Purely through serendipity, Snarky was directed to the site of one Walt Lockley (link to his site, here's his Wikipedia user bio). She needs to find out more about this man.
She read about the history of the Garden of Allah in Hollywood and thought of Valentina when she read the following passage:
Snarky doesn't even know if anyone else gets excited about things like this (she has only recently been reminded of her own love affair with the built environment), but she just had to share that tidbit.
Please forgive Snarky for pointing you in the direction of this article (links to Salon dot com, you'll probably have to click through a day pass to get there).
But. Marble bag?! She had never heard it called that before. Now, "banana hammock" (which really is fun to say out loud) for sure, but "Marble Bag"?
Thus concludes this little bit of summertime fun.
The living room, formerly a sort of cranberry red - which was lovely when the living room was a cool grey but clashes badly with the candy apple green, is currently a decidedly horrid first-coat shade of yellow-orange papaya.
It's a fun shade. Festive, even, but just not what should go next to such a bright, vibrant, glowing green. Just... no.
So The Mister just got off the phone with Snarky to propose... black.
His reasons:
1) the Snarks already have a gallon matte black (not because they are goths, but because they wanted to use it as the base coat for the gumball red going up down in the basement... because they are goths)
2) the ultimate wall treatment for the living room will be nothing more than a framing device for all the state plates (The Mister's new Goodwill scavanger hunt obsession) large art posters (Mucha and other Arts & Crafts/pre-Raphaelite/etc. type work) and other various arty things. The walls will be crowded with stuff, and any color will be even less than background in the end.
3) the tenative theme for the living/dining room is "chinoiserie", with the brilliant green accented by laquered blacks, clear reds, and crisp whites. Using black in the dining room would in the end clash much less than the Bango-Mango-Madness currently erupting along two-thirds of the dining room (and ringing the windows and trim)
4) resale, schmesale.
So... Snarky's convinced. Worst case scenario: they end up using a gallon of Kilz to remove all proof of their folly. Best case: they continue to make this house truly and uniquely ChezSnark.
Still, yikes!
Snarky owns several statementy T-shirts that she used to employ to keep her sense of self at the gym. One had a giant, glaring Big Brother (from "1984"), another declared "RACIAL STEREOTYPES DEHUMANIZE" (a gift from her activist brother), and yet another one implored the reader to "Visualize Whirled Peas".
Which really has nothing to do with this post, except that Snarky finally managed to download some photos and was thinking along the lines of helping y'all to visualize her life out here in the Pacific Northwest.
More to come, eventually.
First, some more house pics!
A bad photo of our finished floor upstairs. Also an inkling of our whacky PeeWee color choices.
The cats spend most of their day up in the hutch.
Meant to give you an idea of the amazing candy-apple-green of the living room. Also our slovenly ways.
And love for Kubrick.
... and some travel pics...
One of our recent bike excursions on the Spring Water Corridor Trail. The red speck is The Mister.
A mural by the Devil's Punchbowl on the coast. The poppies are real.
Closeup of the strange sand formations on Hobbit Beach.
This is why the Snarks love the coast.
The Snarky's on the coast! The Mister has sworn to learn how to use the camera. Someday you might actually see more than just Reflected!Snarky.
OK... that's it for now. Coming soon: more coastal pics, the IKEA run, and 'maters!
Snarky knows y'all must be getting tired of her waxing all faux-philosophical and all and why can't she just get back to posting pics of the house, dag nabbit? Well, she does have a few pics, but of course she doesn't have them ready for you yet.
On a lark she just looked up a former classmate from her architorture school days and has found out that she is now the happy mother of two wonderful kids. Snarky shouldn't be surprised, as she was one of the bridesmaids at this friend's wedding which took place as soon as they possibly could manage it immediately following graduation.
The W's were an exclusive couple very early into the whole collegiate experience (from Snarky's held-over High School Sweetheart phase, through the embarrassing experimental Rugby moment, all the way to meeting The Mister online). It was almost a given that they were going to be married. They just complemented eachother so thoroughly and well.
Still Snarky can't help but feel a bit of shock. Someone who has been frozen in her mind for the last eight years just got suddenly ultra-fast forwarded to being a Mommy twice over.
The same happened a couple years ago when she got in touch with an old high school roommate who had also gone and had two kids. The shock was a bit lessened by the fact that Snarky knew about Child #1 (though #2 was a complete surprise as they had lost touch by then).
The Snarks are still very much on the fence about this whole child-having thing anyway, but somehow Snarky is feeling like she missed the boat somehow - that she's in a moment of suspended animation just spinning her wheels, not really doing anything.
If she decided not to have children, then surely she must be on some upwardly mobile corporate ladder or carving a bold new niche for some previously undiscovered marketable need. Right? Only... no. Snarky hasn't done that either. Snarky really hasn't done much at all on either the family or career fronts.
Is Snarky a Slacker? If not children and not career... then what will be her legacy?
(According to this week's issue of the local freebie paper, Portland is a city of slackers. Perhaps this is why Snarky feels so attuned to the place.)
There are so-called "young souls" and "old souls" and all the souls in between. Snarky has often surmised that she possesses a "middle aged soul" - old enough to know better (she entered her teenaged years with a deep breath and a "well, here goes nuthin'") but still young enough to make all the same stupid mistakes (oh, it went alright).
Her best friend has a teenaged soul. She is impulsive, headstrong, and unable to take the right path until she has exhausted all the wrong ones. Snarky used to refer to her as her "Drama Friend" (we all have at least one of those, even if we are typically the DF in our relationships), often with a bit of condescending affection/scorn (weird how some friendships are so close to antagonistic symbiosis).
Last night Snarky was on the phone with her friend for over two hours - most of it was spent with DF venting and unloading and Snarky listening.
Two years ago such a conversation would leave Snarky exhausted and resentful. It would make The Mister grouchy for stolen time. And worst of all: nothing would have changed for her friend.
But today, Snarky feels fine. Rested, even. It's not that Snarky has disconnected herself from her friend and doesn't care about what she is going through (in short, two words: "emotional incest" Snarky always learns new terms/concepts from her acquaintances that open her eyes and make her extremely grateful for her own dull and boring existance that does not require the aid of therapy speak in order to be defined) it is that Snarky finally had an a-HA moment a few crises ago and realized that in order to be a good friend, she didn't have to live through the experience with those friends. She could just listen and observe and support.
Small epiphany as far as epiphanies go (surely "brightly colored mushrooms are bad for the eatings" ranks higher) but an important one for Snarky, who used to be an empathetic walking open wound for everyone.
And The Mister was really quite OK with not having a wife for two hours. The Snarks are cultivating an appreciation for the concept of "alone time" and have experienced the added bonus of more enriched "together time" for it.
Best of all, Snarky's best friend has really broken through to some new, exciting territory. Of course right now it's scary and overwhelming, but she's calmer now and is finally, finally able to really work toward something better.
So, Snarky feels compelled to give a small for emotional maturity both for herself and for her friend. Snarky always knew she would finally begin to feel more comfortable in her skin (on the personal, bodily level as well as the larger socio-political sphere) in her thirties and is relieved to see that bit of middle-aged soul prognostication come true.
But she will try very hard not to pull a muscle patting herself on the back about it.
Just put on a happy face (dammit)!
Snarky has been in a three day Very Bad Mood that has been interrupted by bouts of happiness, contentment, and countless uncomfortably sweaty naps.
She's sure things will turn around soon, but just wanted everyone to know she's avoided updating her blog in order to minimize the bleed through of her psychic pollution.
On a slightly better note, she's really starting to fall in love with her (mangy, crispy, slug-infested) garden.
Carry on. (Snarky :heart:s Tim Gunn. Just so you know.)
(WARNING: Disjointed metaphors ahead and underfoot!)
Ever since she became conscious of the differences between boys and girls, Snarky has been trying to figure out that line between the feminine and masculine. She's unsure of not only the coordinates of the various demarcation points, but also where she stands in relation to those teetering little points in the shifty sand.
She vascillated between Girly-Girl (ballet training coupled with a near drag-queen level obsession with her mother's 1960's wardrobe) and Tomboy (tusseling with the neighborhood boys in the snow, wading waist deep in creeks in order to catch minnows) as she grew up. The advent of body hair and the constant battle to eradicate it was an absolute nightmare (tutus and 'pit hair don't mix) but she also became sporadically lacksadaisical about maintenance (surely Snarky isn't the only girl who has "winterized").
Snarky was lucky to have either indulgent or equally laissez-hair paramours during these experimental times.
Thusfar she's developed a duality fluctuating between the extremes. Some days she does the full get up: make up, matching shoes (as in: shoes that match the outfit, Snarky usually has presence of mind enough to match the shoes to eachother on any given day girlie or no... most of the time), matching underthings, matching BPAL, matching earrings... just matchy matchy all over the place. Other days she's lucky if a shower happens, let alone color coordinated not-nekkidness. (The Mister has been known to serenade her with "Ebony & Ivory" on the days that her bra/panty choice is chromatically challenged.)
For the past year Snarky has evolved away from platform heels and slinky skirts to Mary Janes and corduroy pants due to working closely with contractors, engineers, and ginormous, filthy machinery. This practical work wear attitude has bled in to her off hours as well.
On top of her sartorial schizophrenia is the concept of the masculine and feminine in attitudes as well. Snarky is constantly battling it out between her perceived dominant/submissive, Asian/American, intro-/extrovert, and male/female halves.
(For example, body hair is a Big Issue for Snarky. How does a self-proclaimed feminist explain her need to eradicate naturally occuring body hair to suit some wholly unrealistic sexualized pre-adolescent imagery?)
Then the cherry on top of this sundae of textbook gender identity woe are the emotional eggshells Snarky has been treading upon since The Mister's recent health scares (more honestly, these eggshells have been cropping up for as long as the Snarks have known eachother). She's been swathing their weekends in safe, neutral tones and non-aggressive, granny pantied conversations to keep things bland as oatmeal at home. She's been more mother than wife lately, and that sort of extreme imbalance can skew more than just the one boat in the marriage flotilla. She can't help but think that a wave of equal amplitude in the other direction is needed to put everything back on course.
The Snarks have been recovering long-buried and forgotten portions of their wardrobe as they are expanding into their house. Almost single handedly Snark's hootchie-mama arsenal increased ten-fold (OK, more like two-fold, but ten-fold is so much more impressive) just by finding and liberating the right tub of clothing.
So she's easing herself back into more feminine attire. Perhaps with the physical donning of her old "split up to there" skirts and flirty ankle strap heels, she will also be able to also mentally shed the metaphorical sweatpants. Time to Wake Things Up a little and return to feeling completely human (and girly, and ROWRy) again.
And if she needs to wear the pants for a little while in order for The Mister to get back on track, she'll do that too. But they'll be tailored and leather and just the right kind of snug.
The Mister has a bit of a hair fetish to complement his foot/naughty secretary thing. And Snarky really never knew about the extent of it until recently.
When he first met Snarky, she had a slightly angled bob that just curled beneath her chin. She had been maintaining the relatively chic 'do after a free makeover going in to her third year in college. Up until then she had rather a rather laissez faire approach to her hair except for the white streak (a la Rogue of X-Men fame or Pepe le Pieu's paramour, take your pick) she tried to maintain until she burned a bald patch on the side of her head.
She lapsed back into just growing it all out while in Europe for a semester, ending with a dramatic chop off "mas corta, por favor" in a "Super Tall" in Spain. (Who knew Super Cuts had gone international?)
Leading up to their wedding, Snarky finally returned to letting it all grow out in order to fulfill some deep-seated conviction that All Brides Must Have an Up 'Do. Her hair continued to grow until 2002 when, after a successful run doing impressions of "The Ring"'s Samara (and scaring the bejeezus out of all her co-workers), Snarky allowed her hairdresser to give her bangs.
This was the beginning of the end.
The bangs became Bettie Page bangs one hectic morning after Snarky's shaky attempts to even out the regrowth.
After that, it was only a matter of time before she succumbed to the inevitable and chopped it all off for charity.
Since that fateful November day (she kept the long hair one more Halloween in order to channel Cleopatra) Snarky has more or less kept the 'do at either page-boyish or rather Pat Benatarian levels.
The Snarks take their mini-golfing very seriously.
Growing out the highlights, and no, Snarky is not Flamenco-ing. She's modeling a knitting thingamabobber (Glampyre's One Skein Wonder, if you're curious)
A better look at The Benatar in all her glory.
After the unfortunate Hitler Bangs incident, Snarky finally agreed to let it all grow out again.
Lest we ever forget... re-posting proof of the Hitler Bangs.
This old photo most closely approximates the currently sideswept bangs (if you can make them out on her teeny tiny head). Is it just Snarky, or does it look like she's about to be plucked off the Earth by an Ent?
And for The Mister, there was much rejoicing. For while he has never once complained in all the years of Snarky's follicle fancies, he had been harboring a secret hope that she would return to the p0rn hair of yore. Every time she now wears her hair in the funky little pigtails - all she can currently manage - he gets a certain speculative gleam in his eye and breaks out into a boyish grin of delight.
It is this anticipation of his that is helping Snarky through some of the most difficult growing out phases she has ever encountered (and she's counting the skunky bald patch!). Right now she is currently at "vaguely choppy kinda-sorta rock mulletini-y" and would really just like to drop all the -y, -ie, -ishness and have a damn definitive 'do, already!
The things we do for love!
Edited to add: If she can find old pics of the old long hair, Snarky'll post 'em. She's also got a picture to be downloaded off the camera of the current oh-so-age-appropriate pigtails yet to post.
Eat your heart out, Bellagio!
So the ancient running joke is that Snarky is in possession of two very black thumbs.
The Mister made a habit of gifting her with a potted orchid (of the Lowe's/Home Depot variety) every Valentine's Day, knowing that she would eventually find a way to kill it. One year he gave her a companion cactus thinking that it would outlive the orchid which seemed extremely logical at the time.
Snarky deflated it.
Back in May, some good friends of the Snarks came out to visit. The wife is a master gardener and the husband is the handiest of handymen. They both have done amazing things to their triple wide trailer (and 5 acres of property) nestled in the Appalachians.
The Snarks were able to give them a tour of their soon-to-be house for hints/tips/praise/approval. She did a careful evaluation of the landscaping (somewhat over-exotic for the Snark's taste, but really quite impressive) and even gifted them with a regional resource (which has since been packed and lost, but will be found again, by gum!).
If it weren't for their words of encouragement, Snarky might've considered a scorched earth approach to the existing landscaping. So... they're trying. Most of the bordering landscaping has been weeded (Snarky suspects she "accidentally" took out some "decorative" thistle, but it was annoying and leggy) except for the corner with the roses... which are choking and trying their darndest to continue despite her efforts to destroy them.
She harvested a fistful of lavendar blossoms which are being artfully displayed in one of their many "why did we register for all these?" vases.
They've got a miniature garden (mostly for sammich makin's - tomato and cuke) fighting it out with the clover.
They are doing their best not to destroy what was left to them. Besides the curly willow, which had to go. (Much to the shock of the neighborhood.)
Cross your spades and pointy weeder thingies (Snarky likes to call it "The Probe") for them... pictures of the carnage results soon!
The Mister got in touch with a childhood friend just before his and Snarky's wedding with the intention of asking him to our Best Man. They had lost touch during their college years and in that time DeathRockGuy had married DeathRockChick, who was twelve or thirteen years his junior.
The Mister explained that DRG's father was significantly older than his mother (he was sixty when DRG was born), so such an age difference was not shocking.
And over the years, the Snarks and the DeathRockers got to know eachother as couples and became comfortable "couple friends".
The one thing that always caused a bit of unease for the Snarks was the fact that the DRs were almost too well matched. They were of one mind. Always in agreement, and always together. Save for work, they did everything together. They had no hobbies, did not leave the house except to eat out, and were thisclose to developing their own twin language. If ever a living, breathing example of Plato's theory (as Snarky understands it from watching "Hedwig and the Angry Inch" anyway) about soulmates existed, it would be these two.
However over the years, DRC has also exhibited a tendancy to absorb the personality of those she hung out with most: her sister, her co-workers, and of course, her Mister.
After the birth of their baby (DeathRockBaby! Oh, the dark and spooky knitted goods Snarky made for that child...) they seemed to make the perfect (albeit dark) young family. New house, new car, new jobs, new baby.
Then, after DRB was weaned, DRC fell into a severe post-partum depression. She started going out two and three (possibly more) nights a week with work friends, getting so drunk she couldn't recall the evening. Snarky remembers listening with growing horror as DRC proudly announced that she never had to pay for anything but her first drink.
The last time the Snarks visited Back East, DRG confided that things were not going well for them. DRC was leaving him at home with the baby to go to the gym for hours and then to bars, then complaining that he never wanted to do anything with her. His argument was that she suddenly wanted to do things that they never wanted to do together to begin with, and also she needed to give him more advanced notice so that they could arrange for a babysitter.
Y'all can see the trajectory this relationship is taking, but the Snarks were still a bit shocked to find out yesterday that DRG and DRC are now on a trial separation. She has moved out to an apartment and they are taking turns caring for DRB.
Snarky wonders if DRC is trying to re-establish her own personality after her perceived removal from being a mother once DRB was weaned. What the Snarks thought was mature self-possession when they first met DRC might have been what she developed from being around DRG.
It's... upsetting and confusing. This is not the first separation in the Snarks' small circle of acquaintences, but it is the first one that will affect a child.
They are working to be equally supportive of both parties, though it's probably apparent just from this recap that they are more sympathetic to DRG's plight.
And all of this sudden drama and upheaval has Snarky wondering about soul mates and the influence of those with whom we have entrusted our hearts/minds/lives.
Snarky firmly believes with the faith of secular scientific types that there is more than one "soulmate" out there for everyone. She finds more romanticism couched in the actions of the people that finally settle down and commit to make lives with the one(s) they choose rather than in the pining, angsty search for The One. But how much of making small changes to accommodate this whole other person (or persons) in one's life is just making adjustments before it becomes major shifts in one's basic... well "one"ness?
DRC married DRG before she turned 21. While she was mature for her age at the time, perhaps she's feeling now like she hasn't had a chance to figure out some things on her own.
The Snarks hope that this separation will help both of them to see what makes them unique, but also how that uniqueness and their similarities complement and enhance the whole... both for their sake, and for the baby's sake.
What they fear is that she will realize that she wasn't meant to be this woman (wife, mother) all along. If that is the case then permanent separation would be best for the child, but the Snarks still ache for the consequences.
Snarky is mostly blind.
Granted, she's still a few (scant) steps away from being legally blind, but her eyesight is bad enough that sans glasses or contacts, she's pretty much waving her arms Frankenstein style and doing the nervous Don't-Crush-My-Toes-Slow-Dance/Tippy-Toes-Sweep-Walk that extreme myopia choreographs.
Given all this, Snarky just wanted to take a quick moment to praise Chez Snark to it's blessed little rafters for having just enough square footage to allow for all the Snarks' crap to be spread out all over the place and still have enough room left over to maintain clear, blind people walkways.
It has gotten to the point that The Snarks can't remember a time when All This Stuff fit in to a less-than 800 square foot apartment. How'd they do it? Maaaagic!
Snarky also wants to bless Chez Snark's little anthropomorphized heart for having an added bonus accessory of an old charcoal grill. The Snarks enjoyed beef kabobs, roasted corn, and 'taters, followed by more-or-less successful dark chocolate s'mores for the Fourth. Unfortunately, they could not motivate their lazy behinds into making a nice pitcher of Sangria but there's plenty of time for that yet.
(After Snarky was schooled, she has always preferred the Queen song containing that famously ripped of Vanilla Ice lyric, though the sting of plagerism has faded over time to be replaced with a kind of dorky nostalgia too.)
The Mister collapsed at work yesterday. By the time the ambulance got there, he was awake, aware, and talking. He walked to the ambulance on his own steam. The ER doc couldn't positively pinpoint the cause, though stress and anxiety are likely candidates.
After a couple hours of observation (and another one waiting impatiently to be discharged) Snarky was able to take him home. They had cheesy Mexican food and wandered around Trader Joe's and bought up supplies for a near-future (possibly before the Fourth, as the Snarks are an impatient bunch) cookout on their newly discovered charcoal grill.
The Mister will take off of work today, but is already antsy about not keeping up with his landslide of work. Snarky tried (half-heartedly) to obtain something for him to work on when she stopped by his office yesterday to pick up the car.
His boss, hopefully finally Seeing the Light, refused to let her take anything, and strongly urged The Mister to stay at home and rest through the Fourth.
Snarky knows that this grand statement is partly spurned by genuine concern, but she also knows that The Mister will just get all the more agitated because now his boss's unable-to-delegate and/or assign-work-realistically "management style" will push all the pressure onto the other already loaded-down PMs in the office. Which gives him stress.
And Snarky is trying ever so hard to minimize the stress. Like some kind of frightened, over-protective mother hen. The Mister is a grown man, but Snarky can't help but remember seeing him with wires and tubes and bustling be-scrubbed attendants.
No matter how many episodes of "House" or "Gray's Anatomy" she'll see... nothing will inure her to that sight. Ever.
Snarky developed some psychosomatic quirks during her senior year back in Nerd School. She was falling into a mild depression, feeling the strain of separation from her first serious boyfriend (the relationship was a bit co-dependent), and she was at a complete loss as to where/what she wanted to go/do/be after graduation.
About once a month she would come down with symptoms of a particularly virulent stomach virus that didn't exist. Two days of debilitating gastro-intestinal distress then suddenly nothing, and back to her self-imposed hermit-like existance of skipping meals in the cafeteria in lieu of a pseudo-monastic supper of rye bread and onion soup (She's not sure why she settled on this particular combination, it was probably something she picked up from reading The Name of the Rose and/or the better option compared to flagellation.). Naturally her suitemates didn't take any of this seriously and did their best to harrass her into being more sociable.
The psychosomatic weirdness climaxed with a spectacular presentation of a raging case of hives during final exams. Every where her skin was constantly touched - her bra strap, necklines and waistlines, where her low pony tail rested against the nape of her neck, bloomed with red, itchy welts. She added two Benadryls to her rye bread and onion soup communion every night and had nightmares about physics exams and botany practicals.
Eventually her skin cleared and she graduated (probably in that order) and after that traumatic senior semester, nothing quite so extreme happened to her again.
But she remembers that it's possible. A crouching gremlin hiding in her meat and bones, waiting for the right triggers.
Last week The Mister took two days off of work because of stomach problems. Today, a full week later, he's still not quite back to normal. He comes from a family that doesn't always think to go to the doctor until the problem becomes much worse, so Snarky's attempts at getting him to Get Help have been treated as Chiken Little-style freakouts.
Finally, though, he is thinking about seeing his doctor. Even if this ends up being all in his head (his work is approaching a critical turning point this week) she hopes that seeing the doctor will help him somehow.
In the meantime, her own stomach has been a bit sour and sullen as well. Whether it is in sympathy (the closest to synced menses they'll ever get), or due to exposure to him (if it is an actual bug), or due to a whole new resurgence of her old sub-conscious mind/body craziness (always an underlying possiblity), she's unclear. Perhaps she'll never fully focus on the cause. She just hopes the effects for both The Mister and herself go away soon.
Chez Snark is evolving. Unfortunately, Snarky has been a bit slack about documenting the evolution. Here are some older pics to bring everyone up to speed:
They didn't have a working shower for almost a week while the subfloor was replaced (and then the looong wait for the Asian Tiger). A week!
The original color scheme for the bathroom: white sink, white toilet, white shower surround, black tub, pale pale blue walls. Bleah. Snarky was oddly fond of the vaguely gothic tub, but the chips and dents had to go.
With the door put back in place, this is the best "after" shot of the tub Snarky could manage. Whitey white white white! The Snarks employed the local Miracle Method franchise and highly recommend them to everyone. One big caveat: prepare to endure at least three days of intense chemical stench.
Another shot of the itty bitty bathroom.
This is supposed to be a memo holder, but has become the Snarks' precarious-yet-cheeky soap holder.
The Mister decided to sponge opaque copper paint over the glowing firelight in the exercise room. The experiment has since been dubbed a bit of a dud, but The Mister had a fabulous mani for about a week.
The Snarks' real estate agent gave them a housewarming gift. Instead of a basket 'o goodies they got a treasure chest!
Guess who snapped it up for her own nefarious purposes?
Also of note: the crazy fuschia/pink ante-room is s-l-o-w-l-y evolving into a half eggplant purple, half light spring green room. The spring green is mostly done (and they even managed to hang artwork after Snarky hulked out and smashed all of the glass in the frame) but the purple will require an astonishing third coat to reach their preferred level of opacity. After that, (and a little more purple-ing of the hallway on the first floor) the Snarks are Taking a Break with the Painting, Already.
The Snarks are what you could call DINKs (Double Income, No Kids - Snarky just learned of this acronym last week because she is culturally out of it). They aren't wealthy, nor are they well paid, but they are comfortable and able to indulge in small luxuries like restaurant dining when they want and the occasional pair of new (but sensible!) shoes.
They know they are lucky to have managed their previous investments well enough to be in their current house (which they love just a little more each day even with all the blemishes that every old house has). Though she hasn't been completely willy-nilly about their post-real estate orgy, Snarky has been feeling like the other shoe must drop from their recent "fixin'/preppin' the house for total habitation" purchases.
And that shoe got dropped yesterday over the phone with The Mister. He wants to give notice at his current job. He plans to have his last day be the Friday before the Labor Day weekend. He won't start looking for another job until about a month before his last day.
Snarky knows the contributing factors to this major decision are not flippant ones, but she can't help but feel a bit of panic, a bit like the rug was pulled out from underneath her feet.
He hasn't been happy in that job almost from the beginning. He has been dealing with depression and poor health exacerbated by the high and constant stress. At one point last night he turned to her and said "And if a year from now, if we are both in jobs we really love but that don't pay as much, is it that much of a loss if we can't keep this house?"
And Snarky was torn. She wants him to find his place in the world, she does. She would even like to find out exactly what she should be when she grows up. But this house... this house is already so special to her. She'd like to have her cake and eat it too.
Snarky has been taking pictures like a madwoman, but instead of downloading and formatting, her evenings have been taken up with weeding and painting. She hopes to give you updates soon on the continuing evolution of ChezSnark. There's been hardwood floor refinishing, tub resurfacing, Asian Tigering, and even more painting of retina-searing hues.
She just hopes she won't be covering all of this up with eggshell in a year's time.
Valentina recently asked about favorite romantic movies and Snarky, as is her MO, twisted it all back to the tummy. She suspects this close association between heart and hunger is genetic as her entire family has spent a combined gazillion hours of their most memorable moments either consuming, making, or planning meals.
As per her comment on Valentina's blog, Snarky's all time favorite "it's all about the food" movie is "Tampopo". This is a classic of not only modern Japanese cinema, but of all foodie cinema the world over. It is a collection of short stories concerning various people and their obsessions with food. There's a main story involving a John Wayne-esque ramen-loving trucker (I kid you not) and a struggling noodle shop widow. This was the first movie that opened my eyes to food as love-play (and no, I hadn't seen "9 1/2 Weeks" yet) and sparked my life-long romance with teh ramen noodles .
This just says everything Snarky wants to say about how important food is in her life.
Other movies that come to mind are "Like Water for Chocolate" (Snarky still wants to make some of the recipes in the book), "Babette's Feast", "Big Night", and "Eat Drink Man Woman". She does not count that one with Penelope Cruz ("Woman on Top"?), because it was just. Not. Good. Bleah. So much wasted potential. Maybe it was because the "rival suitor" was the same actor from that meh sitcom "Good Morning Miami", also he played the optomotrist Miranda faked orgasms with on "Sex in the City".
What are your favorite foodie movies?
Today, thanks to Valentina, Snarky smells of Al-Shairan.
Xena knew something was up the way She was calling to her with that nearly-falsetto voice. She never called to Xena like that unless Something Bad was about to happen. Last time it had been twenty hours in that blasted carrier in the loud growling metal box, Junebug mewling plantively like the little whiny bitch she is. Xena had saved up her displeasure to generate one particularly foul poop that filled that metal box with the smell of her indignation.
Then they had been moved into a larger metal box that roared enough to shake the ground. By that point even Junebug was too terrified to make a noise. They were finally freed by Him into a small, carpeted room. Xena found all her new hiding places within the first few days.
After a while, it seemed perfectly normal to be two cats and two humans in a small carpeted room. There were three windows that opened out to trees and crazy talking people down below. The food stayed good, and the litter box was (mostly) fresh. Xena and Junebug got used to it and began to forget about their ordeal.
And then one day She came back from Outside, talking in that cracking, anxious voice that should have rumbled with impending doom. Xena recalls with horror how She resorted to using half of a wooden paddle to sweep her out from underneath the coffee table. A paddle!
Oh she hissed. She hissed and did that low, lingering growl bourne from sheer panic. She even released her bladder a bit, which only made Her voice go even higher.
Then He got home. He that was usually their saviour. And He stuffed her in the hamper. Traitor.
She was too frazzled to even muster a good protest poop as they rumbled in another metal box. Junebug still found the air to yowl a few good times, and Xena tried to answer back with her own timid "meh-reow?"s.
When the world stopped rumbling and lurching about, they found themselves in a small room that stank of laquer. The windows were too high to reach, and there was a lone lamp on the floor. The litter box was not where it was supposed to be, it was in the corner. There was food, but it tasted of ashes.
Xena nudged the litterbox out of the corner and created another slender hiding space. She stayed there for two days.
Junebug, and Xena is convinced that she might be a little damaged in the head for this, hid in her carrier every time they heard the clomp-squeak noises in the ceiling. Who hides in that place of impending anguish? Only cats who are Not Right in Their Heads, Bless Their Hearts.
Finally on the third day the door cracked open and He released them into... into what? There are too many places. There are windows to look out to trees, there are windows where they can see Them coming and going in their metal box. There are old familar smells behind the doors Xena has already figured out how to open, smells of His feet and Her perfume piled up and hung down like layers of comforting curtains in the dark. There are new smells and strange, smaller metal boxes. There don't seem to be other cats in these boxes, but They seem to spend a lot of time cooing at them anyway.
He has been gone for a few days. She seems to be quieter, less active because of it. She is giving lots of belly rubs, though, so Xena thinks it will all be OK. If not now, then soon.
She is still keeping an eye out for the carrier though, and a cautious ear for any change in register in Her voice.
Given that her attention span is normally comparable to that of a fruit fly on a normal day, Snarky's ability to maintain "workplace workface" today has been a hopelessly lost battle from the get-go.
Not only is her heart and mind still racing through MoveIntoTheHouse scenarios, but their contractor is currently tearing up the subfloor in the main bathroom right now, with no way of being finished until the ordered flooring (Asian Tiger! Rawr!) gets in tomorrow at the earliest.
And tonight is The Great Cat Migration '06. The Snarks' furbabies do not take to their carriers very well. At all. EVER. They could be going to the land of catnip and cheeses and still with the yeowling and bloody murder.
Before TGCM'06 comes The Death Defying Cat Wrangling of Ought Six. Snarky only hopes that they have managed to leave one polypro jacket unpacked in which she can suit up in order to protect her fragile, extremely claw-able hand/arm/chest/neck skin. She has had to have medical attention applied to her body in the past. At the vet's office. Cat Wrangling is that violent, swift, and gory.
Tomorrow is the Official Day of Moving, though the Snarks have been schlepping bits and pieces of their lives over to the house for the last two weeks. Last night Snarky did their first quarterless load of laundry in their very own, new washer and dryer! They also have a shiny new fridge! The Snarks are a bit disconcerted by the new appliance smell coming off of said fridge, but they are confident that a few trips to the Safeway will eliminate the problem.
One more hour left before the bloodletting fun begins. Snarky suspects she will be radio silent after tomorrow morning possibly through Monday. The Cable Guy is supposed to be hooking the Snarks up Saturday morning (between the hours of 10 and 12, of course). Even if all goes well, Snarky might opt for the more alluring prospect of blissful unconsciousness Sunday rather than playing catchup. If Snarky gets too caught up tomorrow, she wishes all of y'all a wonderful weekend in advance.
Snarky has lost her freaking mind.
Case and Point
This is the flooring she wants for her bathroom. The Mister wanted something more neutral, but this just spoke to her.
Maybe it's because the colorway is called "Asian Tiger". Snarky is just a complete sucker for names of colors that say nothing about the color. (Then again, The Mister's choice was something like "Picasso Splash" or somesuch.)
Send help. Preferrably in the form of beigy, calming tones.
... for eye strain?
OK, that didn't work quite as well as Snarky had hoped, nor is it nearly as pleasant as ice cream. Nevertheless, she is suffering from ever compounding eye strain as she moves from eight hours in front of the computer (under fluorescent lights in "The Cracker Cave") to a few poorly light hours throwing things around/together/into boxes at the apartment, to a couple more hours in the waning gloom of evening working up close and personal with various nooks and cranies and surfaces of their soon-to-be kalidescopic domicile.
The peepers are pooped, folks.
Add to that the nocturnal goings on at Flat du Snark (Snarky is an equal opportunity mangler of all languages) in the form of feline gymnastics (Seriously, what is the deal with cardboard and plastic bags and the licking? Does it really taste that good?) and there is just no rest for the wicked winkers in the forseeable future.
While some more painting is on the docket for tonight's Chez Snark visitation, Snarky thinks she'll try to truncate the errand and convince The Mister that a break is in order in the form of the one-two punch of eye candy (24 and Grey's Anatomy season finale) and gelato.
Snarky has to interrupt this regularly scheduled home improvement program to do a little theraputic venting/stream of consciousness whangdoodle:
Givens:
1) Snarky hates moving. HATES it. With a deep, burning, vitriolic passion. She suspects she might be a little OCD about her Stuff being Messed With, even if it is she who is doing the messing.
2) The Mister has been suffering from low-grade depression for as long as Snarky has known him. That would be eight years.
3) The Mister only recently started getting treatment for said depression when it developed into anxiety attacks that affected his work performance and also showed up as heart attack-like symptoms.
4) The Mister had to stop taking his "happy pills" because they gave him a rash.
5) The Mister hates his job. This is probably what pushed his depression into anxiety.
6) The Mister's job is so consuming that he's too busy during the day to do anything "extra-cirricular" and has also had to bring home "homework" that sometimes has him up past midnight (or in one instance, he never came to bed). Therefore, Snarky has been doing all necessary research for the house/move.
7) Snarky really, REALLY hates moving.
8) Snarky wrestles with her own issues of low self-esteem (coupled oddly enough with a raging ego, work that puzzle out) which can create overblown reactions to criticism.
Catalyst:
So today, all those factors came to a head as Snarky tried to secure temporary permits to allow the Snarks to park a fourteen foot moving truck in front of their (essentially, for the purposes of this story) downtown apartment building. It's always the little things that set off the best explosions, no?
This could have just as easily been a week-old stack of unwashed dishes in the kitchen or an odd comment on the appropriateness of a certain pair of pants to a certain type of musical venue. Something trivial and small yet monumental, like dripping water or straws on camels' backs.
Results:
A very terse, very public cellphone conversation in the middle of the engineering department where at points Snarky had to hold the phone away from her ear because The Mister, in his best moods, cannot use an Inside Voice to save his life. As he was at times apoplexic with anger (at Snarky, the world, his employer, again with Snarky, and again with work), fuming with frustration, and exclaming in exasperation, his Outside Voice was just about at Football Stadium Level.
Snarky responded with hushed, angry, trying-to-be-not-"you-statements" speak and had a fun time wrestling her features away from alternating between tears of rage, tears of sadness, tears of fear, and just plain good old fashioned WTF.
Snarky admits she is not blameless in this. She is passive-aggressive, sensitive, and requires much grooming. She's usually pretty much self grooming, but enjoys a fluff every now and again from her paramour. She can be a demanding diva bitch banshee at times, but has been working hard to recognize when those "chocolate and pickles" style impulses present themselves.
This is the rockiest point before it gets smoother. This is the abyss from which, after the dust has settled, they will look back with their arms looped around eachother's waists, and they will say "Whew! That was a close one!" And they will be glad that they had eachother to lean on, rail against, and be pushed through by in order to make it to the Other Side.
They just have to have faith and get there together.
Solution:
Snarky plans on making peace offerings tonight. But for now, she has a job interview for which to prepare, and a slowly rising tide of panic to quell with logic and love.
Since Snarky is an image posting fool, this entry is continued from Part One below...
On to the brightness:
This was supposed to be the Auburgine Anteroom to the Brown Boudoir. The second coat is darker, and the Snarks are planning a third. The Mister is already grumbling about washing over this with either black or dark blue to tone down the pink. PINK!
Behold the pukey green before of the exercise room. This color has been dubbed "shittay" by a close family friend, and the Snarks are not arguing with that. Shittay indeed.
The solution? A little somethin' somethin' called "Glowing Firelight". "Glowing"? Try "Glowering"! Darkity likes!
After one coat. There might be as many as three in this room too. Also eventually a metallic wash over the whole shebang. Because they can.
A shot of the test wall in the living room for the Granny Smith Apple Green. It is a bit brighter than in this shot. Also, yes, the red has GOT to go. This is not Christmasville.
Are your eyes now pulsing and watery? The Snarks are enjoying their crash course in color theory. They did not have the opportunity to paint prior to moving in to their last house. While the coming weeks promise to be a hectic scramble to the finish for so many things (the amazingly intricate domino array of contractors needed to just Take a Bath, not to mention the whole "move all the crap in the apartment into the house" manoeuver) (A procedure so complicated it needed extra vowels!) The Snarks are truly enjoying the feeling of putting their (technicolor, barf-up-a-rainbow) stamp on this little house.
Last night they even schlepped a few things over to make their first dinner in the house.
Nevermind the fact that they don't have a fridge yet. Brushetta!
Snarky would like to leave you with something a little more restful for the eyes. This is what greets them from the kitchen sink when they finally manage to wrestle the battered side door open:
Just breathe...
(Thank Beth for Faustus!)
The Snarks are homeowners!
Snarky = ecstatic, The Mister = Already Thinking...
To commemorate this life-changing event, Snarky is tweaking her blog a bit to include documentation of the ongoing process of turning This Old House into their Home.
Snarky is still planning to keep with the third person format. She will most likely still throw in random fits of writerly aspiration. But the focus has shifted enough to warrant a re-chistening of this blog.
The Snarks are really, truly happy to have gotten through this first major hurdle toward housedom. Unfortunately, their new status started out with a Snakes on a Plane shakedown in the form of a break-in to their new house.
Apparently some bored, only mildly motivated hoodlums noticed the "SOLD" sign in front of the house and the fact that the previous owners had recently vacated. They took advantage of the occupancy lull and crowbarred their way into the empty house. After unsuccessfully attempting to wrench the sink disposal out of the kitchen, it appears they left empty handed. They even left the crowbar behind.
The Snarks are feeling a bit shaken by this. They've had car break ins in the past, but their home? Never. After talking with the neighbors, they feel a bit better. They're a (usually) watchful, mindful bunch.
Besides the obvious changes to the game plan (having the sellers purchase a new side door, installing anti-theft systems) they are now thinking that a Whole Hog style move in (rather than a piece-meal, dribs and drabs approach) would make them feel more secure about their few possessions.
What a way to get started! Nevertheless, The Snarks are determined to make crudites out of cruddy human nature and plan to gather fluff and twigs so that they can fuss and fidget until their nest feels Just Right.
The tenative plan for this weekend is to possibly purchase a nearly-new commercial grade elliptical machine for their gym/entertainment area in the basement. Though this fine piece of machinery is an amazing find on the Craigslist Portland site, it still is pricey enough to cause Snarky to reconsider her gym membership. If they can also find a decent set of free weights for cheap, she will hang up her wee courtesy towel for good and Sweat to the Oldies (or the Emos, or whatever else The Mister has going) at Home.
Snarky is also thinking about taking on the somewhat daunting task of refinishing the hardwood floor in the upstairs master bedroom suite. This might be as little as scruffing up the finish with steel wool and adding two coats of poly... or as much as renting a belt sander, floor buffer, and edger and spending two days stripping, scruffing, and recoating.
Either way, she thinks it will greatly improve the feel of the room and it will also be much less than the bamboo overhaul The Mister has been craving.
And with that bit of good/bad/good, this sleepy new homeowner is going to collapse into bed.
Snarky's analytical brain knows that there is still ONE MORE DAY until the house is officially theirs. But her animal Veruca Salt side of her brain is stomping its little patent-leather Mary Janes-shod feet all over the sensible hardwood floors, scuffing up the works.
Snarky just had a minor retail freak out over at Penance's tart site just now and is not looking forward to the reaction of The Mister. She doubts that he was as troubled as she was by the "Old House Smell" that was wafting up from the recently vacated basement. This assumption is based mostly on the fact that she had to point it out to him.
But she could not resist scent combinations like hinoki wood & cypress, blackberry & sage, persimmons (The Mister's favorite dessert fruit) & water orchid, and the legendary Red Velvet Cake.
Because Chez Snark will not have Old House Smell. It musn't!
Snarky is contemplating some sneaky shadiness in the form of "Oh! Why, it must be a housewarming gift from some mysterious and tasteful benefactor!" Yeah. That's the ticket.
Scent-induced memories have always been important to Snarky. Her memory is uneven and mostly buried in her subconscious (she could tangent off into a rather lengthy recap of this morning's just-before-the-alarm dream that dredged up all manner of high school, college, and oddly enough, recent pop-culture bugaboos). Anything to help trigger a sense of continuity and a past is snapped up and put in the arsenal.
Snarky wants this house to be linked to anything other than the Old House Smell. She probably went a bit overboard, but she wanted to have all her ol factory bases covered.
