Nope, We're Stayin'

Before I forget -- anyone in the Chicago area with kids, I'm giving away a family four pack to Disney on Ice for Februay 2!

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It's a long story, but last night my husband finally asked me (in exasperation, I believe) if I wanted to sell our house and move to a different part of our school district.

Really, I just looked at him like he was nuts. I am so not selling our house anytime soon. I hate moving. Detest it. Actually, I would be totally cool with it if someone came and packed and unpacked for me, but I'm not spending that kind of money to move, so I'm sticking with the idea that I hate moving. That and I really like our house and our neighbors and our sidewalks and all those important things.

I stated when we bought this house that we were here until we downsized with the wee one out of the nest. Given the job market, this may not happen for another twenty years now, and I'm ok with that. All because I hate packing and unpacking to move.

And I'm pretty good at doing it, too.

I was born not too far from where I live now, and I've even had my dad drive me past that house. Oddly, it doesn't look anything like the few memories I have of it. We moved from there when I was three, which probably explains a lot of that.

We headed to Connecticut then, and I have all sorts of fun memories of that house. The three (no idea, don't ask why we had three) swingsets, the huge forest behind our house, the hills, the gravel driveway, the neighbors, the beach, the Christmas parties at the fire house. But I haven't been there since I was six...

because that's when we moved to Belgium. This is where I first started to get bitter about moving. I had a red plastic Mickey Mouse wallet when we lived in Connecticut. And it had money in it. If my memory isn't playing tricks on me, it had $8 in it. When we left the States, anyway. By the time I saw my wallet in Belgium, it was emptied. *sigh*

When we left Belgium, we came back to Illinois, but only for eight months or so. We were in a condo one floor up from my grandparents, which was pretty cool, but at eight years old, I started to see the problem with moving more clearly. Every time we moved, my mom made me throw out things. Sometimes I had a choice, but more often than not, I didn't.

And when we left Illinois after eight months and moved to Minnesota (still eight here), we had the interesting experience of living in a hotel for a couple months until my parents bought our house. While it was sort of cool to live in a hotel for awhile and have our own pool, it got old quickly. Most kids were in and out of the hotel, so we didn't have many lasting friendships (the exception was Leslie Smith Field who moved into the hotel while we were there and then showed up in my fourth grade classroom three days into the school year and was my best friend until she moved to Washington -- Leslie, if you ever find and read this, send me an email!). And of course, we didn't have most of our stuff.

When we finally moved into our house, I discovered another joy (not) of moving. There are times you have to redecorate. A lot. The bedroom I had in that house had belonged to a boy a few years older than me. The carpet was a chocolate brown (and not a pretty chocolate brown) with a weird dark animal "striped" wallpaper. I actually probably would have been ok with it, but my mom decided that wasn't good for a girl. And so we went looking for new wallpaper and carpeting. And ohhh I hate doing that. By the time my mom and I were able to find a wallpaper that matched a carpet sample that neither of us immediately vetoed, I ended up with light green carpeting and matching wallpaper with delicate white flowers woven into it. Raise your hand if you think this sounds anything like me. *crickets* That bedroom stayed decorated that way with the white wicker furniture until we moved, though.

We stayed in that house until after I graduated high school though. I next moved into a dorm room. And really, that's the way to move. You have one small carload of stuff that you have to unpack in a day. You live there for a year and then repack it all. That kind of moving I could deal with. Unfortunately, I now have no rooms that could fit into a single car, which is a minor problem.

After my junior year, I got an apartment in Evanston that was a tiny litle studio south of campus. And here was my next nasty surprise about moving. Not everyone is as neat and clean as you would hope. We got the keys, prepared to move in, and then spent the next six hours scrubbing every surface. It was N-A-S-T-Y. My poor mom and gram!

Fortunately, I found an apartment after college that wasn't so dirty. Then again, I also paid more for it. And again, I realized that in moving, you have to figure out what's important to you. I had thought that having somewhere to park my car (check) and being near the loop (check) were important. I unfortunately neglected to factor in the noise of living there. And the fact that being two blocks from Rush meant that I got more than my share of 3am buzzers from friends who wanted to crash in my apartment.

My next apartment was much further north in the city, and I remember waking up my first morning in that apartment hearing birds chirping. I loved it. Absolutely loved it. But here's where I learned another key thing about moving: set ground rules with roommates before you move in with them. Let's just say that after a year and a half, my (male) roommate moved to California. And that I was happy to see him go, especially after he scared off on early relationship when he answered the door (while I was in my room getting ready -- completely oblivious) in his bright yellow very tight boxers. And when I called him on it, he didn't see the problem. Yeah... gotta love friends from college who you don't know quite as well as you thought you did. Until suddenly you know them allllll too well.

After that apartment, I bought my very first own place. And while I loved where I lived, I discovered something else I don't like about moving. I had, shall we say, not the most scrupulous real estate agents at the time. I was young and apparently they thought they could try to take advantage of me. I'm still convinced that I paid too much money for my townhouse, but probably not by a significant amount, and I still made them offer less than they'd wanted me to. I think they were most disappointed when I was approved for a $450,000 mortgage (ok, seriously -- why and how, I have no idea; I could never have come close to affording that much of a mortgage, nor is my mortgage anywhere near that amount now!) that I wasn't interested in looking at homes anywhere in that stratosphere. Bye-bye high commission!

My next move was the next connundrum. When we sold the townhouse when I was pregnant with Little Miss (a two bedroom townhouse and two kids under two do not mix), we hadn't yet found our house. So we put our stuff in storage and moved in with my parents for a few weeks. Who could imagine that it would take that long to find a place? Ten months later, we finally moved out. Oh did I learn my lesson there. Next time (ok, so there won't be a next time, but maybe one of you can learn from my mistake) I am renting an apartment.

And that brings me to my house today. The one that my husband suggested we sell. The one that has all sorts of weird quirks to it, like the wood on the side of my cabinets turning pink and the rose and black and white tiles in the maste bath and the lack of insulation in the front coat closet and the lack of lights in the family and living rooms, but it's my house. And I am so not moving.

Until I downsize. And who knows, maybe by then I will have forgotten all the reasons why I hate moving.

How about you? What are your moving horror stories?

Good-bye, Shag Carpeting!

Today was a little bit of an odd day, quite bittersweet. It was the last time I’ll ever go to my office. Two years ago yesterday, I thought I was going to the office for the last time, as I had quit to stay at home with my wee ones (you see how well that worked out!), and everyone was there, celebrating and saying good-bye.

Today was different. As I got to work, I got the second parking spot in the lot. Walking inside, much of the building had no lights turned on, and it was eerily quiet. It’s a very odd sensation to walk into an office that had housed well over 1,000 people that now holds only a couple hundred.

The good news is that no, my company isn’t going under and no, I didn’t lose my job. My office is moving from our old building into a new one. We’ve known about this for three years, and it’s finally my group’s turn. People have been moving to the new facility since February, and we’re one of the last areas to move.

It’s been odd over the last several months. We had an art sale in December, and there has been no art on the walls since then. Giant shredding bins have been sitting out everywhere since January. For the last two weeks, large orange crates and rolls of bubble tape almost as tall as I am have lined the hallways. And today, I packed everything up.

Once upon a time, it took three of those orange crates to move all my stuff. Since I work part time now and am only in the office one day a week, though, I don’t have as much. And I accumulate much less in a year and a half than in 6 plus years! Plus, the new office has lots of rules that help keep our crates few in number.

Rule #1: No personal items at your desk. Seriously. No pictures, no comics, no promo items, nothing. Part of the reason for that is that the walls are only about four feet high, so there isn’t much room for those items. The rest of the reason… well, take a look at more rules.

Rule #2: No eating or drinking at your desk. Anyone who’s ever seen me at work knows that this will be an issue for me. I have a 40 ounce mug for water that I fill up and drink 2-3 times per day. I also bring in fruits and veggies to snack on a couple times a day when I get hungry.

Rule #3: No coats at your desk. They started out having two coat closets on each floor where we’re required to put our coats. They’ve since altered this to have one smoking closet and one non-smoking closet. Thank God for small favors!

Rule #4: No speakerphones. Actually, I’m good with this one. Really good with it. As I was trying to concentrate on a project plan I was developing today, I could hear a conference call echoing on at least three phones on my floor. If you have a conference call now, you have special rooms to go into that will allow for speaker phones. Otherwise, use your headset, people!

Rule #5: Share your desk! Since I’m in the office only one day a week, I don’t have my own desk. In fact, I share my desk with two other women who also work part time from home. They both come in either one or two days a week. One comes in Mondays and Wednesdays. The other comes in Thursdays. I work Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. I generally come in on Wednesdays. Whoever the brainiac was to figure out this sharing arrangement needs to rethink this a little. I’ve heard the same issue from several other people who are (just now) starting to telecommute part time. I figure I’ll be using a touchdown cube about 90% of the time I do go to the office.

Rule #6: No personal electronics. That means no fans or heaters (a necessity in our old building, although they frequently blew various fuses). That also means no radios, which I’m ok with given the EXTREMELY open environment. Our SVPs don’t have offices. But that also means no iPods or other devices like that. When I’m trying to get into a groove at work and just want to shut out everything around me, guess what I turn to.

Rule #7: You must wear your ID badge at all times. I’m not a huge fan of this one. First, my picture on my badge is horrible – the guy was talking to me, and he got me mid-sentence. Then, they apparently didn’t make the images the right proportion, so instead of cropping, they stretched the photos vertically as evidenced by all the badges I’ve seen so far. Essentially, my badge photo looks like The Scream except that my mouth is somehow closed. Plus, we have to scan in and scan out to get the doors to open for us. Either security is competent or it isn’t, but I’m so not looking forward to wearing that badge. We’ll see how much it’s enforced.

Rule #8: No cash. If you want to buy something in the cafeteria, you have to use your ID badge to preload money or connect it to a credit or debit card. Fortunately, I cook a lot and generally have leftovers (which I eat at my desk while working to get my hours in…), so I rarely go to the cafeteria, but here’s hoping no one loses their ID badge!

Anyone care to take a guess how many rules I’ll be breaking on Monday when I go in to unpack my crate and figure things out with my cube-mates? I still haven’t figured out how every job I have puts me into a smaller space.

When I graduated college and working in management consulting, I had my own office with a door. In marketing, I had one of the big cubes with a curvy desk and two guest chairs. I moved to sales and got a smaller cube with a small desk and room for just one person. Now I’m down to a “pole cube” which means I have no chairs and a 2’x2’ pillar running through the middle of it. And yes, the space in our new office is somehow smaller.

As for now, I’m taking the parking sticker off my car and my old ID badge and trashing them (here’s hoping that’s not breaking any rules!). Anyone want to guess how far I go on my old way to work before I remember I’m going to a new location?

New Neighbor? Then you must want a scone!

First off, I'll admit to using any excuse to bake. I love to bake, but I don't like eating the finished product, especially not day after day. Granted, DH and the two wee ones definitely help out, but they don't need the extra calories as often as I enjoy baking. But there are times when I can finagle ways to ahem have my cake and eat it, too.

I live in a neighborhood that's a true neighborhood. When we were looking for a house, we discovered our neighborhood fairly on in our search and decided we liked it. In fact, we liked it enough to wait a year and a half until a house we liked came on the market. Needless to say, yes, that necessitated a move back in with my parents after our previous house sold, but that's a different story.

Part of why we loved it is that it had sidewalks (unusual in this area) and whenever we drove through it, people were outside. Not only were they outside, but they were outside talking to each other, hanging out, blocking traffic to catch someone's attention, and the like. That's where I wanted to raise my kids. Heck, I even found out after moving in that we have a babysitting co-op in my neighborhood (score!).

It took us a year and a half to find our house simply because not that many go on the market. We have 119 houses in our neighborhood (yep, I'm a geek; I counted once), but on average only two to three sell annually. We've been here for a year and a half now, and I know of two houses that had sold since then, with the exception of two that just sold, ironically both on my street.

When we were moving in, we had a fairly steady stream of neighbors welcoming us, including some offering to watch our kids while we unpacked and others bearing gifts of brownies. This seemed like the normal thing to me, and I baked for the two new neighbors who had moved in since we did, as well as bringing over a list of handy phone numbers, like the doctor and dentist and vet.

I saw a week ago Friday that lights were on in the house across the street, but that the cars were not the ones of the people who used to live there. I immediately made a mental note to bake something and go introduce myself. I then promptly had a horrible week last week that included a nasty cold. It was Friday before I was healthy and sane enough to try baking. A whole week had gone by, and I was feeling pretty guilty.

I also noticed that the house at the end of the street also was now having some new cars in the driveway, but I have yet to see lights at night. Regardless, I made a double batch of my chocolate chip scones to take to each of the new families.

Friday afternoon, I trundled over with the wee ones to meet the neighbors across the street, as it was obvious they were home. DS proudly held the plate of scones, while DD rang the bell (thank GOD only once, as Grandma has taught them a fun ringing the doorbell game). As the door opened, DS greeted them with "Welcome to the neighborhood. Here are some scones for your breakstick (sic)." They kindly invited us in, and we chatted while the wee ones ran up and down the hallway. So much for the angelic first impression.

As we were talking, she thanked me profusely and said that I was the first neighbor to stop by. Now I felt really horrible. I hadn't been able to make it over for an entire week, and I was still the first one? I'm still stunned by this. I'm going through the reasons in my head.

It's been a really cold, long, yucky winter. No one wants to be outside if they don't have to, so walking over to meet new people is really more of a summer thing than a winter one. But then I think back to the last time I was shoveling snow. Three neighbors stopped while in their cars to talk about the horrible winter. Hmmm.

The previous neighbors really kept to themselves, so maybe no one noticed that there were new people there. I'll admit to having never met the people across the street, which is particularly sad after reading the first part of this post. In all actuality, I rarely saw them coming or going or working outside. I never saw a moving truck when they left, just noticed that the real estate sign was no longer in the yard. But even with the previous owners having been private people, it has been pretty hard to miss the multiple vehicles and constant lights on in the house since the new neighbors moved in.

The answer I came back to is that maybe greeting new neighbors isn't all that common. Maybe when we moved in, we were blessed by a confluence of circumstances. DH is a teacher, so people recognized him. It was the beginning of summer, and everyone was outside. We have two small children, so we were visible outside playing, particularly to other families with children. The previous owners of our house had been very social and well-known in the neighborhood, so people wanted to see who was taking their place.

I think we were lucky. But that thought alone depresses me. Why is it so unusual to welcome people new to your universe, be it work or school or neighborhood? My intention that I at least welcome all new neighbors has only strengthened after reflecting on this. The new neighbor was so grateful that someone thought of her and that someone was welcoming her. We ended up chatting probably 20 or 30 minutes.

What do you do when you have people who move into your area? Do you have any traditions in your neighborhood or anything you do yourself?

With that thought, I'm packing up the rest of the scones to go knock on the door of the neighbors at the end of the block, and hopefully they'll be there. Honest and truly!