It's the day before Easter and due to be the most gorgeous day of the week. J is still in bed and I am finishing up my first bowl-sized cup of tea for the morning. We are continuing our Easter tradition of fasting from sun up today until sun up tomorrow when we will celebrate the risen Christ and the true meaning of breakfast in ways that IHOP cannot imagine. I suppose telling folks about our new tradition is technically a scriptural no-no, but I am frequently torn because I would love to invite others to join us. Last year we fasted with D and April and D's friend Jamie and the feeling of solidarity and shared meaning was lovely in my mind. I enjoyed the thought that we were all experiencing the day together and yet in our own unique ways--a mini God analogy right there. And since, between J's evangelical background and my amalgamation of Catholicism and hippie-like Spiritualism we are technically in a multi-religious relationship, forming new traditions has become an important bonding/coping mechanism. I threw coping in there because I am the nostalgic one that still craves my annual fix of incense and palm fronds.
Alas.
All that being said, staying busy today is the name of the game and it's a perfect day for playing in the garden. I'd like to hunt down some pink camellias having satisfied myself that the camellias in the college boys' yard didn't die after the past year's drought and confirmed neglect. J did start a rain barrel project which I am excited about, but I plan on using that for my vegetable garden and continuing with my personal conviction not to water landscaping. Right now that works perfectly because we have no landscaping to speak of. Our master plan goes as far as camellias.
Speaking of a master plan, J and I attended the home expo a few weeks back and managed to win $1000 in free flooring from (insert shameless plug here). Who knew something as fun as flooring could be such a disaster to agree upon? What will add resale value, feel good, be sustainable, add warmth, eliminate cleaning, fit our budget, and match anything we decide to do in the future? Considering it is a wonder that I can even coordinate enough to dress myself in the morning (Can I hear an "Amen!" for 12 years of school uniforms?), I'm not sure how to satisfy all of the issues that need to be considered in this suddenly earth-shaking decision. At the root of it J and I are yuppie snobs with a miniature budget who shudder at the thought of laminate but can't afford bamboo. The worst kind, really. Right now it looks like Colonel Mustard in the kitchen with chocolate grout, and sand colored tile. I'm sure we'll keep you posted with all the scintillating details.
In the meantime, there is a bluebird couple expressing interest in the available real estate recently installed in our front yard. From the sound of their conversation I think he likes the fact that the roof is new, but she is unsure about the neighborhood. Perhaps some bright annuals and a few pink camellias will change her mind. I'm off to the greenhouse.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Sunday, March 16, 2008
Steward of a House
I spent this afternoon mostly on my roof. Not because it's got a nice view of our surrounding neighbors backyards, which it does...but because I finally deemed it time to fix the shingles. It's an old house with a not sooo old roof, but I suppose it's old enough. You can watch some of the shingles flutter up when the wind gusts hard enough out of the west. Some of them you can't, because they're not there anymore hence today's home stewardship endeavor. I'm not entirely familiar with roofing, but I've seen some of the people who make a living at it and figured I could easily pick it up in a day thanks to google, and Home Depot. So aside from enjoying the passing clouds and occasional rooftop warmth when the sun peeked through...with aching ankles and knees...
I replaced some weathered, worn and tattered pieces of shingles with new, solid, dependable ones. Now when I picked them out I knew they weren't the color of my roof...
...but my roof no longer looks as it did when it was brand new. They did not however look like the spots that had recently been patched right before purchasing the house, which could have been the original color. I had brought Jada along for the Home Depot trip which though I love and respect her opinions, I sometimes find more humor and/or frustration in them than seriousness. So when she said go with the Weathered Gray I thought "yeah that's great it'll look just like our old gray weathered roof does now after years of southern climatic forces..."
So up I went with 50 pounds of shingles on my shoulder, a hammer, some roofing nails and a chisel (I don't apparently own a pry bar). It's a pretty easy process really for anyone who hasn't had the pleasure of grating their knuckles like mozzarella, scratching fiberglass splinters in between their fingers all day, and cleaning asphalt out from under your fingernails. You gently lift the shingles, pry up eight nails, remove the old, clean out the debris, replace with the new, and renail the eight nails. After my first patch I stood up carefully, inspected my handiwork, and like all good artists, began critiquing my work as well as the new color scheme I had unleashed on my roof.
Now I've always been a fan of plaid...
but something here just didn't seem right...I guess I just never thought of it as a style for my roof.
I'm still not convinced about the resale value as far as the house goes, but as long as it's still under my care, I will love it and care for it and repair damaged shingles with weathered gray ones until I run out. After that maybe I'll go pick out another color to add further to the shingle vomit that will cover my house in an effort to prevent replacing the whole thing. You could say I have a 20 year old, 2 year old, 1 day old roof...kinda like that Johnny Cash song about his car...
...at least I won't get water damage...right?
I replaced some weathered, worn and tattered pieces of shingles with new, solid, dependable ones. Now when I picked them out I knew they weren't the color of my roof...
...but my roof no longer looks as it did when it was brand new. They did not however look like the spots that had recently been patched right before purchasing the house, which could have been the original color. I had brought Jada along for the Home Depot trip which though I love and respect her opinions, I sometimes find more humor and/or frustration in them than seriousness. So when she said go with the Weathered Gray I thought "yeah that's great it'll look just like our old gray weathered roof does now after years of southern climatic forces..."
So up I went with 50 pounds of shingles on my shoulder, a hammer, some roofing nails and a chisel (I don't apparently own a pry bar). It's a pretty easy process really for anyone who hasn't had the pleasure of grating their knuckles like mozzarella, scratching fiberglass splinters in between their fingers all day, and cleaning asphalt out from under your fingernails. You gently lift the shingles, pry up eight nails, remove the old, clean out the debris, replace with the new, and renail the eight nails. After my first patch I stood up carefully, inspected my handiwork, and like all good artists, began critiquing my work as well as the new color scheme I had unleashed on my roof.
Now I've always been a fan of plaid...
but something here just didn't seem right...I guess I just never thought of it as a style for my roof.I'm still not convinced about the resale value as far as the house goes, but as long as it's still under my care, I will love it and care for it and repair damaged shingles with weathered gray ones until I run out. After that maybe I'll go pick out another color to add further to the shingle vomit that will cover my house in an effort to prevent replacing the whole thing. You could say I have a 20 year old, 2 year old, 1 day old roof...kinda like that Johnny Cash song about his car...
...at least I won't get water damage...right?
Sunday, March 2, 2008
Ohio: The heart of my all
I can't claim the Derita family as blood, but since we've shared so much over the years neither can I deny how much my family loves them. Photography wunderkind Stephanie Derita was always a fun, smart, and beautiful little girl so it comes as no surprise that she is now a talented, gorgeous woman with an eye for the story behind the picture. The following are a few pictures she shot while visiting my family home in Ohio in the summer of 2007. I appreciate how she captured the corners of the place that make it dear to me and how each picture is both interesting in its appearance and weighty with story. Keep it up, Steph!
A journal Jason made (and signed) for my dad...
The type of thoughts you'll find on my parents' kitchen window sill...
good food...
My godparents: Chip and Felicia
Home, sweet home...
Sunday, February 24, 2008
Mind the Gap!
As the MBA class of 2008 barrels towards graduation in May some of us have elected to take a negotiations class with Dr. Lucian "Skip" Jones; a choice I confessed was made in fear. For many the word negotiation may conjure images of long mahogany tables, business suits, and set, square jaws or perhaps the smell of tar on a humid car lot while an earnest salesman sweats and grins and tries to keep his mental calculations a step ahead.
I think of the prairie.
Connor Prairie to be exact, a perfect family day trip and Indiana's answer to Williamsburg (this is a guess because I've never actually been to Williamsburg). In talking about the differences we might encounter there, my parents told us about the general store where people didn't use money but bartered for supplies and wouldn't it be a great idea if we could bring items to barter with the folks at the General Store?
Let me be honest here. I am somewhat of a romantic, which means only that my heart is often fully invested in my imagination and this was even more true when I was younger. So the idea of bartering at a General Store in much the same way as Laura Ingalls might have was near and dear to my heart. Still, I was at that tender age when one begins to see flashes of the world through adult eyes-- one moment eager to go out on a limb and the next moment comprehending embarrassment and fear. A delicate balance.
When the day came I was armed with some pretty calico fabric and my brother, Jude, with some scrap wood, both of us feeling bold, knowledgeable, and well-prepared. My memory of the general store was that it was dark and largely empty. One man stood at the counter and our parents encouraged us to go forward and "barter" although for what I'm not sure. Jude, who by now has embraced his Hueber birthright and is a stellar negotiator, was so young that my recollection is that I had to do the talking, which, it turned out, was very little. We brought our goods to the store clerk and he asked, "What do you want me to do with those?" proving that even in the 1800s rudeness was a job requirement. At that point, I realized how silly we looked with less than a yard of curtain fabric and a foot of scrap 2x4. What were our parents thinking? To a real store clerk it would have been insulting, but to a historical actor it should have been his cue to begin old fashioned negotiations with the Suburbanite children and thus delight his customers. Perhaps this man's dedication to historical realism was too great, however, because he refused to even consider our paltry offerings and, in my memory, we left having been laughed at and were then forced to carry our rejected items like scarlet letters for the rest of the day, or at least until we got back to the car. My first memory of a failed negotiation left me with a dread in my gut whenever the opportunity to haggle came up again.
Herb Cohen, author of "You Can Negotiate Anything" points out that people negotiate all the time, especially in families, so it's likely that the Connor Prairie experience wasn't truly my first taste of failure at the negotiation table (attempts at both wearing make-up and joining the Boy Scouts were summarily put to rest despite my best efforts). George Hollen, friend and MBA president (Get to know him!), recently asked how the negotiations go when Jason announces he will be going on yet another surf trip. Ah, how indeed. The more I think about my husband's unquenchable need for travel and my white-knuckled grip on foundation and security the more I am reminded of the Story of the Orange (or potato or banana, etc) in which it is discovered that the different needs of both parties can be addressed by divvying up the spoils creatively. That is to say, one person wants the fruit and the other wants the peel. While Jason and I have made attempts at addressing the satisfaction gap that exists we have not viewed our negotiations in terms of the ZOPA that exists. Most days, especially these past few years in school, my view is that if Jason has the fun money for trips to the Canary Islands, J-Bay, or (insert name of latest and greatest surf location here) then bon voyage! as long as he comes home safely. The empty house gives me ample quiet time to finish homework or get myself into trouble at craft parties. But sometimes I feel like the poor sucker who got stuck with the peel, not realizing that they wanted a slice of the orange until they watched the other negotiating party with juice dripping down their chin. Inarguably the peel owner got what they wanted even though in retrospect the stories they can tell about their side of the Win-Win won't be as exciting. I guess I need to decide what it is I really want and then come up with an equally satisfactory BATNA before the issues comes up again. True, I could use the orange peel, but does that make me practical and boring?
Poor Jason.
While he is exploring Madrid his studious wife is arming herself with lofty acronyms and fruity metaphors for the next time someone utters those immortal words, "Honey, I've been thinking...let's chat!". He's not going to know what hit him. ;)
I think of the prairie.
Connor Prairie to be exact, a perfect family day trip and Indiana's answer to Williamsburg (this is a guess because I've never actually been to Williamsburg). In talking about the differences we might encounter there, my parents told us about the general store where people didn't use money but bartered for supplies and wouldn't it be a great idea if we could bring items to barter with the folks at the General Store?
Let me be honest here. I am somewhat of a romantic, which means only that my heart is often fully invested in my imagination and this was even more true when I was younger. So the idea of bartering at a General Store in much the same way as Laura Ingalls might have was near and dear to my heart. Still, I was at that tender age when one begins to see flashes of the world through adult eyes-- one moment eager to go out on a limb and the next moment comprehending embarrassment and fear. A delicate balance.
When the day came I was armed with some pretty calico fabric and my brother, Jude, with some scrap wood, both of us feeling bold, knowledgeable, and well-prepared. My memory of the general store was that it was dark and largely empty. One man stood at the counter and our parents encouraged us to go forward and "barter" although for what I'm not sure. Jude, who by now has embraced his Hueber birthright and is a stellar negotiator, was so young that my recollection is that I had to do the talking, which, it turned out, was very little. We brought our goods to the store clerk and he asked, "What do you want me to do with those?" proving that even in the 1800s rudeness was a job requirement. At that point, I realized how silly we looked with less than a yard of curtain fabric and a foot of scrap 2x4. What were our parents thinking? To a real store clerk it would have been insulting, but to a historical actor it should have been his cue to begin old fashioned negotiations with the Suburbanite children and thus delight his customers. Perhaps this man's dedication to historical realism was too great, however, because he refused to even consider our paltry offerings and, in my memory, we left having been laughed at and were then forced to carry our rejected items like scarlet letters for the rest of the day, or at least until we got back to the car. My first memory of a failed negotiation left me with a dread in my gut whenever the opportunity to haggle came up again.
Herb Cohen, author of "You Can Negotiate Anything" points out that people negotiate all the time, especially in families, so it's likely that the Connor Prairie experience wasn't truly my first taste of failure at the negotiation table (attempts at both wearing make-up and joining the Boy Scouts were summarily put to rest despite my best efforts). George Hollen, friend and MBA president (Get to know him!), recently asked how the negotiations go when Jason announces he will be going on yet another surf trip. Ah, how indeed. The more I think about my husband's unquenchable need for travel and my white-knuckled grip on foundation and security the more I am reminded of the Story of the Orange (or potato or banana, etc) in which it is discovered that the different needs of both parties can be addressed by divvying up the spoils creatively. That is to say, one person wants the fruit and the other wants the peel. While Jason and I have made attempts at addressing the satisfaction gap that exists we have not viewed our negotiations in terms of the ZOPA that exists. Most days, especially these past few years in school, my view is that if Jason has the fun money for trips to the Canary Islands, J-Bay, or (insert name of latest and greatest surf location here) then bon voyage! as long as he comes home safely. The empty house gives me ample quiet time to finish homework or get myself into trouble at craft parties. But sometimes I feel like the poor sucker who got stuck with the peel, not realizing that they wanted a slice of the orange until they watched the other negotiating party with juice dripping down their chin. Inarguably the peel owner got what they wanted even though in retrospect the stories they can tell about their side of the Win-Win won't be as exciting. I guess I need to decide what it is I really want and then come up with an equally satisfactory BATNA before the issues comes up again. True, I could use the orange peel, but does that make me practical and boring?
Poor Jason.
While he is exploring Madrid his studious wife is arming herself with lofty acronyms and fruity metaphors for the next time someone utters those immortal words, "Honey, I've been thinking...let's chat!". He's not going to know what hit him. ;)
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
