.

I whipped up a five minute sketch so that you can see what it looks like now:

And here's what we've tentatively got in mind:



The main challenges are the lack of counter space and poor circulation. Right now, the space is basically divided between what feels like two rooms. Since the wall in between them is load bearing with an electrical box, I'm only going to pull back part of it where the dishwasher is. Then I'll relocate the entrance from The Dining Room and refrigerator, to provide more uninterrupted counterspace and a better work area. My goal is to make the space without the appliances feel like an extension of the kitchen, but in a semi-private prep/pantry area kind of way.

We've begun by relocating The Gun Room, I mean The Mechanical Room, door to The Dining Room.

We're also in the process of removing the ceiling and track lights and replacing them with flat drywall and recessed lighting.

Every, single thing will be replaced -- cabinetry, flooring, counters, appliances, etc.

More to come soon...

When Where What 026

when: earlier this week, late morning also know as The Perfect Time Of Day
where: at the end of our street
what: a stunning collection of jumping fish, flouncy palm trees and gummy waves

Say Anything: 13

Say Anything is an ongoing series of quotes that I identify with or am intrigued by.



"I don't believe in villians -- just people who channel their energy in the wrong way." actress Elizabeth McGovern

But I'll Forget My Underwear

I asked Andrew if we could talk about how he organizes his things by leaving them scattered around the house in places that it's impossible for him to visually miss so that there's less chance that he'll forget them. And how going out in public sans underwear is inappropriate either way.

Poison Ivy

Andrew: Do we have cotton balls?

Me: Mmhm.

Andrew: Do we have calamine lotion?

Me: Yes.

Silence.

Me: Wait a minute... are you saying? Oh no, where is it?

Andrew: I think on my hand.

Me: The one you have under my back right now?

Andrew: Mmhm.

Can Your Ipad Do This?

When Globie started singing, "Aruba, Jamaica..." I almost lost it. I'm dead serious.

See it here.

To Do

When I was a teenager living out of a couple of cardboard boxes so long ago, I pacified myself by dreaming up a To Do Before I Die Or Turn Thirty Which Is Pretty Much The Same Thing list in a blue-ish colored journal that my high school track coach had given me "to write, well, whatever it is you're always writing" in. In case you care, My Bucket List of sorts contained about a dozen or so tasks, once you took away the ones that I'd put lines through. Not because I'd checked them off of as accomplished, because anyone who knows me knows that I'll occasionally get the brilliant idea to tackle utterly pointless things that aren't humanly possible, such as the time I decided to install very, very heavy hurricane shutters. By myself. As the storm blew in. And the wind adjusted to a little over a hundred miles an hour.

It's been over a decade since I've looked at that list, over ten very long and productive years filled with wood floor installations, all nighters at the office, negotiating deals, sleeping on concrete floors, designing bathrooms, and lots and lots of coffee. As far as I know, the actual physical list is some four hours away in a landfill in Fort Lauderdale. Either that or in a storage unit that I shared with an ex-boyfriend. I'm not certain which, because there isn't a goshdarn thing in the world that would lure me back into seeing that Elitist Loving Closet Racist Who Makes My Skin Crawl (who is not Mr. Florida, if you're wondering) face to face, least of all collecting my baby book and a journal that I'd had since high school. No matter, though, because I remember most of what was on that list by heart.

Today, I was walking back from The 'Bucks, and for some reason I began contemplating revamping My Bucket List, you know, making it into one that doesn't end at the big three-oh. Because lo and behold life does go on past thirty, or it has for the last few months anyway, keep all of your fingers and toes crossed.

I'm sure that thirty year olds all across America have ancient To Do Before I Die Or Turn Thirty Which Is Pretty Much The Same Thing lists just like mine, except maybe not, because only now when I'm trying to edit it do I realize that I didn't include a single thing about family or marriage or giving back to my community. Maybe it's because I didn't think it was necessary to pass along my ultra long supermodel legs or share my overwhelming patience and understanding or maybe it's because I was simply a complete and total idiot back then. It's a crap shoot either way.


Checking "see live brain coral" off The List by snorkeling in Belize.

I mean, for crying out loud, I can only "swim with sharks" and "see the ball drop in New York" and "take a jiu-jitsu class" and "ski down a Black Diamond and live to tell about it" and "go rock climbing in South America" and "buy a motorcycle" and "eat fish and chips in Piccadilly Square" and "learn to kite surf" and "keep an herb garden alive for more than a month" and "jump out of an airplane" and "live on the beach" so many times...

When I Walk Slow

It's because I'm looking at the building.

In this case, here.

When Where What 025

when: a couple of weekends ago
where: The Chicago Art Institute
what: a gate designed by Frank Lloyd Wright that they oddly displayed leading no where

Watch It

Get a free one night movie rental from Blockbuster Express with coupon code GA13B1. It expires Wednesday, March 24.

Or you can just spend a wild couple of hours watching chickens hatch at the museum like me. Either way.

When Where What 024

when: Friday morning after a visit with The Miracle Chiropractor
where: walking across the street from his office
what: beauty so cloudless and perfect that it felt like I was swimming in self indulgence

Enough

It's sort of tacky and ungrateful to talk about this sort of thing. But I'm wondering if anyone else ever feels like this?

We met a couple of our neighbors yesterday for the first time and they invited us over for wine and cheese with their friends for the evening. We went, of course, and in a way I felt like it was The Big Man Above sending me a message saying something like, "Hellooo, when are you going to learn what enough is?"

That's a good question.

I think it started when I came to Florida in 1999 as a naive and poorly dressed nineteen year old, but it was probably long before that. It began as a means of survival. At first I wanted to buy a place, and then I wanted to buy every place, and somewhere along the way I got the misguided notion that I should take over a corner of the world. Or something.

Much later I met Andrew, and for the first time that task seemed really, immensely, embarrassingly small. All of the sudden, I went from working eighty hours a week and juggling six phone calls at once to quitting my job as an Executive Director to What will one more house or boat or car really mean, anyway?

Maybe it's the vineyard of wine that's still in my system or maybe it was the four lawyers talking about their forty employees, their fourteen commercials, their four daughters each, and their four carat diamonds set in platinum or maybe I'll read this in a few hours and delete it by the afternoon, but for the first time since I married That Redhead last year, I feel The Pressure again. And it's like the size of the entire universe multiplied and doubled and wrapped all around me and then some.

When we went to bed I told Andrew, "I can do more. I can make more. This is a time of opportunity. I should be in a buying mode."

"Why?" he said. "So then we would never see each other, and you would have a heart attack by thirty one? Is this about tonight?" And then, "Kelly, what those people think is a lot is, well, it's all relative."

And I said, "That's not entirely true. It's still pretty serious money. I mean, you have to admit that."

"Compared to who? But more importantly, why do you care about what anyone else is doing?"

"I'm not talking about them. It's me. I want to make sure I've done -- I'm doing -- enough."

And he looked at me sternly and simply said, "Yes."

When is enough, enough?

How do you know?

A Case For Reproduction (Or Not)

The Museum Of Science And Industry in Chicago has an entire wing dedicated to genetics and reproduction.

An entire wing.

It's the strangest thing. You can actually stand in front of a mammoth touch screen and create a mutation of your very own virtual spawn. Which I caught Andrew doing after I'd finished watching a pair of chickens fight their way out of their shells.



We stood there in silence, watching our video animated kidlet grow from the size of kidney bean to a bowling ball, based on the buttons he'd pushed, in a matter of seconds.

"Wow," I said. The thing on the screen was big headed and short. Like me.

"We could do that," he offered.

"What? Have a kid that looks like a piece of sushi?"
__________

The sushi kid has been on my mind ever since. This morning I overheard Andrew in a restrained voice saying loudly, "I'M GOING TO DOG WHISPER THE HELL OUT OF YOU, SLATE. KNOCK. IT. OFF."

I've been trying to share more controlled disciplinary tactics with him. You know, as practice. Just in case.

I think we'll wait a little longer on the sushi.