The 13th Apostol

NaBloPoMo 2007

It's November 1st.

The Christmas commercials started at 5a.m.

Yesterday, I got an itemized, what-it-will-take-in-dollars-to-fix, estimate from a contractor with no vested interest in the house.

Only $2900.00 is all it's going to cost to get the house to where we can safely live in it. That's all. Two thousand nine hundred dollars...and some change.

You wanna know what else I found out Internet?
I found out that all the repair costs could have been avoided (sit down)...if I hadn't taken the carpet out to begin with....and,  um ya know, like...if I'd had one iota of an idea of what I was doing. Yeah, that too.

I could've installed CASHMERE carpet for $2900. Hell. If I'd only known what would happen once the carpet came out, which it had to do with Al's allergies, I'd have just replaced it immediately with newer carpet.
The most expensive part of the repair estimate is the floor. You know, the concrete floor I was going to acid wash... Can you feel my pain, my self inflicted pain?

In all sorts of seriousness here, I'm having to admit that I most likely CAUSED this situation, from lack of experience...no, no REALLY. Hard to believe isn't it?

I  just kept making the situation worse with each move. Never considering I may not be qualified to MAKE SAID MOVE. So now I shall work my ass off, trying as best I can to make the money necessary to fix my broken little house.

While people all across the country are filing for foreclosure, all it's going to take to save my little home is gravy. And I made the mashed potato's apparently.

This is my daily picture. It's me in the galley of the Cabana...experiencing situational depression...Oh, all right, I just woke up, but this is how I COULD look, if I were experiencing situational depression. All dark and brooding, hair a muss, veiny hands, a dead bat within my grasp...

Happy November Internet, and Happy NaBloPoMo...MoFo

P.S. Where the hell have all my comments
gone? Are y'all THAT sick of hearing about my remodel crap? I promise if you come back, I go back to talking about my boobs and the cat...please?

...Dreams a Reality

I have a depressed nine-year-old boy.
Is that even possible, for a child so full of life as Mer once was, to be depressed?
Last week, at the school we both loved so last year, he was suspended for talking in class. FOR TALKING IN CLASS.
He spent all day Friday in the principals office, missing the awards assembly, trying so hard to do his make-up work so perfectly. Each letter struggled to be equivalent in size as the last, each paper signed, dated and numbered.
He wants to please. He wants to do well. He is on an I.E. P. for a reason though, and my heart breaks they do not "get it", that his grades are pulling THEIR scores down so he is the enemy...my depressed nine-year-old-boy.

Last night in the bath tub, as I washed away the days make-up, hair color, hair spray, combined with the boy-ness of dirt rolling and knee skinning, he looked up at me with big sad eyes and said "Mom, I wish we could move in to our new house tomorrow"
"Me too baby, me too." (re-direct, re-direct)

I was able, just barely, to again turn his attention to decorating his room. Having found multiple interactive sites on the net allowing for extravagant dreams to be dreampt. Shaw Floors is his new favorite, where you can upload your own images, build a grid, then dress your image with any one of their tens of thousands of floor/wall covering options.

If I sit around waiting for someone to rescue us, it's not going to happen. This is a messy, complicated, legal situation. I probably have a good case, IF I had the time and money for an Attorney WILLING to go up against a guy as big as the seller.
The clock is ticking, and my kid is crumbling.

I'm a strong woman, stronger than most, but not all, women I know (you know who you are ladies)...but I cannot handle seeing my kid falling apart because of my stupidity, fear of confrontation, and inability to stand up for myself. Which in all honesty, is how we ended up living in someone's pool house.

With Mer having lost so much over the last two months, and needing me more fully than he has in a long time, going back to work on Thursday is hard, hard, hard. It will however enable me to make the necessary repairs to the house, rendering Mer-Boy's dreams...reality.

Boiopsies and Jimmy The Gourd

The waiting list to receive assistance from the city is a year and a half...looks like I better start getting creative here.

I'm meeting my insurance agent, and the head Inspector from the Oklahoma City Housing Authority at 1:30 today, at my home. I've requested bids in writing from one of the contractors I trusted somewhat, am getting the name of the contractor who did my friends Ember and Shane's add-on.

Had a biopsy of my right breast then picked up a Pumpkin and a giant albino sweet potato looking thing from a guy making a killing on the side of the road.

I shall call him Jimmy. Jimmy The Gourd.

That's just wrong isn't it? Driving about town with a gourd named Jimmy buckled into the back seat. Mer-boy will however, thoroughly enjoy, and or be embarrassed by his mothers antics.

It's good to be the "Maaawm" of a nine-year-old boy.

What a Difference a Year Makes...Happy Feet Here I Come

Just as NaBloPoMo time of year rolls back around, so does my Tenure at the Happy Feet Kiosk. In a meeting yesterday with Mr. Feet himself it was confirmed...they want me back, they really want me back!

One year ago I was nestled snuggly in a beautiful two story, 1600 sqft. home, more room than any two human beings could use in a month, the bliss of suburbia just outside my 300 sqft. office window, (the office, not the window) full size washer/dryer combo in use daily, automatic dishwasher with which I used those cute little pillows of concentrated detergent smelling sweetly of apple pie, watching Autumn carry her colors brilliantly though my viewfinder...and I was bitching about SOMETHING.

One year later, unable to purchase the above dream home, I opted to buy in the same housing edition. Being the meteor magnet that I am, the home has officially been deemed "Unsafe for inhabitation" by Community Action Agency after six weeks, and so much money spent, I have to choke back the bile. But by God I own a house!

One year later Mer-Boy and I are living in a 500 sqft., one room pool house, (I'm going to quit calling it a Cabana for the Winter) where the list of amenities includes a microwave and toaster oven. We share the bed, which is about to drive me bonkers. And before I start bitching again...let me be grateful there is a roof over our heads, lest I be NaBloPoMo-ing from a mission this time next year.

I'm going to at least have to get cable out here.

Google "Exposure Asbestos Lead Paint"...I Dare You

I realize how sick you all are of hearing about my pathetic home purchase, but between fighting off the advances of contractors who want to "Help" me, and discovering the Seller had previously tried to contain the asbestos and peeling lead paint...I think I will start drinking again.

Ok, maybe I'll just do a bump...Ok, maybe I'll just blog about it...see it really is best to just put up with me. Blogging does the least amount of damage.

Here's what I know: The Seller LIED LIKE A FLIPPIN RUG on the disclosure, leaving me a toxic wasteland to clean up. How do I know this? I found proof of attempted containment. Such shoddy work, the PARTICLE BOARD that was my wall bowed out from the moisture of having all the windows open for two weeks straight. I could pull it off with one peripheral neuropathy crippled hand.

So pissed, so pissed.

Every night when The Mer and I get in bed, we go through my decorating magazines. He's placed sticky notes just so, keeping track of how he will decorate his new bedroom, the one no one was ever going to take away from him again...kids don't quit dreaming, hoping, believing things will get better.

I love my son more than life.
I will not place him in harms way, he has enough medical challenges without being exposed to fucking asbestos and lead paint. Jesus Christ, how could someone knowingly sell something like this to a woman and small child?

In an email to my Lender cc my Realtor, I wrote

"I should have been warned not to remove the carpet. I initially requested it be replaced with new carpet and was turned down by the Seller. I should have been told what was underneath the carpet and in the walls. I should have been told the house I was buying had problems that could be hazardous to my son's and my heath. I had a right to know they had previously tried to contain the asbestos and peeling lead based paint problem.

I am not a stupid woman, but I had no experience with the home buying process, so I trusted those who did.
Here's the gist of it:
Had I not removed the carpet, Al would have been sick from the carpet dust, and padding, the dirt that settles underneath the carpet that no amount of cleaning can get out. The glues used in older carpets, the glues used to hold the padding to the sub floor.
Had I not removed the carpet the asbestos and lead dust would still be in the house, crumbling behind the walls, in smaller amounts, but my son would be sick with constant flu-like symptoms from the carpet...we've been there before.

I would not have bought the house with a full disclosure, no sane parent would have. I was mislead, the truth was omitted, and I've been trying to fix someone else's problem that, as kind David from Community Action said "I inherited". I love the neighborhood, I love the house, but not more than my son's health. I will now be responsible for a nearly $800 mortgage on a home I cannot live in, afford to make safe, nor sell."

Internet, there's no way to describe what I'm feeling...dealing primarily with individuals ignorant or in denial about the consequences of exposure to these toxins.

The solution is money and reliable skilled contractors, both of which do not exist in my immediate future. "I", as they say in France, "am fucked".

On Accountability

As I sit here at my humble little printer table, amidst the trickling of the pools ever-running filtration system (does it stop in the winter?) the sound of the inner city blended with the inter urban wildlife...I have to ask myself how this all happened, how we came to be vagabonds and gypsies, my nine-year-old boy and I?
My candles haven't stopped since we arrived in late August, collecting the empty "store Bought" containers under the galley sink...until latest of late, deciding to try Craig's Emporium's new wicking process. They do stay lit this year!
I am tired, but not exhausted of the thrill that is Gypsydom...perhaps in our blood, we are truly fine wherever we are, as long as we have each other. The past apart having made us strong in spirit, deep characters we are, blood red band of rovers.

The news on the house is not good.
Having held the company of a contractor from Community Action Agency yesterday afternoon. A fine gentleman by the name of David, sent by my Lender to asses the situation at hand.
David was kind, calling me "Ms." and not "Dumbass" which I truly appreciated after hearing his assessment of my home. Yes, the asbestos is a problem, but not nearly as big a problem as the lead based paint chipping all over the house.
As David so kindly put it "Asbestosis is an old mans disease, Lead Poisoning is a Young persons disease"...see what I mean? So kind.

I had to leave kind David to get The Mer from school, he stayed to take measurements.
His solution: Containment. Frame out the entire house.
Unfortunately this is a MAJOR renovation and takes money I don't have. In the mean time I suspect my Lender is trying to figure out if the house, and I, are even worth it.

Kind David explained to me why he was so angry about what he saw.
The very individuals who's job it is to protect me, failed to do so.
I had no way of knowing this at the time, having never bought a home before.
Everything looked fine...on the surface rather, everything looked fine.

So here we sit The Mer and I, Fall Break is upon us already. FALL BREAK...How? What? I, I, I, I am at such a loss for prophetic words, There is no way to express the utter disappointment I feel . No way. So I wont. I just wont.

Our home, the one we left standing on 44th street, has been reduced to the price she offered it to me at. The way things turn. My boy, that bright-eyed little guy so full of energy, who would run out the front door hollering "I'm going to Sydney's"...is depressed, despondent, all those things I too feel, only on a child's level, unable to express except in deep heaving sobs into my arms and by perhaps penning "Mrs C is the B word" in his journal.

Our new home was going to ease the grief and loss of the old home.   

I think too often about how money, and the acquisition of money makes this world unbalanced and full of turmoil. External and Internal. Personal and professional. Spiritual and non-spiritual. How if I had been able to purchase our "Home", the difference this would've made in my sons life TODAY and TOMORROW. How by the time her house does sell, she may have had to reduce it to what I could've afforded, but greed and self-riotousness, made her indignant toward me.

As she blames me for the house not selling, I too want someone to blame for the misfortunes of the last year/months/month. However it's not about guilt and blame. It's about accountability. ACCOUNTABILITY people.

I will pay the full mortgage amount if I have to, but I will NOT endanger my son.

Accountability.

I will pay for repairs needed as the deed-holder of the property in order to make it safe enough for The Mer to live and thrive there, however long it takes.

Accountability.

What others do or don't do, is not within my power to control. I'm pretty torn up over all this, don't get me wrong. I have to hold it together for The Mer though, he looks to me as of late, as if taking cues from a Director in a Primary school version of "West Side Story", but honestly...I can't remember whether Tony was a Jet or a Shark, and given my most recent track record, don't know if I should let anyone take cues from me Specifically Mer-Boy.

Mer-Boy's Montage Little Saigon

The Sea Monster Attacks in The Aftermath of Hurricane Apostol

I have less than two weeks to get the house livable or I am responsible for the entire ball of wax...no wait, ball game...

One of the Lowe's employees responsible for signing the restraining order, felt so badly for me, he turned me on to a friend of his who's a general contractor type individual.

We'll call this man "Tom" because that's how it's entered in my phone.

Tom seems to be of overall good character, not telling me during our first visit about his stint in the super max in Florence...which on my check list of contractors is now a plus!
Tom is just an old hippy/carpenter/tile-layer/kind-of-dude...who smokes menthol kings, walks with a limp, and calls me "Darlin". As in "Darlin, we gotta get this house fixed so you and that boy of yours can move on in", NOT "Darlin, that sure is some nice asbestos you got there"

The first night Tom came to asses the damage from hurricane Apostol, he helped me load the 876 lb. floor machine I had rented the day before from Crosslands, (yes they also rent giant balloon bounce things) into the back of the Pathfinder...effortlessly I might add. We both turn around to see The Sea Monster approaching, apparently to lend some sort of non-financial hand to the drama that is my life.

First he wanted to bum a cigarette, to which I replied, um "no". Then when I asked him where The Mer's child support was, ten days late at this time, he replied "It's in the mail"...I walked away, so as not to give Tom the impression I was somehow an unstable, emotionally volatile woman of Hellenic decent.

As I was moving in the opposite direction, I hear "Hey man, can I buy a cigarette from you for a quarter"...that was all I could muster, so I went inside my broken house and cried. (just for a second though since Mer-Boy was somewhere about.)

Yesterday morning I checked the balance on my Oklahoma Debit card Visa...the one child support payments are made through...you know where this is going don't you?

Last month we had this to deal with, well the bastard did it again. Failing to provide documentation to child support enforcement of the current order. He paid the $238, but this time we only got $109...not even $127 from the old order.

Once again he used this as an opportunity to get caught up on his back child support, at the cost of his son. Now I've been understanding as hell the last few months, they've been doing the Cub Scout thing together, Chess Tournaments, etc. and while I don't like the sonofabitch, he's still The Mer's father, and he truly has been trying (for TSM trying) but that's $240 his self-centered shit has cost Mer.

Why The Mer got no new school clothes, or violin for strings. I bust my ass to be the best mom/dad/grandma/grandpa/aunt/uncle I can be, however I cannot do it all Internet.

I promise you though, I surely will keep trying.

"Mrs. C. is the "B" word"

So I'm waiting outside The Mer's school, just like I do every afternoon with all the other helicopter parents, when out walks Mer, feet dragging, head hung low.
Now normally, even on a rough day, The Mer comes bounding out the door, down the steps and into my arms...this year has been different.

At least once a week a "Think Sheet" comes home with my kid, something always having more to do with Mrs. C's level of frustration tolerance, hormones, and or lack of B-12, and rarely anything worthy of the time it took to fill out her constructive little "Think Sheet"..I'm digressing here. But let me point out one thing further before I advance in this tale of woe - Mrs. C basically lied her ass off to me on the last "Think Sheet", claiming in her statement at the bottom of the page that The Mer had, and I quote "Punched another student".

I systematically lost it. First at The Mer, then at the wall, (the cat was missing at this point) then sat down and fired off an email of such self restraint, that Nobel peace prize should have gone to my ass.

In my email to Mrs. C., I relayed how concerned I was over this type of aggression from The Mer, and made an inquiry in regards to the possible source of over stimulation. Did Mer have any conflicts with this other student, perhaps we were were unaware of?

Mrs. C's reply to my email the next morning left me utterly confounded and at a loss for words. (a phenomenon once experienced during the seizure of the U.S. Embassy in Tehran during November of 1979) Her reply..."I'm not sure I know to what aggression you are referring to Ms. Snuffalufagus? I will be forwarding your email message to the Principal and the Lab teacher, as is school policy with a child on an I.E.P."

Didn't know what aggression I was referring to? Gee, I don't know, maybe the punching of another student is no longer considered aggression in the public school system, only packing heat and copies of The Anarchist's Cook book are.

Drunk from shock and awe, I dropped The Mer off and headed to the Principals office, where fortunately she was away at some Principals support group or something...I was in no condition to have a rational conversation with this woman, considering not five days earlier we had come together for an I.E.P. service meeting for Al, in which I THOUGHT we were all on the same page (Mrs. C. could not attend Al's I.E.P. service meeting because her father was dying, or some lame excuse like that)

I asked the office secretary if I could use the copy machine. She graciously complied. So I copied the "Think Sheet" and wrote the Principal a note saying "I'm very confused. DID my child punch another student or not? Would you please look into this for me"

That evening I received an email from Mrs. C.
In this email she gave me a more detailed explanation of the "Think Sheet" and her subsequent response to my first email:

"Ms. Snuffalufagus -
The Think Sheet is my own document, for the single purpose of informing parents that there was a problem during the day, but it wasn't "referral-worthy." It is my hope to keep parents informed before problems justify referrals.

During a group math activity in which students were surveying each other, Al air punched someone next to him; I saw about five quick punches and he was smiling at the time. I took him aside immediately to let him know that, first of all, it was disappointing to see him lose self control during such activities. But mostly, that making a fist and even pretending to punch someone is not allowed at school. Because I knew that you would find it alarming to see that Al had punched someone, I wrote the note stating that Al and I had talked and that it didn't hurt the other person. If there had been real punching, Al would have received a referral. Again, the purpose of the note called Think Sheet is to allow parents and children to have a conversation about the incident, so that they don't become referral-worthy future incidents.
Please accept my apology for the confusion this caused. When I read your memo mentioning agitation and violence, I didn't realize that was your take on the Think Sheet. Hopefully, I can be more clear in the future."

It's funny though her little "Think Sheet" did NOT say Al air punched' did it? Which brings us back to this afternoon picking my Oh-so-miserable little boy up from school.
By the time Mer had my arms around him the tears were coming and my goal was to clear him of the watchful eyes of peers and parents alike, then try and find out what had happened NOW.

The story is sketchy, the emotions are raw, but from what I can gather Mer wrote in his Language Arts journal, a tool specifically for writing your feelings, well...his feelings regarding Mrs. C's collective punishment of the class today by denying their participation in voting at the assembly...a punishment handed out because four students were talking in line as the class was queuing for the assembly.

No, The Mer was not one of the students talking, he claims, but was actually doing as was told because this event was so important to him. When Mrs. C. did finally let the class vote, near the end of the day, the journal was presented to Mrs. C. by another student who saw Mer write it...(the little shit). Of course Mer denied it vehemently, even to me at first. Someone else got in his desk and wrote it in his journal. So I asked him...how they spelled the "B" word. His responce:

"t-h-e-B-w-o-r-d"

The Mer doesn't even know how to spell bitch.

Maybe I should TEACH him.

 

Abatement Isn't What's Downstairs or Apostol Breaks Her House

I Broke my house.
Why did I take off the only thing holding the house together! WHY?
I will be penniless, living in a shelter somewhere on skid row by the time I make this mother inhabitable. I don't want to even read my favorite blogs...everyone is normal, not obsessed, exhausted, and now utterly at a loss as to how I will get this place livable in 20 days.

I broke my asbestos filled house because I am an idiot, a horrible mother, (but excellent demo diva) and wish I had all the money back I've given to St. Lowe's charity for mentally ill Greek women.

I-broke-my-house.
See the base-board looking thing around the parameter of the room? It's called cove molding, it's the ugly-assed crap you see at your Psychiatrists office.
It used to go all the way down to the carpet, sort of decorative like, in a sick industrialist way. Now, it just hangs there, letting the asbestos infested WALL behind the GLUED on FAUX wood paneling crumble to the freakin ground.

No, I'm not kidding.
Would I kid about something as serious as having my first house payment in twenty days, and not being able to LIVE in the damn thing? Noooo, I wouldn't kid abo...oh shut up. I broke my house.

The Mer is so disappointed, and I can't fix this problem, these multiple problems I've just tried harder and harder to fix on my own.

I have no recourse with the seller, and even if I did, I love the little house. I want to keep it and fix the immediate problems if I can We didn't have an asbestos test done, because I didn't have assistance from a community agency on my down payment, otherwise it would have been mandatory with a house this age.

It's time to take a few steps back and get a better perspective, clear my head, play a little, go for a run in the crisp mornings...there is a solution, there always is, don't I know that by now?