Category: Home Life

Just in Time

On April 1, 2010

I run late. Because of this I know all the best ways to get somewhere fast. Because of this I try to tell my husband where to go.

Last night we saw a documentary about the architect, John Lautner. I was at my daughter’s track meet and just as I was leaving to get home in time to go, another mom showed up, Eileen, whose mother had invited me to go to New York with her. I hate flying, so I was trying to find a way to get out of it nicely. “What’s with your mom wanting to go to New York?” I said.

“It’s the craziest thing. She’s decided to do this whirlwind trip. She just got over breaking her foot. We’re beside ourselves.”

“She asked me to go with her,” I said, “But I’m not too thrilled about it.”

“You’re off the hook. She found someone else.”

That was great news! Then I was ready to get up and leave, honest, when Gina said, “What do you know about Father Tom?”

I’d forgotten about him. He’s our priest, or he was until a couple of weeks ago when he up and quit. He wrote the whole parish to tell us he couldn’t take the celibate lifestyle. I can’t blame him. He’s a nice looking guy, very athletic, lots of personality. But of course we’re all curious what’s going on and if there’s a special someone.

“Well, I don’t know anything in particular except,” Eileen says. There was no way I was going to leave then.

“Except what?” we asked.

“Except that he’s a nice guy who’s probably interested in someone, don’t you think?”

“It’s hard to say,” I said. “Are you sure he didn’t say anything to your mom.”

“Well, if he did, she’s not telling. But she thinks he’s got a girlfriend.”

“Why does she think that?” Gina asked.

We speculated for a while, and then I remembered. “Holy crap, I’ve got to go!”

I arrived home ten minutes later than the agreed upon time.

“We might as well not go,” my husband said. “With the traffic and parking, I’d just as soon not bother.”

“It will be fine,” I said. “Let’s go.”

“You know it’s pretty selfish of you to be late.”

I didn’t even bother telling him I got off the hook for New York. We got in the car and got downtown pretty quickly, except he missed the exit. “Why didn’t you take 6^th?” I said. “Where are you going?”

“To 12^th.”

“12^th?” I said with the tone of voice that says, “Are you that stupid?”

He didn’t answer. He’d been pouting the whole way. We eventually got to 12^th, then he started making turns and saying, “I think I turn left here.”

“Why did you take 12^th? 6^th is a straight shot? Turn right here.”

He kept going straight. We got to the Art Museum and got a great parking spot. He started down toward the pay station. “You don’t have to pay, it’s 7:00.”

He kept walking. He tried to put his credit card in and it wouldn’t work. He turned it over.

“It won’t take the card because it’s 7:00 and pay to park ends at 7:00.” He still kept trying. I walked over there and showed him the sign on the pay station. “Pay to park 6 am to 7 pm.”

“I thought it was until 10:00.”

We got inside and there was a line to get tickets, and one of the ticket machines wasn’t working so it was moving slow. Our friend came out looking for us and led us in to where the others were sitting. We exchanged pleasantries.

“We were on Suzanne’s time.”

“But we got here on time,” I protested.

“I still think it was pretty selfish.”

“But we got here on time. The movie hasn’t even started.”

Just then the lights went out and the movie started. All in all, it was a most satisfying evening. I did not give directions on how to get home, though I sure wanted to.

Rainy Day Hooray

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 28, 2010

In Home Life

We get a lot of rain in Oregon. Right now it’s pounding on the roof like a million squirrels are doing aerobics up there. I went into the laundry room and found water on the floor. This happens for three reasons: the toilet has overflowed, the trap in the washer is full of rusty coins, or the gutter outside is clogged up.

I don’t know how I became Little Miss Fixit in my house. Well, actually, I do. I have to do it because my husband says, “Aw, screw it.” He doesn’t actually say that, but it rhymed.

What he says is to remind him tomorrow and he’ll fix it. “I’m reminding you right now,” I say. “I’m watching this show right now. It will keep until tomorrow.” When tomorrow comes, I say, “You told me to remind you to clean the gutters out.”

“I said to remind me tomorrow,” he answers.

“But it is tomorrow,” I say.

“It’s actually today,” he says. “It will keep until tomorrow.”

He thinks he’s clever. When I strap on the tool belt he turns the TV up higher so my hammering and drilling won’t disturb his show.

This evening, after I mopped up the water, I got the screwdriver and took the washer apart. I hate checking that trap because it’s got this very complicated clamp that frightens me. I worry I won’t get it back on the hose right and water will spray out like a fire hydrant. The washer was fine.

Then I checked the gutter and sure enough, it was full of pine needles. Thank goodness – that’s easy to fix. Whenever it rains hard, which used to be perpetually, the gutters get clogged and overflow, forming a puddle that finds its way into our laundry room.

I like the rain, though. It’s a good excuse to sit inside and read a book or play on the computer without feeling guilty. We’ve had the most awful run of sunshine in Oregon this winter, though. Usually we can count on steady rain from Halloween to the 4^th of July, with the exception of a couple of weeks of sun in January, and maybe a day or two scattered here and there, but that’s it. Nobody uses umbrellas here when it rains, but I’ve seen people carrying them to get some shade.

I guess I’ve got the opposite of the rainy day blues. What would that be, I wonder. Rainy day reds?

I can hear the frogs down at my neighbor’s house croaking their delight. Well, they croak for no reason all through the evening. And they don’t actually croak. They ribbit. There are so many – hundreds of them – that you can hear them over the TV with all the doors and windows shut. Still, they seem to ribbit more when it’s raining. People come over and can’t believe how loud they are. It’s like a frog rock concert. I’m going to go now and let the rain and the frogs lull me to sleep – they almost drown out my husband’s snoring. Almost.

Useless Additions

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 15, 2010

In Home Life

I saw someone’s house the other day that had a big second-floor deck that looked right onto the street and directly into their neighbor’s house. Who would go out on such a deck? I guess if you wanted to smoke, maybe, but are you going to sit out there and stare down into the front window of your neighbor? Seems like the person would go downstairs where there was a fenced yard and hang out in private. The only reason I could see for that deck was a builder thought it would be a good selling point, “And here’s a deck right off the master bedroom!”

Earth Day is bound to be coming up sometime in the future, and everyone is always talking about ways we can conserve or live more sensibly. Someone needs to inform builders and homebuyers that they really don’t need a lot of this useless window dressing.

Like fireplaces. What a waste. They’re messy, practically worthless for actually heating anything, and most of them don’t ever get used. You know why? Because they smoke like a…chimney. Light one up and you get a smoke streak on the wall above the fireplace. When we bought the house we’re in now, the bricks surrounding the fireplace had been painted white, and they were so streaked it looked like black sunrays.

And why do we need all those extra rooms? I’ll tell you. Because most of us have so much junk we have to have separate rooms for everything – a sewing room for our hobbies, entertainment room to fit a wall-sized TV, exercise room to collect spider webs, mudroom to hang coats and keep mud out of the entry room, and a bonus room to stick our children so they don’t bother us. Remember old timey shows like Happy Days where families hung out TOGETHER in the living room? They watched the same shows on a little box of a TV and enjoyed the shows as much as we do today. Maybe more, because today it’s embarrassing to watch TV with your children in the same room. Even if you’re watching a G rated show, the commercials are often R rated. Drives me nuts.

And since when does everyone need their own bathrooms? I remember growing up and having only one. Someone was always banging on the door wanting in. One of my best friends had eight people in her house, with only one bathroom. Today everyone has their own, or only has to share with one other person. Our friends have a vacation home with six bedrooms and six bathrooms. The house sits empty most of the time, or just the two of them go over for a couple of days here and there. There must be hundreds of dead trees sawed up to make that house.

I wonder how many kids these days have missed out on the experience of shifting from one leg to the other, trying to hold it while they wait for the bathroom door to open.

I remember my dad had radar for whenever we went in the bathroom. I barely got the door shut he started pounding on the door needing to get in. “Hurry up and get out of there,” he said every single time. My husband is like that, too. I think it’s a guy thing. They don’t want to have to share their throne.

I also remember little turf wars with my brother when I’d take extra time to get something done in there out of spite. He did the same thing to me. My kids do this too – brings back good memories to hear them screaming at each other and pounding on the door.

So in honor of Earth Day, whenever it might be, I hope you will reconsider trying to have it all and keep up with the trends, and the Joneses. Many of the things I thought I needed in life weren’t necessary after all – like boots that I rarely wear, towels I only have out for decoration, my children. Just kidding on that last one.

The thing about life is, it isn’t about things. I just made that up – profound, huh?

If You Don’t Relish It, Embellish It

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 10, 2010

In Home Life, Relationships

I think grownups live pretty dull lives. I’ve deduced this from my own experience, but also from talking to a lot of other people who pretty much have one common experience in their lives – complaining.

If grownups work, they complain about their bosses or co-workers. If they love everyone at work, they complain about the hours or the working conditions.

If grownups don’t work, they complain about their families, what’s on TV, being bored, or not having enough time.

Spouse bashing is a great way to complain. The husband/wife never seems to do things the way we’d want them to, so there is plenty of material.

I was in a great mood Tuesday morning and met my friend to walk. She started in about her daughter not calling home from college, then moved to complaining about her husband, and then to griping about work. I’ve got to give her credit, she covered all the main areas of discontent in a short amount of time.

I pointed this out to her, and we decided that our lives are so dull there’s really nothing but complaints to talk about. We’re not riding around in limos meeting famous people, going to swank parties, or jetting off to tropical places very often. Our lives are full of house cleaning, working, taking care of our families, and trying to attend to assorted volunteer and parental duties that suck time like a Hoover. When we share these experiences with others, it usually sounds like we’re complaining.

Last night at the open mike show I went to, the comediennes were moms talking about their lives with kids. It was hilarious stuff. One woman said she got a spa vacation recently. She had to get her gall bladder taken out, which was the only down side, but she got to stay in bed two days, watch TV and read while other people brought her food and cleared away the dishes. I kindof envied her.

Another said that when kids get lost in department stores there’s no need to worry. All the mom has to do is go into a bathroom and the kid will be there in five seconds pounding on the door.

Their stories were based on the most mundane, dull lives. Picking up clothes off the floor, replacing toilet paper on holders that disappears in less than 24 hours – who uses that much toilet paper? Losing one sock in the wash, finding things growing in refrigerators, breaking up fights among kids, scrubbing rings out of bathtubs and collars – this is the world of grownups.

Teens and 20 something’s have such exciting lives to talk about. Someone is always breaking up or getting together. There are meetings in bars, and what crazy things people did when they drank too much. Grownups just get stupid when they’re drunk – slurring and slouching and staggering. They don’t dance on tables or whoop and holler. Teens sleep at each other’s houses and talk about all their mutual friends who are also doing very fun things – this is why teenage girls never shut up, and why they’re texting every second of the day. They have news to tell and gossip to keep up on.

I think I’m going to have to start making stuff up if I want to reduce my complaining. Problem is, I’ve gotten so used to griping that I don’t know where I’d begin to get the material. I mean, what am I going to say, that my husband suddenly has turned into Brad Pitt, and my children have decided I am an interesting and smart person they’d like to spend time with? That I’ve hired a maid and cook so I now spend all my time shopping with my Hollywood friends who fly up to Portland every weekend just to be with me?

Actually, I’m liking the sound of this. I’ll make up an interesting life full of interesting activites and people to talk about. It will be good practice for when I become rich and famous, which is any day now….

Money Madness

By Suzanne Olsen

On March 3, 2010

In Home Life

It’s been raining money around here lately, or so it appears because there are coins on the floor in every room I of my house. A lot of pennies, but a surprising number of quarters are sprinkled over the carpets like confetti. Where the heck are they coming from?

I know the men in the house keep coins in their pockets, and when the pants come off, the coins come out, so I understand the coins in the bedrooms. But they are everywhere – living room, dining room. No one is taking their pants off in these rooms for the most part, that I know of.

My husband has a coin basket that he puts all his change into. When we were just starting out and money was tight, I’d fish in there for quarters to do just about everything – pay for movie tickets or buy ice cream cones. I even paid for lunches with my friends with quarters. I got a reputation – I wasn’t the bag lady, I was the quarter queen. At restaurants I’d dig out a fistful of quarters and start making little one-dollar stacks on the table to pay my part of the bill.

My son used to dig out quarters out to pay for gas or Subway sandwiches. I’ve given both kids lunch money out of that basket. Quarters have always been a big thing around here – semi-precious almost. So now I can’t understand why I walk through my house barefoot and end up with a buck fifty in change stuck to my feet.

I can’t just leave it on the floor. It’s unsightly, plus it makes so much noise when sucked up in the vacuum cleaner. And, I’m embarrassed to admit, I compulsively pick up coins because it’s supposed to bring good luck. Popeye the Sailor said, Finds a coin and picks it up and all the day you’ll have good luck.” If this is indeed true, and I have no doubt that it is, then failing to pick up a coin could only mean one thing – all the day you’ll have bad luck.

Because of Popeye, I’ve picked up dirty money since I was a child. It pains me not to pick up a coin. Seriously, I get stomach cramps, and warts start popping up on my body in odd places overnight. This is not true, but I’m positive beyond a shadow of a doubt that it would be true if I didn’t pick up every coin I pass. I’ve been in evening gowns in swank lobbies and bent down to snatch a fusty penny off the plush carpet.

I walk through my house and feel like I’m at the gym bending down, standing up, bending down, standing up as I try to get the fresh coins off the floor each day. They’re like rabbits; they’re multiplying faster than I can get to them. I’ll pick the whole house up and turn my back for a minute, and when I look around, there they are again, millions of them. It’s like something out of the Twilight Zone.

The thing I can’t figure out is why no one else wants all this money? I tell you, the whole world has just turned upside down around here. And apparently its pockets are full of change.

Interior Desperation

By Suzanne Olsen

On February 18, 2010

In Home Life

For years I’ve wanted color and pizzazz in my home, but my husband didn’t want to paint “until the kids are grown.” That was sensible, since they seem to splatter things on walls and leave fingerprints everywhere. Finally, my husband consented that it was time. Halleluia!

But what color? For help, I called my cousin, Nancy Adair, from Memphis. She’s an interior decorator whose work I’d admired for many years. I asked her if she’d come to Portland and help me choose colors and accessories for my home.

Nancy arrived six weeks later, and after exchanging a few memories and laughs, we started right to work. She faced the dining room wall of our great room, the wall I thought was my best decorating accomplishment in the whole house, and said, “Let’s start here. You need a large canvas instead of those little pictures, and something tall on the china cabinet because the ceiling is so high.”

My husband agreed. “I never liked that wall.”

I was speechless. Nancy’s gaze turned toward him and took in the living room half of the great room. “I like the pictures behind the sofa, but you need a higher sofa, a red sofa, and an end table and lamp instead of that floor lamp.”

My heart was broken. The dining room was my favorite spot in the entire house. And sure, the sofa was faded and too low, but I’d sat there reading Bernstein Bears stories to my children, illuminated by my trusty floor lamp.

That night I barely slept, worrying that Nancy would change all the things I loved.

Morning brought a new day; however, and I was gung ho to get started. Nancy was right, by George, I did need a new red sofa with a textured fabric, preferably synthetic instead of cotton so it wouldn’t fade in the sunlight.

We went to the housewares section of Fred Meyer, a mid-range department/grocery store, because I wanted to show her a bookcase I’d seen. She gave me a doubtful “maybe” on the bookcase, and then started loading items into the shopping cart: a trio of vases that were the ugliest things I’d ever seen; wicker baskets and boxes. I’m not a wicker person.

“Wicker will help bring warmth to your house,” she smiled, “and give you some texture and variety.” My chest tightened and my breathing became shallow from the anxiety attack I was having. She piled a cheap nylon area rug on top of the other junk, and we headed to the checkout counter.

“Three hundred fifty dollars worth of trash,” I moaned to myself as I handed over my credit card.

When Nancy placed the purchases around my home, I didn’t like any of them. She tried to console me. “You have to think about the whole picture,” she said. “Clients have a hard time because they only look at one piece, but decorators are thinking about the whole room – paint color, textures, the play of light. You just have to trust me.”

The next day I took her downtown to the Pearl district, home of more contemporary furnishings and accessories – my style, but mostly out of my price range. Nancy began picking out single items that I absolutely loved but cost more than the whole cartload did the day before. I felt another anxiety attack.

“It’s important to have a few things you truly love,” she said. “These are investments.” She nodded toward a $750 lamp that was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. “Put these things in perspective. Think about how much you spend at an expensive restaurant for dinner and drinks.” We bought some hand blown glass vases and a torchier lamp. I dreaded seeing my credit card statement.

We took a couple of days break to go to the beach so Nancy could enjoy the September sunshine. Both my nerves and my checkbook welcomed the interlude.

Back home, relaxed and refreshed, I was ready to tackle paint. Our kitchen, living room, dining room, and family room are all open to each other, and in those areas alone, Nancy picked out six different colors -eggplant, sage, lilac, red, gold, and white. I-yi-yi-yi-yi. Every wall had a different color. We painted swatches on the walls in semi-gloss paint. “These rich, dark colors need semi-gloss to reflect the light,” she said. “Trust me.”

My husband was against the paint color, against different colors on different walls, and especially against semi-gloss. “Eggshell white’s the only thing we need,” he grumbled. We compromised on satin paint.

Nancy’s last day was spent frantically trying to tie up loose ends. She painted (did I mention she’s also an artist?) a 3’x 4’ abstract seascape for the dining room wall. I have to admit, the large canvas does look a lot better than the wimpy little group of pictures I had there.

She put sticky notes on the walls so I’d remember what color went where. She made my bedroom look bigger by catty-cornering the bed, re-hung pictures and moved furniture to dramatize space. Finally, she switched some of my accessories around, using them to enlarge small spaces or create focal points. I began to see the whole picture, and I liked it, especially the things we’d bought at Fred Meyer. The nylon area rug was perfect with the pictures she’d moved to my entry way, and the wicker did create warmth. The ugly vases, grouped with other things, were stunning.

After Nancy left, the painters came, and you know what? I now have a warm, inviting home that makes me smile. We’ve received so many compliments, and my husband’s happy with the satin paint.

I called Nancy and told her how much I love my colorful, accessorized home.

“Well, you know, I told you all along to trust me,” she said serenely.

And all I could say was, “When can you come back and help me with the bonus room?”