Susan Walters

I come here innocently enough, with ideas aplenty to blog about, somewhat afraid that if I post one thing after another people will think I am a machine, or a machine is behind me.

Sorry, it is just me. Imperfect. Hit and miss. Today I actually picked up our local weekly paper at the supermarket (I had unsubscribed as a boycott to the new editor's policies but I don't think she knows...) and found so many articles to trigger a blog that my husband and son were totally distracted while I ripped the paper as they were trying to watch "4400". Has anyone ever heard of that???!!! They have it on DVD or maybe Tivo and when their schedules allow, they watch it together. It is a total soap opera for nerds! (I love nerds, understand...my family is totally nerdular, probably me included but science fiction is not my thing - I like to think I am more "normal"...fail...)

Anyway, after the episode ended and they agreed they needed to continue to the next episode, noting any plot twist could happen in this show (soap opera!!!), they finally left. I signed on to AR, having completed my newspaper devastation, and prepared to blog.

Yet, what was I met with? Romancing the loan. That is too clever to pass up, and as I read it, there were other literary/linguistic twists that kept me reading, not to mention useful information. I read the very fine blog and curse it for its deviation course of my goal - my own blogging. I knew not to look further at other blog entries or I would be similarly distracted. Warning: DO NOT go to your subscribed bloggers if you want to post a blog! This was not even a subscribed blog! You WILL NOT post a blog! You will read, comment, go to their links, view their videos, and before you know it, it is 4 AM and you need to be awake at 6AM!!!

So here I sit with three time-critical entries about local events that I think are very important and I will not blog about them tonight. Why? Because of AR blog distraction and I have decided that the trees in bloom in Ann Arbor, Michigan are too precious to miss right now (despite my severe pollen allergies) and I want to get enough sleep to appreciate them.

So the three articles, one on Poppy Days for veterans (near and dear to my heart) and free e-waste recycling (we have a NASA-like center in our basement, remember - NERDS - ever a concern), and the AP art show in our town (I help coordinate our office art-on-loan program with another agent in our office) will just have to wait. Hopefully I will be able to blog about these worthy issues tomorrow before it is too late. I have a cat snuggled up to me right now and I'd like to blog about animal rights too but that is ever-present. For now I will say goodnight. Stop and smell the blooming flowers in your town but don't bother with the ornamental pear trees - they smell like dog poop. I know because a young child told me that and they are very truthful about smells - and that child was right. Smell the good flowers. Only commit to the things you know are true and good, in all things in life. Can I be quoted on that? Or am I too late...as usual.

Today I set an agenda for myself that included getting my backlogged laundry done between real estate work, having no previously scheduled appointments with clients. That goal was interrupted by a semi-urgent need to go into the office - I work from home primarily. I would be meeting a potential client, cash buyer, who needs to close a property in 2 weeks since his current property closing then will be happening but the purchase deal he thought he had will not be happening...via his relative the realtor. I really hope I am not in trouble on this one but the man needs somewhere to live! He is a referral from a current client of mine. He and the relative/realtor are not speaking.

So with all the unexpected activity today, my office hours ran late. I was determined to get that darn laundry done and sheets on my master bed were included in the lineup. As I pulled them off at 9 PM or so and put them into the washing machine, I realized how late I would be in re-making the bed. Of course I have extra sheets, but they are the retired ones before these, and there are retired ones behind those too. I briefly thought about what might happen if the newest sheets didn't get washed and dried and we slept on the mattress pad and pillows with pillow protectors only. I realized with shame what an elitist I am.

Here in Michigan, people are losing their homes in record numbers. They are being forced into rental situations where their credit might be scrutinized and rentals denied; not paying the mortgage has to rank highly on the 'what not to do' list. These people quite literally may have nowhere to go. There may not be relatives and there may not be storage for the personal possessions that survived the foreclosure. There may not be friends, neighbors, religious organizations, shelters, or other kind souls who could help them in their hour of need. Safety nets are often not really real.

Yet here I am worrying about whether my newest sheets would be dry before bedtime. I may complain mightily about juggling to keep the bills paid, having to have my children take out student loans for college (we had planned to pay) or roar about the cost of gasoline, but I am not in danger of losing my house, vehicles, insurances, utilities, food, fuel, satellite TV, internet, or the occasional night out. My credit score may not be ideal but it will recover, fairly quickly now that the market is turning around here in Ann Arbor, MI.

I just made my bed; I think the thread count is around 600 on those sheets. There are three sets of paired pillows, a thermal blanket, a down comforter, and a dry-clean-only topper covering it all. I am worried? About what? I have a great place to sleep and a crummy credit score. So what! Where are YOU sleeping tonight?

Yes, that is quite sexist when considering that I am a woman who IS a wife but that is precisely why my title is what it is. I was a STAY-AT-HOME wife for many years due to young children and then my husband's employment outside the US that did not allow me to work. I know of what I speak.

I am defining wife as someone who is the helper doing the necessary life things that must be done for a family but also may involve the other partner's job. As noted, I did that for years. It is a full time job.

Now that I am in a full time profession as a realtor, rather than the "wife", things slip throught the cracks. Recently the insurance supplied by my husband's company disappeared for everyone but him because a mailing required response that we apparently did not supply. We needed to verify that the individuals on his health insurance plan were still eligible. In our household, if it is not a bill, we generally demote mailings to non-urgent, and after a period of time they are eliminated. Junk mail is the enemy and I purposedly avoid realtor mass mailings for cost, ecological, and annoyance reasons. I prefer my business to come from word of mouth and am fortunate now that most of it does. It was either that the notice was demoted to junk mail status or the 3 times in 6 months that our rural mailbox was downed by hooligans, eliminating mail delivery. We're not sure.

I envy those male colleagues of mine who have full-time wives at home, and if I knew any, I would envy those female colleagues who have full-time husbands at home. I don't believe this is generally a two-way street though. I feel, despite my family's incredible efforts to pull themselves up and fill the gaps of my absence and coordination, that this is a challenge not yet completely met, at least in my household. It's not for lack of trying, just for lack of knowing, or training, as one mother accused me of years ago. Older teens and grown men have eyes and stomachs too. It should all be obvious, particularly with my reminders.

Again, back to the sexist part, when I see my male colleagues still in the office at 7 PM knowing they have younger children, I know many of their life needs are being met by someone esle. Someone who picks up the kids, feeds them, puts them to bed if necessary, perhaps opens the mail and pays the bills, almost certainly cooks, shops, and cleans for the family. Perhaps there is hired help to do some or all of those things, but in our market now in Michigan, I am thinking no.

Maybe it is just the stage of life I am in, one child in college, one readying to go to college, one devoted to academic scholarship for college. I need a wife! There will be no salary or benefits. Anyone want to apply for the job? Must love cats....

First, before any of you, my loyal readers, panic from my title (yoo-hoo-hoooo, anybody out there?), my daughter Sara is alive and well in her 14 day solo adventure through 8 countries in Europe.

Just to recap, Sara's plans to have a male companion along on this journey fell completely apart due to his non-US passport issues but she decided to forge on alone. She is sleeping on the couches of strangers for free, with her incredibly fluent English language skills and her passable French language skills helping her along the way. None of the 14 days are in France, by the way, though this is spring break from her study abroad program in Paris, France. If you really want to know how she feels, deep down inside, please read the hilarious accounts of Dave Sedaris in "Me Talk Pretty One Day." She would love to meet him and swap stories, identifying completely with his misadventures in language, I am sure. Anyone out there connected? But I digress....

I admit I was not happy to know she had embarked on her adventure without supplying me with a copy of her planned itinerary and her couchsurfing hosts/hostesses. I had stressed the need to let everyone know where she would be and she had forgotten to clue me in? After the early communications when I knew she was doing just fine, I stopped worrying about that but then, on a whim, I checked the email account I had abandoned some months ago. She had sent all the details there, by mistake no doubt, in the tumult of last minute affairs. I can only imagine the organizational nightmare she went through in researching her destinations, the planes, trains, and buses connecting them, the not-to-be-missed sights at each locale, and the scrutiny of the couchsurfing accommodations. I give her full credit for arranging this without help from anyone, while also working on a full load of classes in Paris. She's still looking for a summer internship in New York City. Anyone? Anyone? English/publishing is desired, but international relations, travel accommodations, immigration? Help?

For details of her travels to date, please visit her blog at www.saraanneinparis.blogspot.com. There are no photos since she forgot to pack a key camera cable for this trip. Photos will come later, she promises. What's more fun than reading about someone else's travel adventures, without photos, huh? (Sort of reminiscent of the first blog posts I wrote here - monolithic text without any breaks for paragraphs or photos - don't go there - it is just embarassing...I have learned sooooooooo much!) Well, if you read Dave Sedaris, you would have to think twice before dismissal of said travel posts. Perhaps the same is true of Sara. You be the judge. I cannot be; I am her mother.

The other day I reached into a file folder and for the first time in years got a paper cut on my finger. It hurt like bloody hell. I kept a bandaid on the tip of my finger for two days, precariously positioned because of the location of the cut, but finally abandoned it from annoyance. The cut was not yet healed and reminded me of that with occasional pangs of pain when I forgot about it being there on my right hand, me being a righty.

Maybe that was the final straw to remind me how much I despise paper, particularly paper clutter that arrives via the mail and piles up on surfaces throughout our home. If the kids bring it in from school, it goes somewhere near to the front door. If my husband brings it in from work, it usually ends up in our first floor master bedroom. If I bring it in, well, I have no C in my DISC personality profile so I am the worst offender of all - it could land anywhere.

Right now, I could overlook all the paper clutter if I could just find my key ring. I am living on borrowed time with my husband's set of keys to my vehicle. I'm doomed if I lose those too. I strongly suspect my keys are under a pile of paper, in the crack of a couch cushion, maybe under a pile of unfolded laundry. Perhaps our cats are taking my car out for joyrides at night and they have the keys, tucked under the blankets in one of the many cat baskets in the house. No, that is stretching it a bit, though I think cats might be capable if they really put their minds to it. No one really knows what goes on in the mind of a cat.

Whether it was the paper cut, the keys, or the tax frenzy, it was definitely time to tame the paper enemy. I mentioned my plan to my husband and shopped for something that would meet all of our requirements. Nothing suitable found. I decided to design something, keeping it really simple with narrow shelf brackets, a white laminate shelf length, and some impromptu dividers from the lumber leftovers in the garage. Imagine a contraption that looks like a shallow flower box on shelf brackets with seven labeled sections, five marked for family members, an additional one for communal family mail, and a final section for shredding. The recycle bin is 3 feet away and a trash can also lurks nearby. I envision defeat of the enemy paper.

Today was spent sorting through the little mail piles around the house and heralding success as each new goal was met. Nothing earth-shattering had been overlooked in the sidelined mail but this week begins a new paper era in our household so nothing ever will be again. I am confident everyone will get onboard.

Next week we've penciled in making the largest monolithic mailbox/newspaper tower of cinder blocks and brick that anyone has ever seen, out by our country road, to thwart those hooligans who have toppled our mailbox 3 times in the last six months. If they continue to take out our mailbox, their vehicles or other implements of mailbox merriment will feel the power of block, brick, rebar, and mortar. No more downed mailboxes delaying delivery for us. If we've gone to all this trouble to control the mail once it gets into the house, then bring it on mail carrier - we're ready! Now where the heck did I put those keys?