In which Sue Sylvester kills the cat and eats quesadilla

It is very likely that I need a manicure and pedicure, perhaps a massage.

We accidentally bought a house. It is the perfect house in a fantastic neighborhood with fabulous neighbors and exceptional public school. We weren’t shopping. It wasn’t in the plan. The timing was wrong. I didn’t plan on moving to this area, not even remotely. I’m a born and bred southtowns girl, with kids in an urban charter school. I wasn’t moving to the northtowns, least of all right now. There was a plan. This wasn’t it.

So, yes, we accidentally bought this house.

And I am glad.

It was not without bumps. The owner was not the owner; it was an estate. Read as: three adult kids fighting over the sugar bowl and every nickel to be divided three ways. It was, on our end, frustrating to say the least. It took longer than it should have and with blood, sweat and tears (mostly by our attorney), the house is ours.

House buying includes moving. Moving includes packing. Packing is, well, a pain in the ass.

While packing, there was life. Back to school, soccer, choir, a minor surgery, our respective volunteer commitments, trying to stay fit, laundry, groceries, etc etc etc etc etc.

All told, it is working fine.

Despite the fact that we are off the charts with potential stressors, it’s all good.

Mortgage papers signed, packing happening, 7 layers of wallpaper in most rooms (NOT an exaggeration) coming down, paint colors being narrowed. And then the damn car stops going in reverse. At 225k miles, the car that Sammy came home from the hospital in, died. D-E-D.

Again, not in the plan.

Oh-Kay. One new house and one new car.  Well two, if you count the one that rolled last year 3 days after Christmas. Timing. Not our friend.

Between the closing and the moving, I quit my job for a great offer. I took a few days. I packed, I scraped, I painted. Then I jumped.

A few days in, the new job started to smell bad. But it was ok. I was in it. There was opportunity. There was potential. There was an excess of 40 hours and most of it was avoidable. A bit of an old boys club but it isn’t my first time to the rodeo. I was finding that the Communications Department was at the bottom of the food chain. Also, it was not rocket science. Not that I was pursuing work as a rocket scientist, but using a little smarts ain’t a bad thing. The negatives are starting to tick up. Still I’m going to make the most of it, I’m going to learn, challenge myself, and push forward. (If you are reading this, Suzanne, you were ringing in my ears)

Just up until I had to work with a VP who was a lifelong product of this insular, unhealthy environment. He was an arrogant, condescending, unintelligent misogynist. We had a bad meeting, to put it mildly. I was reduced to tears, clearly not my MO. Not my best moment. Not playing to my strengths. The bottom line is when the phrase "whipping boy" is used in a professional context, it is not a place where I will do well.

I quit. And in a merciful twist of fate, I was able to go back to my previous firm.  All was looking settled. A blessed relief after a whole lot of change and chaos. Time marches on. Report cards came home. They were, in short, great!!! I could not have been more proud, more impressed.  And I felt very happy, very relieved, validated and very soothed knowing that the boys have weathered this all and been able to flourish.

Just when I considered letting my hair down, I came home from work and dropping the boys to find the the old old old cat had definitely taken a turn for the worse. The ugly details are unnecessary. I called the vet. They could take her in the next day. But she was beyond ailing and the boys were at choir. When the boys are at choir, I run. Sometimes I clean, do laundry, get dinner ready but I’ve got stuff to do. On this particular day, I was suited up to run. It was clear that little Isabelle shouldn’t be put through another day. I took her to the SPCA in my running clothes. I was ‘checked in’ by a barky linebacker who, at the word “euthanasia”, turned on his bedroom voice and began using the phrase “your friend”. I’m thinking, “Dude, we aren’t friends. I’ve dragged her through a half dozen moves, deposited not one, but two dogs in her life and kept her fed.”  I did have love to give her, when she deigned to accept it. We’d come to the end of our road and it was sad.

The rest of it was pretty quick. A bitch to the end, she wouldn’t get out of the carrier. I patted her through the bars, left her in the carrier, and split. I had an hour before getting the boys, so I met my husband for a glass of wine and something to eat - in my running cloths. There is no lip gloss that hides that fact that I was dressed like Sue Sylvester. I just didn’t care. I was spent.

And now, I think timing should allow for a spa day.  I’d really like a manicure and pedicure, and a massage wouldn’t hurt.

And now there is an Elf to hide, Advent treats to stock, cookies that aren’t frosting themselves and all of that before the big who-haa in 19 days.