If you’re surprised to open this newspaper and see a column from me, I assure you that you’re not alone. In fact, the only one who would not have been surprised was my mom.
“You could be the next Erma Bombeck,” she’d say. Or, “why don’t you go write for that show, Saturday Night Live? You’re as funny as they are.” I don’t know about that, but I do know that when this opportunity presented itself, I jumped at the chance. My mom passed away in July of last year and, coincidence or not, I’ve been doing a bit of jumping since.
When my contract ended at WKYC in February, I jumped at the chance to get out of the anchor chair. It’s a good thing, too. My eyesight is just starting to get bad enough that I have mixed up my kohl eye liner with my rum lip liner, resulting in a sort of Goth-meets-AARP look. If high-definition television doesn’t take kindly to a few stray chin hairs, it’s certainly not going to favor a color mix-up like that.
My biggest and possibly craziest jump came just about two weeks ago. At the age of 55, when others are beginning to contemplate The Villages of Florida (where mixing up your lip and eye liners is a pretty common occurrence) or a condo near the kids, we moved into a two-story, four-bedroom 1969 colonial smack dab in the middle of 16 acres. There is a barn, too. Depending on whom you ask, the barn is either 100 or 150 years old, but we all know age is just a number, unless the wind is blowing through it.
For decades now, I’ve wanted to live on a farm. To look out the window of an old farmhouse and see fields of timothy grass instead of concrete. I’ve wanted to hear birds chirping rather than car horns, and to look into a night sky filled with stars, not street lamps. I’ve fantasized about sneezing and not having a neighbor so close they say, “God bless you.”
I’ve got it all now, along with some unforeseen “extras” that snuck in there.
First off, the move was incredibly hard. I have so much stuff (crap), I could hold a citywide garage sale by myself. A friend of mine stopped by after the first week we were here and asked if I’d called the police.
“Why would I do that?” I asked.
“It’s obvious you’ve been looted,” she said. “This place looks like New Orleans five weeks after Katrina.”
One of the movers said I should open a “secondhand secondhand” store. “You could call it ‘Play It Again, Again,’ ” he sneered.
“Be quiet and get that 600-pound sleeper sofa through that little basement door or you won’t move anybody again, again,” I quipped.
For the record, that sleeper sofa is on my back porch. It’s also for sale.
My dream home came with red shag carpet in the basement, turquoise fixtures in one bathroom and pink fixtures in the other. “There’s nothing like a man on a pink throne,” I told my husband.
Most of the house has beautiful hardwood floors, which is a good thing because what little carpet there is, is chartreuse. Historical fact: Chartreuse was named because of its resemblance to the color of a French liqueur called Green Chartreuse. Modern-day fact: Looking at it makes you want to drink any liqueur, liquor or several beers.
The most pleasant surprise has been the wallpaper in the bathrooms. Each time we shower or even wash our hands with hot water, the wallpaper starts to peel itself. This is a very good thing.
What is not such a good thing is that one week in, I had already awakened to critters dancing in the ceiling above our bed, cooked dinner with a giant daddy longlegs sitting on my shoulder and found a suspicious mole on my waist that was actually a tick. Yes, you read that correctly.
The good news is the nearest neighbor didn’t hear any of my screams, and I am still resolved to lovingly restoring this property to its glory days. I see horses, chickens and neutral carpet in the future.
Through this column, I hope to share with you this adventure as well as many others ahead. From horses and cows to chickens and neutral carpet, I plan to write it all in the fun, zany spirit with which I live my life. My hope is that you’ll jump in and join me.
I may not be the next Erma Bombeck, but I will make another jump right now, and that’s to the conclusion that writing this column would have made my mom proud. (Wish you were here to read it, Lil Momma … xoxo)
Contact Robin Swoboda at Robinswoboda@outlook.com.