Friends Only
This journal is friends only. Please comment on this entry to be added. This doesn't apply to those of you who are already on my friends (check your friends' list if you're not sure).
Thanks!
Thanks!
I'm back...
... taking a chance on Second Chance Idol...
Goodbye... for now
Unfortunately, i will need to bow out of the competition for now. Life is just way too busy at the moment, and I am just not able to produce the work worthy of this competition. If things slow down and there is a Second Chance at some point, I'll be back.
Best of luck to all remaining competitors.
Best of luck to all remaining competitors.
Everything looks like a nail
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve been really hard on my feet. Played all kinds of sports, but figure skating was particularly hard, especially since I rarely wore socks or stockings. My callouses had callouses, and for years afterwards, I had scars from the cuts my feet would get from being in hard skate boots unprotected for hours on end.
I’m sure you all know that callouses are generally white or off white, but - fun fact – did you know that callouses are white or off white regardless of what colour your actual skin is? As a woman of colour, I can tell you that the contrast between the colour of my big toe and the callous right next to it is not cute. Add to that the fact that my callouses feel like a combination of broken glass and dragon’s skin, and my feet are the stuff of nightmares.
This is why I am eternally grateful to Manon and Stephanie, my estheticians. Among other things, they give the best pedicures in town. And the never complain about the state of my feet either. I’m still really rough with my feet – I play softball 2-4 times a week or more for 6 months of the year, have dance rehearsals for 1-3 hours at a time several times a week, plus wear high heels on occasion. Whenever I see Manon or Stef, I make sure my feet are clean, but I can’t do much more than that – I’m only human after all. But after an hour with them, I’ve had a leg and foot rub, and all those hard spots have been miraculously softened. Add some bright nail polish, and my feet are gorgeous!
Manon and Stef do manicures as well, but those aren’t as great for me, so I don’t do them very often. First of all, my hands are much prettier than my feet in their natural states – if I take my gloves off, I don’t scare off small children, whereas the same can’t be said if I take off my shoes and socks. When you’re getting a manicure, you can’t do anything besides stare at the wall, your hands, or the esthetician, and I feel awkward. While getting my feet pampered, I can read a book, or take a nap, or talk to the person taking care of me if I’m so inclined. Besides, there really is no point in putting colour on my fingers – within a couple of days, I’ve chipped or picked at my nails, making them look worse than before. I can’t reach my feet to absentmindedly pick at the polish or anything, so they stay pristine for a few weeks.
If money were no object, I would get a pedicure every two weeks at least, because that about how long it takes for my activities to counter the effects of all of Manon or Stef’s work. But it is, so in the summer, when my feet are exposed, I make it a point to go at least monthly, and in the winter, I make sure I go before I head south for vacation. Otherwise, I wear socks, and hope for the best.
I’m sure you all know that callouses are generally white or off white, but - fun fact – did you know that callouses are white or off white regardless of what colour your actual skin is? As a woman of colour, I can tell you that the contrast between the colour of my big toe and the callous right next to it is not cute. Add to that the fact that my callouses feel like a combination of broken glass and dragon’s skin, and my feet are the stuff of nightmares.
This is why I am eternally grateful to Manon and Stephanie, my estheticians. Among other things, they give the best pedicures in town. And the never complain about the state of my feet either. I’m still really rough with my feet – I play softball 2-4 times a week or more for 6 months of the year, have dance rehearsals for 1-3 hours at a time several times a week, plus wear high heels on occasion. Whenever I see Manon or Stef, I make sure my feet are clean, but I can’t do much more than that – I’m only human after all. But after an hour with them, I’ve had a leg and foot rub, and all those hard spots have been miraculously softened. Add some bright nail polish, and my feet are gorgeous!
Manon and Stef do manicures as well, but those aren’t as great for me, so I don’t do them very often. First of all, my hands are much prettier than my feet in their natural states – if I take my gloves off, I don’t scare off small children, whereas the same can’t be said if I take off my shoes and socks. When you’re getting a manicure, you can’t do anything besides stare at the wall, your hands, or the esthetician, and I feel awkward. While getting my feet pampered, I can read a book, or take a nap, or talk to the person taking care of me if I’m so inclined. Besides, there really is no point in putting colour on my fingers – within a couple of days, I’ve chipped or picked at my nails, making them look worse than before. I can’t reach my feet to absentmindedly pick at the polish or anything, so they stay pristine for a few weeks.
If money were no object, I would get a pedicure every two weeks at least, because that about how long it takes for my activities to counter the effects of all of Manon or Stef’s work. But it is, so in the summer, when my feet are exposed, I make it a point to go at least monthly, and in the winter, I make sure I go before I head south for vacation. Otherwise, I wear socks, and hope for the best.
Resolution
This summer, I auditioned for a new theatre company. I was cast as one of five roles in a show coming up in mid-November. It’s both the smallest cast I’ve ever been part of and the largest role I’ve ever had. It’s kind of overwhelming, but it’s not stressing me out too much.
It’s a musical, so I’ve had to learn how to tap dance. It’s not easy, but I’m a dancer, so I can fake it pretty well. I am practicing and getting better every day, and I’m confident I’ll have it down pat in the next six weeks, so that’s not stressing me out too much either.
The amount of time we have to rehearse prior to opening night is much less than any other show I’ve been in. For other shows, we started rehearsing in September for a show happening in late April – that’s almost seven months! For this show, we were rehearsing once a week in August, then amped it to three times a week after Labour Day until show time. That’s only about fourteen weeks, including the once a week in August – less than half the amount of rehearsal time I’m used to. My husband, a former professional actor, tells me that his company would only rehearse for six weeks before putting on a show. So apparently the amount of time we have is an immense gift! With this knowledge, I’m sure we’ll pull off a great show, so I’m not really stressing out about that either.
But do you want to know what I AM stressed about? My headshot. My stupid freakin’ headshot.
I’m not a professional, so I have never had professional headshots done. Until last year, I was never required to have one – all of my prior shows had a program where they had group shots only. Back in March 2018, I went through a similar panic when I discovered I needed one. I pored through all of my Facebook pictures, looking for something appropriate – and I found it! It was originally a picture of my friend K and me posing together in the dressing room before our show. Since it was pre-show, our makeup was perfect, and our hair had not yet been messed up from dancing. We both looked super cute. There were a few loose items in the background, but they could easily be cropped out. Best of all, K and I were close, but not actually touching, so I could crop her out without giving myself a dented head or extra eye. I did it, used the black and white filter, and voila! I had a gorgeous headshot that looks like me, but somehow better. Perfect! It became my go-to. In both 2018 and this past spring, it was posted in the venue at Front of House with my name under it so everyone knew who I was. When this new production asked for a headshot, I immediately sent this one.
The photographer sent me an email back saying that unfortunately this picture was only 30kb, and he needed about 2MB in order to properly blow it up to an 8x10. I was literally devasted. Look, I’m not an extraordinarily vain woman. I don’t think I’m a monster, nor do I think I’m the most beautiful thing to ever grace God’s green earth. I’m fairly photogenic, but I’m very particular about what photos I want used to represent me. In this show, I’m playing a NUN for crying out loud - I won’t look like myself! Front of House photos are the audience’s first impression of us, so it’s pretty important to me that I have a good photo! I am one of those people who take 15 shots to get the perfect one. The photographer offered to take my headshot for me next Sunday before rehearsal, but it will be the day after a very large, late party, and I will not look my best. Nor will I want to spend the time applying makeup and fixing my hair so that I can try (and FAIL) to look my best. And I’m fairly certain he won’t let me look at every picture and retake them until I’m satisfied… spoiler alert, I’m NEVER satisfied!
These people don’t know me very well, and as such, I am just under the assumption that they will judge me, so I need to present myself as perfect. The night before the photo session, I have a very fancy party to go to, where I will be dressed up with full makeup and nice hair. I think I’m going to be standing in front of a plain hotel wall taking some selfies from the neck up, or making my husband take some shots of me… and that’s what these people will have to use if they aren’t able to somehow magically make my dream headshot work for their front of house. Are they still going to judge me? You betcha – but at least if it’s a picture of MY choosing, I’ll still feel cute!
It’s a musical, so I’ve had to learn how to tap dance. It’s not easy, but I’m a dancer, so I can fake it pretty well. I am practicing and getting better every day, and I’m confident I’ll have it down pat in the next six weeks, so that’s not stressing me out too much either.
The amount of time we have to rehearse prior to opening night is much less than any other show I’ve been in. For other shows, we started rehearsing in September for a show happening in late April – that’s almost seven months! For this show, we were rehearsing once a week in August, then amped it to three times a week after Labour Day until show time. That’s only about fourteen weeks, including the once a week in August – less than half the amount of rehearsal time I’m used to. My husband, a former professional actor, tells me that his company would only rehearse for six weeks before putting on a show. So apparently the amount of time we have is an immense gift! With this knowledge, I’m sure we’ll pull off a great show, so I’m not really stressing out about that either.
But do you want to know what I AM stressed about? My headshot. My stupid freakin’ headshot.
I’m not a professional, so I have never had professional headshots done. Until last year, I was never required to have one – all of my prior shows had a program where they had group shots only. Back in March 2018, I went through a similar panic when I discovered I needed one. I pored through all of my Facebook pictures, looking for something appropriate – and I found it! It was originally a picture of my friend K and me posing together in the dressing room before our show. Since it was pre-show, our makeup was perfect, and our hair had not yet been messed up from dancing. We both looked super cute. There were a few loose items in the background, but they could easily be cropped out. Best of all, K and I were close, but not actually touching, so I could crop her out without giving myself a dented head or extra eye. I did it, used the black and white filter, and voila! I had a gorgeous headshot that looks like me, but somehow better. Perfect! It became my go-to. In both 2018 and this past spring, it was posted in the venue at Front of House with my name under it so everyone knew who I was. When this new production asked for a headshot, I immediately sent this one.
The photographer sent me an email back saying that unfortunately this picture was only 30kb, and he needed about 2MB in order to properly blow it up to an 8x10. I was literally devasted. Look, I’m not an extraordinarily vain woman. I don’t think I’m a monster, nor do I think I’m the most beautiful thing to ever grace God’s green earth. I’m fairly photogenic, but I’m very particular about what photos I want used to represent me. In this show, I’m playing a NUN for crying out loud - I won’t look like myself! Front of House photos are the audience’s first impression of us, so it’s pretty important to me that I have a good photo! I am one of those people who take 15 shots to get the perfect one. The photographer offered to take my headshot for me next Sunday before rehearsal, but it will be the day after a very large, late party, and I will not look my best. Nor will I want to spend the time applying makeup and fixing my hair so that I can try (and FAIL) to look my best. And I’m fairly certain he won’t let me look at every picture and retake them until I’m satisfied… spoiler alert, I’m NEVER satisfied!
These people don’t know me very well, and as such, I am just under the assumption that they will judge me, so I need to present myself as perfect. The night before the photo session, I have a very fancy party to go to, where I will be dressed up with full makeup and nice hair. I think I’m going to be standing in front of a plain hotel wall taking some selfies from the neck up, or making my husband take some shots of me… and that’s what these people will have to use if they aren’t able to somehow magically make my dream headshot work for their front of house. Are they still going to judge me? You betcha – but at least if it’s a picture of MY choosing, I’ll still feel cute!
hello!
If anyone asks, I will tell them that I am in general an animal lover, but I am totally a dog person. In my nearly 50 years on this earth, I have been the human sister, aunt or mommy to Sniffy, Sheba, Sasha, Sidney, Buddy, and Jessie. My sister has had a couple of cats over the years, but although they were cute, I never trusted them. They were sneaky little fuckers.
( This is KikiCollapse )
This is Kiki. She's one of the three cats we inherited when my mom passed away last October. The other two are named Koko and Kahuna... don't blame me, my mom named them. Growing up she knew two cats named Kiki and Koko, and when my dad passed and she decided to get some pets for company, she was determined to use those names. When she ended up with three instead of two (which is a story for another time), she wanted to keep the name alliteration, and the Big Kahuna was one of Dad's nicknames, so Kahuna became the obvious choice for the lone male.
Anyway. So yeah - I'm a cat mommy now. I never knew how obsessed I would become with these creatures. I don't know if it's because I'm used to big dogs - 70+ pounds for all the ones listed above - or what, but I find these guys teeny tiny. Kahuna is the biggest, and if he weighs seven pounds, I'd be surprised. They lie on or around me pretty much anytime I'm at home. They don't care if I'm working, they'll sit on my keyboard or in front of my monitor. When they feel especially loving, it feels as though they are trying to burrow right into my soul.
Have I mentioned that I'm allergic to cats? Not die from an asthma attack kind of allergic, but it's not pleasant. I have hives, I'm often sneezing and congested, but I don't care! I mean how am I supposed to resist this?
( #2 and 3Collapse )
I've become THAT woman. I don't talk about my cats (much), but I am constantly surprised by how freakin' ADORABLE they are! I think I have about two hundred pictures of them on my phone. Do I still think they are sneaky fuckers? One hundred percent! And I'm still "meh" about all the other cats that exist. I remain always and forever a "dog" person... but my little kitties have captured my heart forever.
( This is KikiCollapse )
This is Kiki. She's one of the three cats we inherited when my mom passed away last October. The other two are named Koko and Kahuna... don't blame me, my mom named them. Growing up she knew two cats named Kiki and Koko, and when my dad passed and she decided to get some pets for company, she was determined to use those names. When she ended up with three instead of two (which is a story for another time), she wanted to keep the name alliteration, and the Big Kahuna was one of Dad's nicknames, so Kahuna became the obvious choice for the lone male.
Anyway. So yeah - I'm a cat mommy now. I never knew how obsessed I would become with these creatures. I don't know if it's because I'm used to big dogs - 70+ pounds for all the ones listed above - or what, but I find these guys teeny tiny. Kahuna is the biggest, and if he weighs seven pounds, I'd be surprised. They lie on or around me pretty much anytime I'm at home. They don't care if I'm working, they'll sit on my keyboard or in front of my monitor. When they feel especially loving, it feels as though they are trying to burrow right into my soul.
Have I mentioned that I'm allergic to cats? Not die from an asthma attack kind of allergic, but it's not pleasant. I have hives, I'm often sneezing and congested, but I don't care! I mean how am I supposed to resist this?
( #2 and 3Collapse )
I've become THAT woman. I don't talk about my cats (much), but I am constantly surprised by how freakin' ADORABLE they are! I think I have about two hundred pictures of them on my phone. Do I still think they are sneaky fuckers? One hundred percent! And I'm still "meh" about all the other cats that exist. I remain always and forever a "dog" person... but my little kitties have captured my heart forever.
am I too late?
I'd like to participate in season 11 of Idol if it's not too late!
Sucker Punch
On Tuesday night, as I was getting ready to go to bed, I noticed that there was a message on Facebook on my iPad. I have Messenger installed on my phone, and my phone is with me all day long, so I knew it was not from one of my friends. I opened it up. It appeared to be a message from my ex sister-in-law. It was somewhat cryptic – she addressed me by my full first name (something she never did in the years that I knew her), and she asked me to call her.
I’m kind of suspicious by nature. My ex and I split up about eighteen years ago, and since that time, I have never heard a peep from any of his siblings. Why would one of them be reaching out to me now? I figured it was spam with some sort of nasty virus intent, so instead of answering the message, I looked her up on Facebook. I figured there would be a picture of her – or someone – and I would be able to see if at least it was really her before replying.
If you’re not friends with somebody on Facebook, you can’t see a lot of what they post if their profile isn’t public. So when I went her page, I immediately saw a post from that morning. It was a link to an obituary… an obituary with my ex-husband’s name on it. I couldn’t bring myself to click on it, so I scrolled down a bit more on her page. The next entry I could see was dated December 6 at 8:10PM. It said:
It is with a million broken pieces of my heart that I let you know my brother, my dearest friend is no longer with us. **my ex’s name** passed away early this morning following a massive heart attack on the highway. I cannot find the words to explain just how numb we all are at this time. We are here with his wife & children & will provide an update on arrangements once made
Um, what? My ex-husband is dead? That can’t be possible! He’s only 51 years old!
I scrolled back up to the obituary link and clicked on it. The page opened to a full colour picture of him. It was undoubtedly my ex-husband.
All thoughts of sleep left me. I didn’t know what to do, how to react. Shock was a given, but was I allowed to feel sad? My last contact with him had been via email to let him know my dad passed in the summer of 2014. After some incidents between us about 5 years before that, I blocked him on all social media, blocked his number from my phone, and didn’t let him know where I moved or where I was now working. When my mom passed in October, I felt he should know, but didn’t want to reach out to him directly, so I asked a mutual friend to pass on the message. The next day, he sent me a Facebook friend request, but I deleted it – did that mean I had given up my right to feel grief? I loved him passionately once upon a time, but did that matter? I also hated him passionately once upon a time as well. Both of those extreme feelings faded with time. His partner – the mother of his 2 sons – did not like me at all, and didn’t want him to have any contact with me, which is why, when my hatred receded, I never reached out. Now I will never be able to.
The funeral isn’t until next Friday, the 21st, and I would like to pay my respects and offer my condolences to the family I was once part of. My husband even offered to come with me for support – he understands that my wanting to go to my ex’s funeral is no reflection of my feelings for him. But, in speaking with my ex sister-in-law, although she would be fine with it, she didn’t think his partner would. And I can understand that, I guess. It’s not about me. I guess I will have to find my own way to say goodbye.
In the 72 hours since I learned of my ex’s sudden passing, thoughts of him have never been far from the surface. And every time I think of it, it takes my breath away. According to his sister, he had no health problems, didn’t smoke, and was fine the day before. He was gone by the time the family got to the hospital. I can’t wrap my brain around it. FIFTY ONE YEARS OLD. That is crazy.
I’m kind of suspicious by nature. My ex and I split up about eighteen years ago, and since that time, I have never heard a peep from any of his siblings. Why would one of them be reaching out to me now? I figured it was spam with some sort of nasty virus intent, so instead of answering the message, I looked her up on Facebook. I figured there would be a picture of her – or someone – and I would be able to see if at least it was really her before replying.
If you’re not friends with somebody on Facebook, you can’t see a lot of what they post if their profile isn’t public. So when I went her page, I immediately saw a post from that morning. It was a link to an obituary… an obituary with my ex-husband’s name on it. I couldn’t bring myself to click on it, so I scrolled down a bit more on her page. The next entry I could see was dated December 6 at 8:10PM. It said:
It is with a million broken pieces of my heart that I let you know my brother, my dearest friend is no longer with us. **my ex’s name** passed away early this morning following a massive heart attack on the highway. I cannot find the words to explain just how numb we all are at this time. We are here with his wife & children & will provide an update on arrangements once made
Um, what? My ex-husband is dead? That can’t be possible! He’s only 51 years old!
I scrolled back up to the obituary link and clicked on it. The page opened to a full colour picture of him. It was undoubtedly my ex-husband.
All thoughts of sleep left me. I didn’t know what to do, how to react. Shock was a given, but was I allowed to feel sad? My last contact with him had been via email to let him know my dad passed in the summer of 2014. After some incidents between us about 5 years before that, I blocked him on all social media, blocked his number from my phone, and didn’t let him know where I moved or where I was now working. When my mom passed in October, I felt he should know, but didn’t want to reach out to him directly, so I asked a mutual friend to pass on the message. The next day, he sent me a Facebook friend request, but I deleted it – did that mean I had given up my right to feel grief? I loved him passionately once upon a time, but did that matter? I also hated him passionately once upon a time as well. Both of those extreme feelings faded with time. His partner – the mother of his 2 sons – did not like me at all, and didn’t want him to have any contact with me, which is why, when my hatred receded, I never reached out. Now I will never be able to.
The funeral isn’t until next Friday, the 21st, and I would like to pay my respects and offer my condolences to the family I was once part of. My husband even offered to come with me for support – he understands that my wanting to go to my ex’s funeral is no reflection of my feelings for him. But, in speaking with my ex sister-in-law, although she would be fine with it, she didn’t think his partner would. And I can understand that, I guess. It’s not about me. I guess I will have to find my own way to say goodbye.
In the 72 hours since I learned of my ex’s sudden passing, thoughts of him have never been far from the surface. And every time I think of it, it takes my breath away. According to his sister, he had no health problems, didn’t smoke, and was fine the day before. He was gone by the time the family got to the hospital. I can’t wrap my brain around it. FIFTY ONE YEARS OLD. That is crazy.
Sprezzatura
Many of you are aware that I’ve performed in a charity show for the last 16 years or so. My main role since about 2011 has been as one of the dancers.
We were a core group of six. Over the years some have had to leave due to having babies and whatnot, and others have joined to replace them, but we honestly consider ourselves to be the original six. We are a very tight knit group, and we often hang out and do things that are not at all related to dance. Unless you’re very unlucky, that’s going to happen when you spend hours every week, for months on end, sweating into each other’s personal space.
If you’ve ever seen any type of Vegas or Broadway style dance show, you know that it looks effortless and beautiful. Everyone looks cool and collected, poised and sexy.
If you’ve ever performed or worked backstage during a production like this, you know that it’s just an illusion. Backstage is generally chaos – people rushing around to change, fix their makeup, find a missing prop. As a group, we’ve had to finish a number, wait for the lights to black out so that we can dash offstage, run the 500 feet or more (and sometimes there were stairs) to the changing area, strip off hair accessories, jewelry, a top, a bottom, tights, and shoes, put on different hair accessories, jewelry, tops, bottoms, tights, and shoes and run the 500 feet back to be ready for the next number in less time than it takes for the band to play a song. We’re talking an average of four minutes or less. Calm, cool and collected? Most definitely not.
You’d never know it looking up at us from the audience, though. From a distance, the sheen of sweat looks like we added some sparkles to our faces. The hole we ripped in our tights trying to pull them on so quickly becomes invisible when the bright theatre lights blaze down. The safety pins holding our straps onto our shoes look like a pretty buckle. Our smiles betray nothing.
Given that we are a charity group and not a Broadway show, we don’t have an unlimited costume budget. Sometimes we reuse old costumes, costumes that were worn long before we became part of the group. And the former dancers were not as varied in size as we are, which means that sometimes, someone of my size – five foot eight, size 9-ish – has to squeeze into a costume originally made for a dancer who stood five four and wore size 6. Thank goodness for spandex.
Polyester is also our friend due to its durability, but it doesn’t breathe. When you’re sweaty and trying to do a quick change, polyester sticks. It’s a good thing the six of us are close, because we often had to help each other finish getting dressed – pulling a shirt over our heads without ruining our makeup or hair, getting pants up our legs without taking off our shoes. Doing these things quickly and efficiently often involved getting up close and personal with some really intimate body parts… intimate and sweaty body parts.
During this holiday season, there are a lot of shows going on – the local ballet company’s production of The Nutcracker, a school play, or a concert at church. If you’re lucky enough to see any of the productions, you will probably be wowed by the beauty of it all. You’ll notice how cute everyone looks up front, and how easy it seems. Don’t be fooled. I guarantee you it’s a madhouse backstage.
We were a core group of six. Over the years some have had to leave due to having babies and whatnot, and others have joined to replace them, but we honestly consider ourselves to be the original six. We are a very tight knit group, and we often hang out and do things that are not at all related to dance. Unless you’re very unlucky, that’s going to happen when you spend hours every week, for months on end, sweating into each other’s personal space.
If you’ve ever seen any type of Vegas or Broadway style dance show, you know that it looks effortless and beautiful. Everyone looks cool and collected, poised and sexy.
If you’ve ever performed or worked backstage during a production like this, you know that it’s just an illusion. Backstage is generally chaos – people rushing around to change, fix their makeup, find a missing prop. As a group, we’ve had to finish a number, wait for the lights to black out so that we can dash offstage, run the 500 feet or more (and sometimes there were stairs) to the changing area, strip off hair accessories, jewelry, a top, a bottom, tights, and shoes, put on different hair accessories, jewelry, tops, bottoms, tights, and shoes and run the 500 feet back to be ready for the next number in less time than it takes for the band to play a song. We’re talking an average of four minutes or less. Calm, cool and collected? Most definitely not.
You’d never know it looking up at us from the audience, though. From a distance, the sheen of sweat looks like we added some sparkles to our faces. The hole we ripped in our tights trying to pull them on so quickly becomes invisible when the bright theatre lights blaze down. The safety pins holding our straps onto our shoes look like a pretty buckle. Our smiles betray nothing.
Given that we are a charity group and not a Broadway show, we don’t have an unlimited costume budget. Sometimes we reuse old costumes, costumes that were worn long before we became part of the group. And the former dancers were not as varied in size as we are, which means that sometimes, someone of my size – five foot eight, size 9-ish – has to squeeze into a costume originally made for a dancer who stood five four and wore size 6. Thank goodness for spandex.
Polyester is also our friend due to its durability, but it doesn’t breathe. When you’re sweaty and trying to do a quick change, polyester sticks. It’s a good thing the six of us are close, because we often had to help each other finish getting dressed – pulling a shirt over our heads without ruining our makeup or hair, getting pants up our legs without taking off our shoes. Doing these things quickly and efficiently often involved getting up close and personal with some really intimate body parts… intimate and sweaty body parts.
During this holiday season, there are a lot of shows going on – the local ballet company’s production of The Nutcracker, a school play, or a concert at church. If you’re lucky enough to see any of the productions, you will probably be wowed by the beauty of it all. You’ll notice how cute everyone looks up front, and how easy it seems. Don’t be fooled. I guarantee you it’s a madhouse backstage.
Steadfast
I don’t wat to brag, but I’m a pretty great tenant. Some might say, a dream tenant. Ok, maybe I want to brag a little, but it’s true! Rent is always paid, in full and on time, every month without issue. No pets. Never have parties. Full time job and loaded activity calendar, so rarely home to be noisy. Take care of any minor repairs ourselves, and if it’s something beyond our scope, we are always very polite to the landlord. In fact, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that if there was an awards night for great tenants, we’d be invited every year. I’d wear a sparkling gown and my husband would look snazzy in a tux as we walk the red carpet and pose for a multitude of photos… reporters calling my name and shouting out “Darling, you look fabulous! Who are you wearing?”…
Erm, uh… what was I talking about? Oh, right, my self-declared title of “Super Tenant”…
All kidding aside, I do have a reason for sharing this information with you. When my mom passed, I inherited her house. Unfortunately, it’s not paid off, as my parents only moved in a little over 5 years ago.
We have always wanted to be home owners, but we planned on making that leap when we were ready, not when circumstances thrust it upon us suddenly. Our current lease is until June 30, 2019. Technically, unless we pack up all our stuff and do a runner in the dead of night, we are supposed to pay rent until then. Given that the new house is literally a two minute drive away and that to get from virtually anywhere to our old place you have to pass directly by our new place, I’m pretty sure the landlord would find us pretty quickly anyway. So we are left on the hook to pay rent AND a mortgage for the next seven months.
Or are we?
Being reliable has its advantages. Our landlord understands our situation, and given that we have not caused him a lick of trouble in the 6+ years we’ve been here, he’s letting us out of our lease early. We need some time to pack up two homes and get them arranged, but we certainly don’t need seven months. In six or seven weeks, we can be settled in. That’s only the end of January, and although it will be tight, we can cover two months of double paying.
For some, being steady and reliable can seem a bit boring. Hell, even for me, it’s sometimes boring – who wants to be responsible ALL the time?? But in the end, it paid off for us. In the midst of all this recent sadness in my life, it’s provided a bright spot.
Erm, uh… what was I talking about? Oh, right, my self-declared title of “Super Tenant”…
All kidding aside, I do have a reason for sharing this information with you. When my mom passed, I inherited her house. Unfortunately, it’s not paid off, as my parents only moved in a little over 5 years ago.
We have always wanted to be home owners, but we planned on making that leap when we were ready, not when circumstances thrust it upon us suddenly. Our current lease is until June 30, 2019. Technically, unless we pack up all our stuff and do a runner in the dead of night, we are supposed to pay rent until then. Given that the new house is literally a two minute drive away and that to get from virtually anywhere to our old place you have to pass directly by our new place, I’m pretty sure the landlord would find us pretty quickly anyway. So we are left on the hook to pay rent AND a mortgage for the next seven months.
Or are we?
Being reliable has its advantages. Our landlord understands our situation, and given that we have not caused him a lick of trouble in the 6+ years we’ve been here, he’s letting us out of our lease early. We need some time to pack up two homes and get them arranged, but we certainly don’t need seven months. In six or seven weeks, we can be settled in. That’s only the end of January, and although it will be tight, we can cover two months of double paying.
For some, being steady and reliable can seem a bit boring. Hell, even for me, it’s sometimes boring – who wants to be responsible ALL the time?? But in the end, it paid off for us. In the midst of all this recent sadness in my life, it’s provided a bright spot.