I’ve worked as a janitor. I’ve made sodas for people through the window at a convenient store. I’ve waitressed at a truck stop. I’ve answered phones and done research at a small town newspaper. Heck, I’ve even worked for a essential oil company.

While I’ve had some random jobs in my younger years, The King has had even more random jobs. Not more jobs, just jobs that are more random. Like the time he hung art for a living.

That’s right, people would pay a lot of money to have The King come to their house and hang things, correctly, on their walls.

Apparently there is more to this then you might think. There are correct levels and correct vantage points and correct accessories. Gone are the days of using a simple nail and hammer to hang up your wedding pictures or the expensive painting you just bought.

This may not come as a surprise to most of you, but this whole industry did surprise me. While it makes sense that a bazillionaire wouldn’t hang their new Monet on the wall, I’d never thought about who was doing the actual hanging.

Enter The King and his mad skillz.

Of course The King no longer does this for a living. He’s upgraded to bigger and better way to fully utilize his skillz. Now he just builds houses from scratch. But that doesn’t mean he has forgotten the ways of professional art hanging. Oh no, we take it very seriously at our house apartment.

Marci, my best friend from high school, is living in a rental until their new house is completed. Hey, just like me. Only she’s living in an awesome house with bedrooms and bathrooms and not a one bedroom apartment. I’m jealous happy for her. Marci and I were recently discussing how we weren’t motivated to hang anything on the walls of our rentals. What’s the point, you know? I mean, eventually we’re moving out of this rental so why bother hanging anything on the walls.

(Sidenote to The King: I know you’re working as hard as you can on the new house. And I thank you.)

After discussing this with Marci I looked around our apartment and realized that The King had hung some of our stuff up on the walls. He’d hung up the map of the Berlin subway that May and I put together for him last Christmas.

You can tell by where the camera flash hit that The King is hung it perfectly. Just the right level so that you can totally see the map and try to navigate your next trip to Berlin. (Which might be taking place sooner rather then later.)

Then there is the painting The King acquired while in college. While it’s massive, he was still able to hang it securely to our apartment wall. No earthquake could bring this baby down. Again, it’s at perfect eye level.

Good job King.

Last, but not least, we have the newest addition to our art collection; a Seattle themed painting that May gave me the night they moved to Reno. We were all very excited to have this awesome new painting and we couldn’t wait to get it out of our car and hung in the perfect place in our apartment.

Since he’s a professional at hanging art, you’d expect nothing but the best from The King.

But since he was too busy building the new house, I was left in charge of hanging this specific piece. I thought to myself, I know where it will look perfect! There’s a lot of empty white space above the TV. That’s where I’ll hang it! Yes, above the TV.

And so I did.

My family and I moved to Corvaillis, Oregon when I was a kid. My dad had hurt his back working at a printing press and therefore needed to go back to school to find a different career.

We moved into the house that will forever be known as The House on 13th Street. I guess because we lived on 13th Street. My family is muy clever like that. We all look back at this house with fond memories. It was, by far, the nicest house we ever lived in. It was newly built and was big enough to fit all of us. I even had my own bedroom.

The thing I have always remembered and loved most about The House on 13th Street is the stairs. It was the 70’s and the stairs represented that era. They were covered in dark brown shag and went from the upstairs into the dining room. Oh and the best part; they were floating stairs.

My older brother and I used to go under the stairs and hang from them. As I recall, my mom even let us. Come on, it was the 70’s. A less complicated time. A time when it was okay to let you kids ride their bikes on the freeway and hang from the rafters.

While this isn’t an actual picture of our stairs, it’s one I found online and it’s perfect. Nothing says the 70’s like fake plants and a puffy leather couch.

Bow-chica-bow-wow.

When The King started drawing up the plans for our new house, he asked me what things I wanted in the house. That was easy. There were only two things I knew were must-haves.

1. A window above the kitchen sink
2. Floating stairs

Of course these weren’t the only things I wanted. I wanted a shower and a flushing toilet. Maybe even 4 of them. As well as plenty of closet space and a laundry room. But those are considered goes-without-saying items in my book.

The window above the kitchen sink was easy. The King had no problem putting that into the house design. Granted the view of the neighbor’s driveway isn’t ideal, it’s better then nothing, which is what I have now.

He had a harder time with the design for the floating stairs. During the design phase he would keep me updated on the floating stair research. I would just nod and thank him for his efforts. All the while fully expecting to have floating stairs upon the completion of the new house.

I remember him telling me he had figured out how to do them and where to find the needed equipment to fasten the risers to the walls. I remember when he told me they had been delivered and then the actual installation of the brackets began. Which, I think, posed their own problems.

Eventually it has all worked out.

I never doubted him.

(Okay, maybe a little. But still, I knew he’d come through.)

We went over to the new house on Sunday after church. Drywall had begun that week and I was itching to see the progress. I was extra excited to see the installed floating stair brackets.

I just realized I’m boring myself with this post. Let’s take this up a notch.

Last night The King asked me what was the first thing I wanted to do in the new house once we moved in. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, so I responded by (jokingly) saying; “have sex in every room.”

“But wait, shouldn’t we have sex in every room of our apartment first?”

“It’s a one bedroom apartment, so I’m pretty sure we’ve accomplished that by now.”

“We haven’t done it in the kitchen.”

“And we’re not going to either. I’ve seen the floor in there and it’s gross.”

“Did we do it in every room in the last house?”

And then we both paused and tried to remember if we had, in fact, done it in every room of our last house.

We came to the conclusion that we’d done it in all the bedrooms, but not the office or the bathrooms. Does that count?

So tell me, does anyone else have lofty goals like this?

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Don’t forget to check out my latest New Thing, in which I will impress you with my awesome photoshop skillz. Word.

We got a call a few weekends ago from the managers of our storage unit. It was a courtesy call to let us know that someone had broken into our unit so we “might want to come down and put a new lock on it.”

“Um yeah, we’ll be there in like 2.3 minutes!”

Luckily it was a Sunday so The King could rush right there and check things out. He got to our unit and started to look around to see what had been stolen. He was pretty nervous since we had a lot of big-ticket items in there. Things like tools, Vespa scooters, our Viking range, my bike, all of our CD’s, our guest bed, and of course, my clothes.

The King scouted around the unit and found a lot of over turned boxes, but it didn’t look like anything specific had been stolen. Plus, all that stuff has been in storage for so long, we really didn’t even remember what was in there that might have been stolen.

I’m sure the thieves had specific things they were looking to steal. Things they knew they could sell fast for drug money. They didn’t have the man-power, or the knowledge to know how much the range was worth. And the tool chest was blocked by said range, so they couldn’t even get into it to steal. I’m not sure why they left the brand new weed eater just sitting there or the bike. I guess they hadn’t planned on doing any yard work, and forget about a leisurely bike ride through the city.

The new house is getting closer and closer to being done. The King has promised me that drywall work will begin before the month is over, and we all remember the promise last year that we won’t have to spend another Christmas in the apartment. Plus, we just resigned our lease, only for 3 months.

The King went down to the storage unit again this weekend. It was time to move part of the range out of storage and into the new house for installation. This meant he would be spending a little more time going through the storage unit and could check, again, to make sure nothing of importance was stolen.

He called me once he was down there.

“Did you find any of the boxes of my summer skirts?”

“No, but I found one labeled Isabel’s purses.”

“That’s a start. But nothing labeled skirts, huh?”

“Nope. Just purses. Do you need them?”

“No. Just my skirts.”

The King’s office had all just got new fancy Apple computers when we were getting ready to move. He collected all the boxes from the computers and brought them home for me to use in packing. They were great boxes, so we used them for the things we were putting into our storage unit.

It wasn’t until The King was looking around our storage unit yesterday that he realized maybe this wasn’t the best idea. Every single one of the computer boxes had been cut open and kicked.

I can only imagine that the thieves thought they had hit pay dirt when they broke into our unit and saw it full of computers. That is until they cut them open and realized they were full of crappy things like CD’s, baby books, and maybe even a few summer skirts. And since this pissed them off, they just kicked all the boxes.

Yeah, that’ll show us to use fancy boxes for storage. And crappy locks.
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For those of you that missed my meeting with Rhett Miller of the Old 97’s, check out that post from last week. And for those of you who aren’t sure who Rhett Miller or the Old 97’s are, go to their website for free downloads of their music!! I promise you, you’ll like it. And then you’ll thank me. Plus hello, free downloads!!

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And another thing, check out my post over at my other blog for my latest New Thing.

When I was about 12 years old my older brother and I got into a fight on our way home from the bus stop. I don’t remember what it was about, but words were said. Hurtful words. My mom sat me down and told me a story about when she was a teenager.

One spring day my uncles were playing a game together. The younger brother cheated and thus won the game. His older brother was upset. He got up and stormed out of the room telling his little brother; I wish you were dead!

The next day my 17 year old uncle got into a farming accident and died shortly after. My surviving uncle never forgave himself for the cruel words he said the day before.

My mom told me this story as a reminder that I needed to watch the words I said. She told me that I should never say something that I would later regret.

Words cannot be taken back.

I haven’t been very good at posting this week. It’s not that I don’t have anything to say. It’s that I don’t have anything nice to say.

I’m fed up. And fed up is not pretty on me. I’ve become an ugly person. An ugly person with no end in sight.

It boils down to the fact that I’m sick of living in this in-between state. I’m sick of making due with what were stuck with. What I thought would only be temporary has become my permanent. My life. The only thing I know.

I don’t remember what it’s like to have a yard. To have a place outside of my home to call my own. A place where I can throw a blanket down and hang out with my kid that isn’t inside surrounded by furniture and carpet.

I don’t remember what it’s like to have a bathroom to use while someone is in the other bathroom. Or a kitchen that we can fit in. Or appliances that work. Hell, I don’t even remember what it’s like to eat dinner at a table and not sitting on a couch with my plate resting on my lap.

I don’t know what it’s like to have my own bedroom without a crib in it. I’ve never had a nursery where I could hang up the artwork we bought for Babboo. I don’t own a dresser. I don’t have a place to keep my shoes. I don’t have room to hang up my jackets because our coat closet is housing baby clothes and a stroller.

I can’t remember what it’s like to be married to someone that you see when you get off work. I don’t remember what it’s like to spend a Saturday not stuck inside an apartment all day alone with a baby. I don’t remember what it’s like to eat dinner before 8:30 because you wait to eat with your husband. I don’t know what it’s like to have someone there to help me pick up the toys at the end of the night. I can’t remember what it’s like to have someone there to help you fold the laundry. Or dry as you wash.
I can’t remember what a normal marriage is like.

I’m afraid that it’s going to be like this forever. And I don’t know what to do.

When Babboo and I walked in the door last night we found The King sitting on the couch, waiting for us.

I can count on one hand how many times this has happened.

He had gotten done at work early and was brought home in a limo. (Don’t ask why, I don’t even know.) He wanted to spend some time with us before he headed to the new house to work for the night.

Which meant I could cook dinner all by myself.

Usually when I’m home alone with Babboo trying to make dinner I have to give him something to keep him occupied while I’m busy in the kitchen.

Here sweetie, update mommy’s blog while I cook dinner.

But not last night. The King kept him busy with book reading, toy playing and drum banging. The entire time I was in the kitchen I didn’t have to worry about a toddler hanging on my legs begging to be picked up. This allowed me some alone time in the kitchen to bake and take pictures. You know, so I could blog about it over at my other blog.

Amazing.

We were even able to eat dinner together at home as a family. So what if we were we standing in the kitchen eating and not sitting at our table. We were all together.

After dinner was over I made The King feel guilty enough that he did the dishes for me.

Babboo was his cheering section. Hooray for daddy and his amazing skillz.

And since I didn’t know what to do with all this free time, Babboo and I decided to take some photos together. For prosperity’s sake.

We moved into our 1 bedroom, high rise apartment in downtown Seattle when I was about 4 months pregnant with Babboo. We had just sold the house we had built ourselves. My emotions were a mess with the new pregnancy, an upcoming trip to Europe, and of course, packing up a house full of items (of which we sold most of or put into storage) and trying to cram ourselves into our little apartment. Neither one of us knew how long it would take to build our new house, so we didn’t know how long we’d be in the apartment.

It’s been about 18 months. The little apartment feels like home now. We’re settled. By now I’ve forgotten about all of my things that are put in our storage unit. (What was I thinking when I put all my pre-pregnancy clothes in storage? I miss them. I want them back.) I can’t remember what the furniture we sold even looked like. I don’t miss cleaning the 3 bathrooms. I sure as heck don’t miss weeding the yard. I don’t miss having to sweep dust bunnies off the wood floor in the spare rooms, or looking for Preston hiding in one of the closets. I don’t miss trying to locate a hammer in our massive 2.5 car garage.

But I do.

I miss having another bathroom to get ready in so that I don’t bother The King while he shaves (or poops, either way). I miss not having to leave my house to do laundry. I miss not having a room that I don’t have to share with a crib. I miss not having a couch to read on while The King watches TV on the other couch. I miss having spare rooms for house guests. I miss having grass and a fence. I miss not having to pay $200 a month, just for a parking space in our own complex. I miss having the quiet of my own house.

While it’s more money to live in a downtown apartment as opposed to one closer to where our new house is, I love living here. I truly believe that I have the best commute of anyone in the entire world. Bold statement, I know. I walk 4 blocks to work. The King walks about 15 blocks. Dude, you can’t beat that with a stick.

And while I complain that all 3 of us aren’t set up to share a bedroom, there is no way I could justify paying $800 (or whatever it was) more a month for a 2 bedroom apartment. No way at all. We didn’t even look at a 2 bedroom unit. We didn’t want to be tempted. We kept telling ourselves, this is only temporary.

Right about now I’m starting to get a lot of the when is your new house going to be done questions. I never know what the correct response is. Do I lie; we’ll be moving on August 1st, wanna help me pack? Or do I tell them the truth; I have absolutely no idea. Mostly I just say; The King is working as hard as he can. He’s over there every evening and every Saturday. Remember, he’s building this house himself.

When we finally get into the new house I picture it being like a fat guy on Thanksgiving. You know when he undoes his top button and his gut just hangs over and he breaths a sigh of relief. We’re just going to spread out and love all the space.

I really don’t know how much longer we’ll be in our high rise apartment. Maybe the end of the summer? Maybe until Christmas? Maybe by next spring? I don’t know. I try to not think about it.

Instead I try to find more places in the apartment where I can store my things. Pretty much the only available space left is in the elevator.

Do you think the other tenants will mind if I keep the boxes full of my winter clothes in there?