In Your Dreams

I've been having the craziest dreams lately.

I haven't been sleeping well, and have been spending a lot of time in the middle of the night staring at the clock in a sheer panic about how few hours remain until my alarm will go off for work.

And I often wake, before said alarm, and wonder that the heck my subconscious is trying to tell me. I have a few theories, primarily since my dreams have been of long-past ex-boyfriends.

Are my dreams the expressions of my....

deepest desires?

subconscious regrets?

unfulfilled plans?

secret wishes?

mental reminders?

underlying nudges?

could'veshould'vebegladyoudidn't situations?

Or...more likely, a triggered memory from long ago that rises up, bubbles to the surface, awakens me with surprise, and fills me with odd feelings.

You've all been there. You have a dream about someone—be it a fight, or a love affair, or a heated discussion, or a telling moment—and when you wake up, you cognitively KNOW that it wasn't real, and that the other person doesn't know what happened, but when you see that person next, you feel odd. Intimate. Strangely connected, irrationally upset, rationally aware, yet embarrassed all the same.

In my recent dreams, I have experienced boyfriends from years, I mean decades, ago; they came to me as they'd be now (married, kids, successful, balding, OLDER) and yet the feelings that I'd had during our relationship were alive and present. One even offered me an extra-marital affair. I didn't partake.

One slightly more recent one, came to me with questions that haunt me to this day—if I hadn't moved away, would things be different?

One in the less distant past finally expressed all of what I'd been waiting for; yet, when I awoke, I felt nothing but relief that he was, in fact, an ex.

What are our dreams trying to tell us? And why do I keep visiting with and remembering my ex-boyfriends of years past? Is this like a drawn-out version of "The Christmas Story" as it relates to my love life?

God, I hope not. If so, I am not going to sleep tonight for fear of which ex-boyfriend will visit me this evening.

But, it does make me wonder what my brain is doing to me—is this a slideshow of the "things that could have been and you should be glad they didn't happen?" or the "see how great life was and you blew it?" or the reminder, in full-color and 3-D, of how badly mismatched we were in the first place?

I have no idea, but I'm not taking Tylenol PM ever again.

That stuff makes you have crazy night "memories."

And you? Don't visit me asking for an affair. In your dreams.

In the Weeds

Tonight after work, I got into the elevator at my condo building with four others. Three young men in their late teens or early twenties in casual dress, and one older woman in what looked like a church pot-luck dinner dress and pearls. I slid in the front, closest to the elevator door.

I smelled it instantly.

As soon as the metal door slid shut, the whiff of marijuana was so strong that it almost made my eyes water. If I hadn't known better, I'd thought that it was being smoked IN the elevator. I suspect it was just in a pocket, or sticking to clothes from a recent smoke, but I'm not sure. I couldn't help but smile to myself and think how the offender must have been either super-conscious of the scent, or oblivious to it entirely.

For risk of drug profiling, I won't commit immediately to which character I believe was carrying the pot and the corresponding smell.

But let's just be fair. Unless this lady goes to some seriously happening pot-lucks, I think we all know who had the weed.

The best part is this.

As we reached floor three, the little old lady, standing to my left in the corner by the elevator buttons, said brightly, "My my. It sure smells like grass in here!"

I almost swallowed my tongue.

And then she, with a happy grin, continued, "You boys must have been out there playing in the park, huh?"

Oh. That kind of grass.

Nope, Grandma, pretty sure you were right the first time.

The boys didn't respond to either statement. But when she exited the elevator on the 11th floor, and the doors slid closed, they broke out in a fit of laughter, bumping each other and generally just cracking up. It took everything in my power not to turn around and laugh with them, but I'm pretty sure they'd have just told this story later and included the part where the middle-aged lady laughed with them like she was a hip young thing.

So I refrained.

Grandma's reaction reminds me of the naivete that I experienced in high school, on the subject of weed.

I was a pretty solid goody-two-shoes. I know, you're shocked. It goes against every tough girl image you have of me. But, it's true. I had never smelled, seen or much less smoked pot. I was 14 years old, and living a very 14-year old life of innocence and childish joys. I recall vividly asking my mom what pot smelled like. (I have no idea what prompted that question.)

She said, and she was right, "When you smell it, you'll know. It smells sickly sweet, and nothing else smells quite like it."

Fast forward a few months. It was 1991 and I was a high school freshman. A bunch of kids decided to go to Lakewood Amphitheater to see Aerosmith. I went along. Brought my blanket and my hooded sweatshirt—you know, the innocent's essentials.

During the show, perched on the lawn littered with colorful blankets, fans of all ages and beer cans and other trash, I sat with my friends and jammed to the show.

At one point, as the sun started to slip behind the theater, I turned around to realize that someone was sitting on the back edge of our blanket. It appeared they were holding a small pottery souvenir. And? Lighting it. Hmmm.

I was unsure. I mean, I wasn't a total imbecile, but again, I was pretty naive to all things illegal.

Quietly asking a friend nearby, I remember asking what that kid was doing.

My friend looked at me incredulously, "Uhm, he's smoking a bowl." Like I was the biggest idiot ever.

He may have been right, but I didn't know. I nodded like I knew that and of course that miniature piece of pottery was a bowl. That you smoked with. I knew that.

I got home that night, in time for my 11 pm curfew, and told my mom the story.

The first question she asked wasn't, "Did you do it?!?!" with horror. Nope. She said, with a knowing smile, "So now you know what it smells like. Sickly sweet, isn't it?"

She was right. Just one of the many life lessons I learned from my mom in those pivotal years.

I guess no one ever taught Grandma that one.

It Rings True

It's a double-edged sword, to say the least.

When I'm meeting clients, vendors or prospects in a business setting, the conversation, usually over copious amounts of wine, turns to the elements of our personal life (like tonight, so please forgive anything I say from here on out). It is at this point that I feel like we really "connect." I get to see the true personality—the hobbies, interests, passions and pursuits that make these people who they really are—not just during the week, but in real life.

Unfortunately, for me, the conversation almost inevitably, and so it should, turns to children. How many, what ages, what sports they play, what talents they possess, and so on.

Genuinely, I ask, listen and nod along. I review the photos, ask the ages, record mentally their names. I do care—it is these conversations that often evoke a simple secret, a small nugget of truth, with which I can connect to the client, vendor or prospect at a later date. These factoids come in handy, and I am blessed with a strong enough short-term memory to invoke them when needed. It serves me well.

Ironically, then, that it is the exact same conversation that often reveals to me the stark contrast between what clients, vendors or prospects THINK of me, and what is real.

Most obviously, my age.

Because I do not have a husband and children (more so the latter), I am often judged as far younger than I am. I know, this seems a small price to pay and one that carries no pity from you all out there. However, in the early-to-mid part of my career, with more than 11 years under my belt and far more to come, I feel that I have worked hard to overcome many such judgments and age-based discriminations thus far.

I have risen to the occasion, met the challenge, exceeded the expectations. I have put myself, or been placed inadvertently or on purpose, in positions that will force me to "mature professionally" quickly, and have proven myself to be worthy of the opportunity. I am proud of where I stand in my career, and have nothing to hide.

But, since I don't talk openly of my little girl in first grade, or my darling son in pre-school, the aforementioned clients, vendors and prospects all assume immediately that I am younger than I am. Which, in turn, leads to a preconceived notion of my experience, or more precisely, the lack thereof.

I know I shouldn't care. I should be flattered by the impartial assummtpion that I am 25 or 26 (because, seriously, have they seen the lines on my face?). But, frankly, after working this hard for the past decade and more, I wish that it didn't require having birthed a small person to earn their trust and respect.

Because at this point, I'm practically willing to buy a CZ ring and fill my wallet and memory bank with images and stories of children that I don't yet know, if only to validate the respect and trust that I have earned through my hard work with such professional contacts.

If you're a mother, working outside the home or within, I hope you're not offended. But, please know that you're immediately granted some level of "wisdom" that I'm certain you've earned—through potty training or breastfeeding or diaper-changing—that subconsciously imparts that you are world-wise (and possibly world-weary!) in a way that cannot be transcribed to us simple working women. I can't explain it, but it's true. I see it on their faces, and then hear it in their voices when they make jokes about me being just a handful of years past college graduation. (As if. I can't even recall most of my college experience.)

I'm not claiming to know it all—or more than any of my mothering friends—but frankly, the natural assumption of business contacts that I am less of a 'mature woman' because I'm not yet fortunate to be a mother and wife assumes that I don't want that, have passed that by, aren't interested, or, frankly, wouldn't willingly leave all this behind in a heartbeat to find that privilege.

Not so fast.

The ring and the baby stroller may not be in my immediate present, but I assure you, they will be in my future. And until then, I'll continue to be the best client service professional you've ever met. And will celebrate my 26th birthday 7 more times over.

Oh wait. I have. I'll have to make that 8+.

Small Spaces, Big Laughs

Since I mentioned recently that I was getting the itch to get back into the real estate game, I've been spending a lot of time thinking about life in the city.

A few things have occurred to me, and I am not sure you'd understand unless you've:

a) lived in a huge city,

b) lived in a high-rise,

c) lived without a car or

d) lived on your own for a really long time.

So, here's to us. The apartment dwellers. The high-rise residents. The world-weary urbanites. The soloists.

With that in mind:

You know you live alone in an urban, high-rise apartment when...

...you now understand the idiom "not enough room to swing a cat" quite literally.

…you only have two small lamps and the whole room is bright.

…your social events have a max load capacity requirement guest list.

....you had to choose one color palette for every 'room' in your house since you can pretty much stand in the 'foyer' and see every corner of the joint.

...your next-door neighbor is a quiet Portuguese woman who cares for her not-so-quiet Portuguese wheelchair-bound mother.

...you have invented stories, and names, for the neighbors you see in the building next door.

...your arms are sore from the full-contact sport that is grocery shopping and walking the two-blocks and up the elevator and down the hallway and into the apartment only to dump it on the floor because your kitchen is too small before it gets put away and who's hungry anymore fact of the matter.

…you have to switch out the clothes in closet seasonally because only one season fits at a time.

...you recognize that privacy must be planned, as in, "I'm going into the bathroom for awhile, okay?"

...you have scheduled a luggage or a shopping cart from the front desk, a la the bellstand at a hotel, just to get your shopping treasures inside.

...you know that your upstairs neighbors are new parents and like to make love at about 9 pm on Tuesdays.

...you have experienced the 'use the stairs only in an emergency' down 13 flights when you awoke to the fire alarm, only to find out that the billowing smoke was luckily coming from the south tower of the building, not the north (yours).

…you can carry on a full conversation with someone in the kitchen from your bedroom.

...you see someone downtown, on the sidewalk, and you think you know them from somewhere, all before you realize that they run the 'volunteer library' in your building, which says something about your lack of social life.

...you have to dust the kitchen countertops and the dining room table more than once a week because of the dust from Lake Shore Drive.

...you know when your downstairs neighbor is cooking Italian, and you smell it long into the night.

...you have ridden in an elevator upwards of 12 times in one day.

...you have three overnight guest options—a pull out sofa, an Aerobed and to spoon with you.

...you know precisely how much laundry you can manage to carry in an elevator up to the 26th floor laundry room without wincing in pain.

...your wingspan is wider than your bathroom.

...you have towels and sheets folded into a linen closet that doubles as storage for your hotel-stolen-toiletries, your feather duster, your ace bandages, your laundry detergent and your extra lightbulbs.

...you live, shower, sleep, eat and drink within 4 yards of at least 12 people and you could neither recall their names or pick them out of a lineup.

...you know the Cubs are playing a night game because of the neon glow it makes in your bedroom and the sullen admission that, no, the applause is not for you.

...you have actually felt jealousy, no, rage, at the sheer envy that bubbles up inside when you overhear someone talking about their "backyard," "garden," "driveway," "deck," "patio," "garage," or, God forbid, their "cul-de-sac."

...you've decided that it no longer matters if the neighbor building sees you in your skivvies while you iron in the living room.

...you've felt self-conscious while putting your it-was-more-than-one-week-I-swear stash of wine bottles into the recycling bin in the trash chute room.

...you know your bus is coming because you can hear it before it arrives, and you may actually make it downstairs and out the front door before it pulls up to your stop, sortof like in grade school when you stood at the base of your driveway.

...your morning showers are affected by the untimely flush of your upstairs neighbor.

...you just vacuumed your entire apartment while plugged into one outlet.

That last one actually just happened to me and I laughed out loud.

Because it helps to have a sense of humor while trapped in a 900-square foot, 4-room looney bin.

Trust me.

Any other small-space urban dwellers that want to chime in?

By all means.

In fact, shout it aloud—I can probably hear you through the walls.

I'm a Sport

Once upon a time, I was quite sporty.

Athletic, even.

And now, after a 30-minute workout video, I can hardly move.

Sitting down was hard today.

Getting up was even worse.

Muscles I didn't even know I had hurt.

My hair may even be sore.

I hate you, Jillian Michaels.

It almost hurts to type.

With summer on its way, I know cognitively I should be exercising to rid my body of the layer of fat (layers?) that have accumulated through the last six months (nine?).

But I just have to be honest.

I HATE working out.

Does that make you cringe? Feel pity for my aging body? Think of me differently?

Yes, there were these days when I exercised religiously every day for 3 hours to achieve near-State-champion greatness:


I'm #30, the one usually in the back with a grosgrain ribbon-tied ponytail, for those of you that weren't there to witness the madness that was the Lady Blue Devils.

For you, especially, I will tell you that the days of my high school basketball career were some of the best. I walked on to a team, as a very tall, quite skinny freshman, that was bad. Really bad. Something like 2-12 bad. I have no idea how bad exactly, but bad.

I know what you're thinking. It was GIRLS BASKETBALL. Of course it was bad.

You'd be wrong.

I was 6' tall and lanky. "Weak as water," as my coach would say, replete with his southern twang and tweedy jacket. But, he saw promise. Potential. I proceeded to start as a freshman, and then every game thereafter. Eventually I would go on to be quite a defensive player with a good run at the region's record for most blocks. I never was strong, but I was a team player and a Merit Player for my good attitude, stamina and ability to, well, block their team of shorties.

The best part, at the beginning, was the varsity gear. The slicky track suits that we got to wear on game day, embarrassingly modeled below.


The separate outfits that we got to wear while warming up, pre-game, to the tunes of "Whoomp There it Is" and the like.

I could have been happy just with that. But, then there was the camaraderie. The joy of being on a team. The thrill of winning, and decorating our coach's front lawn with toilet paper and spirited signage. The dance parties (with our coach and his fabulous comb-over-do and effervescent cologne) in our tiny, yet colorful locker room, exhibited below, with our regional championship trophy.




And winning like mad.

We went from 2-12 or whatever to winning the subregions my junior year. And then winning the regions that same year. And then going on to have a record-breaking senior year. Selling out the gymnasium, bringing in even more fans than the boys team, who "supposedly" were the headliners after our games, but who didn't draw half the crowd we did.

We went all over the state of Georgia, knocking down opponents in all corners of the AAAA division. We had fun. We won games. Kids got scholarships. And we all were toned, in shape and fast.

Aaaaaannnnnndddd.

Then time caught up with us.

And now, here I am, 15 years later, hurting after one stupid 30-minute workout video showed me who's boss.

Needless to say, I miss the days when a 3-hour practice was routine, running suicides was just an appetizer before the team pasta dinner, a bus ride meant you were on to something great, and each Friday meant you were a star member of the winning team and cheerleaders decorated your locker and brought you cookie cakes that said things like, "Kick Cass" to rile you up for that night's game.

We had a good run. We learned the meaning of teamwork. We went the distance together. We achieved greatness, going something like 13-1. Lost a crucial one in the last seconds of the overtime buzzer, but we had the crowd on our side. Ended up #8 in the entire state of Georgia, in a very competitive division of girls' high school basketball.


And today I'll drink a toast to that.

From my sofa, in the fetal position.

Damn you Jillian Michaels.

If only you said things like Coach Teague used to say, in his thick and loud southern twang, "Y'all don't know whether to wind your butt or scratch your watch" or "You couldn't hit water if you fell out of a boat" or "You girls make chickens with their heads cut off look organized," at least I would feel at home. I would understand that the pain was all worth it.

Even if I didn't know what half those phrases meant.

Reunion?

Why hello there, Internets.

I know, I know.

I just up and left you all.

Hanging. Wondering. Waiting.

Well, I apologize.

I owe you that much at least.

What I also owe you is an explanation.

Unfortunately, I can't do that.

So, instead, I'm going to just say, please. Welcome me back.

Will you have me?

I sure hope so. My how I've missed you.

Please be patient with me. Like with anything, it will take some time to heal the pain of our parting. But, I am confident that we'll get back to the way we were.

Remember the good days? The fond memories we shared? The joys that we endured?

See? It's possible to forgive and not forget.

I'm so glad to see you again. Now, let's just hope some of you haven't forgotten what brought us together in the first place.

In the interim, here's a few nuggets to nibble on while you lick your wounds.

Since we last met, a few things have transpired. A lot is different.

And, yet, nothing has changed.

• I am working hard, with long hours and challenging stuff. I enjoy the people that surround me daily, and I have a lot to learn. And much to teach. And loads to give.


• I have decided to go back to being blonde. It is just more 'me' and I miss that. I will keep you updated. It's not a matter of national security or anything, but I know I will just feel more right in my own skin.


• Summer is almost here. It's knocking on our doors, or the open windows, rather. Can you taste the optimism? Can you feel the hope? After an extremely mild winter, and a quite lovely spring, I hardly feel worthy. But, I'll take it.


• I helped out a photographer friend, Tracy Petersen as she built her lifestyle portrait business, and the above shot is one of her best from our time touring Chicago with her lens and my embarrassment. We sure had fun, and the resulting business (oh the power of the random Facebook post!) has been so gratifying.


• The coming months should be named the summer of concerts. I have plans to see many, many live shows, and I'm brushing up on my download skills, making room on my iPod and plotting the morning afters. To name a few, I will be seeing U2 live at Soldier Field (to make up for the tickets I had to sell for my sister's wedding this past September), Kings of Leon (sadly, at a suburban amphitheater), Bon Jovi (also at Soldier Field, good little rockers), O.A.R. (at the fantastic Northerly Island venue on the lake). And then there's the granddaddy of concerts, Lollapalooza. I still haven't made up my mind if the ever-so-strange lineup will call me to be present, but there's still a chance.


• Sadly, I said goodbye to a great friend as she took her leap of faith and moved across the country to find her own big mountain in Denver, CO. I'm so proud of her, and know that doing such a thing 10 years ago changed my life, as I suspect this will for her. It just begs the question, is it time for the next round of Chicago departures to happen? I hate that.


• So many pregnancies! One of my dearest is about to give birth to her very first, and I can't wait to go for the VERY FIRST TIME to the hospital to meet the baby on his or her birthday. I just can't wait. I only hope I don't give in to my biological urges and snatch a baby from the hallways. I should definitely not be left unattended.


• I have the real estate itch. I have found myself spending hours on a Sunday trolling the websites looking at properties. An email even went out to my realtor asking where and when we should start. He urged me to wait until this summer, but I'm antsy and excited. I long for two bedrooms (one for a guest bed and an office) and possibly, dare I say, a second bathroom for guests? In-unit washer and dryer, a garbage disposal and a balcony would complete the package. After five years without those things, who knew how important they'd be to me now? Stay tuned for what only promises to be more exciting, and less stressful, than the first go-round.

And that's about it. I'm not traveling as much, if at all, for work now, so that's a relief. Sadly, that means no more flight delays, hotel room service, late nights, early meetings and getting lost on the New Jersey Turnpike, but I'm not complaining. No, really, I'm not.

Until the next time (it may take me a bit to get back in the groove), I thank you for your patience, continued support and you welcoming me home with open arms.

I've really missed you. It's been a challenge. You have no idea.

Home is Where the Spackle Is

In this economic climate, I know that there is a lot of intelligent discussion about how best to spend your money. There are experts that debate the rent vs. own situation all the time.

I am not one of those experts.

Sometimes I wish, and wonder, if I'd be better off if I were still flushing $1,000+ in monthly rent.

I bought a condo, however, in 2005. In the peak of the market. But, I had vision and saw past the dingy and the old and the dirty and the unkempt to see the potential in a condo. I looked for space, location and features that couldn't be changed. I knew what I would and wouldn't compromise on, and bent my 'rules' where necessary.

In short, I spent a grueling 3 months looking for the right place with my amazing realtor, Tom, who, in a lot of ways, served as the 'male point of view,' which was sorely needed. He encouraged me to seek a place that had the space that I wanted, and that had the bare bones with which I could work.

My parents, being handy and dandy altogether, were kind enough to give up almost two weeks of their time to come to Chicago (driving the 13 hours with a carload of stuff, tools, furniture and the rest) to assist me in the complete and utter renovation of my new condo.

I should start at the beginning, to give you a real sense of with what I was really dealing. My condo was owned by a 104 year-old woman who'd just recently died in hospice. She'd been in a wheelchair, and clearly hadn't updated her decor in, oh, say, 20 years. Which is to be expected for a woman who was born in 1901. Yes, turn of the century, people.

The building was converted to condos in the 80s, but had been built as apartments in the 60s. I'd bet anything that the previous and aforementioned tenant had lived here that whole time, and hadn't changed much in the way of decor or finishes since then.

She had, in no particular order of favor, a pink stove, brown metal cabinets with wood-grain stickers, a brown fridge, a beige wall-mounted rotary phone, velvety linoleum tiles in the dining room, two mismatched folding doors to the kitchen, a rickety wooden "pantry," a full-length mirror on the outside of the bathroom door facing the living room, and generally just tired paint. The walls looked like she'd run that wheelchair right up on them, and the carpet was no better off.

All in all, I had to have SERIOUS vision.

The light was great. There were full-length windows facing north, where the "look left" was Wrigley Field and the sunsets, and the "look right" was Lake Michigan and Waveland Park. The space was pretty good—fairly large for a 1-bedroom. The bones were there, but man, the filling was bad.

BAAAAD.

So, my parents and I ripped it out. Dismantled the kitchen. Gutted the bathroom. Replaced the flooring in the kitchen and dining room. Updated the fixtures, the lighting, the appliances. Painted every surface that wasn't carpeted, including the radiators and covers. The only thing we salvaged (literally, the only thing) was the crystal chandelier in the dining room. My sister (who, to her own detriment, arrived later to help) cleaned it and painted the brass parts black. It is gorgeous now.

Overall, we sweat and swore and sweat and swore some more for more days than we'd like to recall.

The work was worth it. I show you the bad so you can appreciate the good. Which, I'm not showing just yet. I know, what a tease. In the true spirit of reality shows, I'm not revealing the results just yet. I have more photos to come because I'm receiving some final furniture pieces and I'll post final photos then. Come on....the dessert is just not ready yet!

Please "enjoy" the before pictures:

Love that poo-brown fridge!
Rotary phone dialing, anyone?

Yes, the tiles are fuzzy.

Ooh. Laminate! Brown metal wood sticker cabinets!

Pink stovetop and oven, anyone?

The dining room, with the fixture in its brass beginnings.

Grey tile and wraparound counters, yes!

The furniture was probably valuable...

How would you sleep in that rocking chair?

See? VISION.

And, I bring all of this up so you can understand where I am coming from this week.

Awhile back, I noticed that in my bathroom, the paint on the ceiling was starting to crack a bit. I chalked it up to the fact that the moisture was trapped—there isn't a working vent, and there isn't a window. Aaaand, I put it off.

And then it got worse, as things that you ignore tend to do.

Last week, I noticed a new crack in the kitchen paint. The sage green painted wall was actually peeling off, a bit like nail polish. Then I looked around more carefully, and spotted a few more places on the wall, and now the kitchen ceiling, where the paint was behaving just as badly.

I was not altogether pleased.

So, on my birthday last week, I rented a Zipcar and ran some errands. Two phone calls to my Dad from the aisles of Home Depot later, I came home with the spackle, rollers and sandpaper to repair the said ceilings and walls.

Luckily, I saved the extra paint from 2005. I was praying that the color actually matched after four years of living.

I put off the project as long as possible.

And then, this weekend, I started. Sanding the edges of the cracking/peeling paint. Spackled it right up. Sanded it down. And then...got derailed.

The spackle was forcing the cracking/peeling paint up again. like a disobedient child. I, like a sad child, was almost in tears. The problem had just taken a turn for the worse. Part of me wanted to just stick the peeling parts down with super glue. Part of me wanted to just ignore them and spackle on like a brave project engineer. And part of me wanted to just give up and go get a beer.

The beer won.

After the beer and the project settled, I sanded the spackled areas (which were getting larger and more aggressive as I went along) and then stood up on the granite countertops, with the upright vacuum cleaner next to me, using all sorts of vacuum attachments, and sucked up all the sanding dust that had settled all over the top of my kitchen cabinets, my refrigerator, the granite island, and everywhere else that dust did and possibly could travel. I'm fairly certain that the neighbors across the way had a field day watching me (curiously no doubt) dancing on the countertop. Well, dancing might be a stretch when you consider that my head was titled at a right angle to fit under the ceiling, and the outfit wasn't exactly club attire.

I digress, but I hope you're at least laughing at that vision. I said I had vision, right?!

Then, where the spots were ready, I painted them. Luckily, they succumbed and the process was fairly painless—and, the spots were covered. Can I get a wahoo!?

Tonight, in a sad, dejected effort to finish what I'd started, I took a trip to the hardware store tonight to get more spackle. I guess a little foresight would have served me well when the optimist in me bought the smallest freaking jar of spackle to begin with. I am now armed with more.

However, ABC foiled my efforts by unveiling the new season of "The Bachelor" and I have now had almost two glasses of wine. Not even this homeowner fearless spackle warrior is willing to tackle the cracking devil with that much cabernet in me.

So, I delay the project's impending completion while I travel north to my second home (New Jersey, of course) tomorrow for the rest of the week. I'll post more photos when the project is complete, just to give you all the same sense of completion and closure that I'll no doubt feel.

Until that rascally paint starts peeling again.

Maybe I can sell this place and move before that can happen. After all, isn't 2010 the promised 'market bounceback?'

Yeah. I know. I bought a bigger jar of spackle this time.

Where's the landlord when you need 'em?

Oh yeah. She's had 2 glasses of red wine and is getting into her PJs now.