the modernity ward

Eeeeeeeeee!

We'regonnagetahouseohmygodtheyacceptedourofferaaaaaaaahhhhh!

Updates to follow.

Nothing to Report

Soon maybe we'll have some house news though...

Free Lancing

You know, like a boil. Or something.

I have elected to become a freelance content-generating robot, and it's nice to have bubblegum money, but it's taking away from my blogging, a little bit. Well, no. That's not entirely true. It's taking away from my worthless dicking around on the internet, is what it's doing, which is a good thing -- but man, I'm tired. Tired enough that I have a persistent eyelid twitch, and the theme from "Night Court" permanently, insistently, playing in my head.

Our neighbor across the street died day before yesterday. It wasn't unexpected, coming at the end of a long agonizing illness, but... she had two little children, just a little older than mine (respectively). So we had to talk about that, since the kids are always playing together. Sophia looked up from her coloring like somebody'd goosed her with a cattle prod when I said "died." This woman, we had never even met her, she'd been ill since before we even moved to town, but -- ach. We know the kids, we know her husband, we know her father and the neighbors who have known her. Like I've said, this block is a pretty tight-knit community.

My heart aches for the family, and for those kids, and I feel a little extra ferocious in my love for my girls. Sophia wanted to know what it feels like to die -- something we've been talking about for a while now -- and I told her that nobody really knows, but that when a person has been in pain for a long time, when they die they don't hurt any more.

And that's about all I've got this morning. It's a beautifully bleak end-of-November day (I really do love this weather!) and there's going to be a lot of soup this week. How y'all doing?

Dude, What Day Is It Again?

The past five days have involved:

• black widow hiding in recycle bin (huge)
• Sophia perforated eardrum (awful)
• Daphne cold same night (seriously, I got like three hours of sleep max)
• Sean out of town (see above) (also, now back)
• House hunting (frantic flailing about as market dead in pre-holiday period)
• MY house, THE house, the one we made an offer on and didn't get, having an open house
• BUT nobody has bought it yet
• SO we're resubmitting the offer
• Apocalyptic flea infestation (Advantage in the mail)
• Dad in a holding pattern
• Toilet requiring plunging
• Cat barfed off edge of desk
• Freelance articles here and there (yay)
• Some other things I am forgetting, because
• All I can think about is houses.

Seriously, I am ready to have the deed in hand, because then I can stop thinking about it! But right now all I can think is, my god, who would let US have a HOUSE? Because we're a couple of nine-year-olds! We don't own property! You should see our car! It looks like a moose kicked it!

I try to imagine us as homeowners and it inevitably devolves into some scenario involving us running in circles shrieking and going out to poop in the yard. I mean, sure, we're taking good care of our kids, up to code if you will, and seem to be managing our affairs sensibly enough. No credit card debt or anything. But...

When Sean is out of town, I keep the house together pretty well up until the last day. I feed the kids well and make sure all the little needs are met. The whole time, though, I eat like a 19-year-old boy who is alternating between uppers and weed. Nothing for long stretches, then an entire tub of Oatmeal Cranberry Dunkers and half a case of Diet Coke. Couple apple slices for breakfast, then six bowls of cereal and a cheeseburger at lunch. What if it turns out I'm like that with house maintenance?

I never worried once about my ability to take care of a newborn baby, but a house? Whole different ballgame, that.

Armed and Dangerous

If you have little kids, you're used to the hefting: baby up, baby down, preschooler out of immediate harm's way, groceries, laundry. I was standing in a parking lot yesterday hefting the stroller out of the trunk for the nine frillionth time when I heard, in an approving tone, "Hey, strong arms!"

My admirer was a young man in the next car over. He was either a college football player or a model who plays a college football player in cologne ads, and he was clearly not hitting on me -- just genuinely admiring my massive guns -- so I smiled and pointed to the twenty-five pound baby I was then hefting into the hefty stroller. "Best upper-body workout in the world," I said, or something equally dumb, making sure to flash my braces and maybe a tantalizing sliver of stretchmarked belly from beneath my applesauce-encrusted t-shirt.

"Well, have a good day!" he said, smiling, and drove off. I leaned down to kiss my baby as I buckled her in.

Then I made sure to kiss each bicep.

* * * *

So I've got these mighty arms, like that green cartoon flea with the twirly mustache, and I've got all this barely suppressed anger and rage, and I was thinking that maybe, instead of periodically getting frustrated that the baby is awake again for the fourth time in two hours and karate-chopping the top of the ancient seagrass hamper until it breaks last night, I could harness my powers for good.

I was thinking I could beat up some child molesters or something. Maybe put up an ad on late night TV: "Do you have BAD PEOPLE in your life or possibly your neighborhood? Did you read a disturbing news story about a HORRIBLE PERSON? Do you want a MAD LADY to BEAT THEM UP?" And then there'd be a frame of me standing very still (we couldn't afford a real freeze frame) posing in a muscular, aggressive position. "Five foot four inches of compressed fury, ready to unleash an ARM-ageddon of hurt on whomever is troubling your peace of mind!"

And then I could beat up some wicker furniture or something. To show the extent of my fury.

Of course I'd have to review the evidence in every case, but I was thinking it would be a free service.

The Dashboard Melted, but We Still Have the Radio

The housing search continues unabated. And I'm sorry, nice people with the pretty Victorian, but I am just not going to pay you $300K for a two-bedroom house. I'm just not. Also, Nashville home owners in general, please see the following list of Things That Are Not Other Things:

-room tucked under hipped roof with maximum height of six feet but only right in the middle, and no windows: NOT A BEDROOM.

-stall with sink you can wash your hands in while you sit on the toilet AND soak your feet in an infant tub, all without stretching: NOT A FULL BATHROOM.

-living room bounded on one side by the front door and on the other by glass French doors: NOT A MASTER SUITE.

-concrete-floored basement with open stairway and door to garage: ALSO NOT A MASTER SUITE.

-hot plate balanced on the back of a toilet: NOT A KITCHEN.

I only made up the last one.

* * * *

My dad, well, I just don't even know where to start. As long as he's in the hospital he's okay. When he's out, he declines. He's in inpatient rehab right now (the physical kind of rehab) and he's mighty pissed about it, because they make him feed himself and walk and things like that. And he can't demand Neosporin and baby powder and soda and hot blankets all night long like he did at the hospital. I am dead serious when I say that I am markedly more gracious and accommodating when I am nine centimeters dilated and vomiting onto my Birkenstocks.

I get my information from my aunt and uncle. Sometimes I get three pages of positivity and happy stories; when I call to discuss the good news, things have taken a turn for the worse. Soon as my feelings are all lined up and mournful and resigned about that, suddenly everything is amazing again.

It's exhausting. And I'm not even there in the trenches.

On top of this is the expectation that I'll go visit while he's in the facility (for the next week or so). Which I was all ready to do until I remembered that Sean has yet another conference this week, meaning the only way to leave town is to find a petsitter and drag both kids along, which won't go over too well with the no-children-allowed facility. Oh, and airfare for just me would be around $400 on such short notice.

So that's not happening. Which means that I am unsupportive and neglectful, and probably to blame for all this misery in the first place.

Gosh, I kind of feel like I could use...a drink.

(Oh my god I am kidding.)

* * * *

The stress is beginning to literally erupt from my body. In addition to some seriously sexy pimples (really, universe? Right on my nose? What am I, a seventh grader?) I am suffering a bout of episcleritis, which I haven't seen since the days of infertility stress. The whole Rudolph the Red-Nosed and Also Red-Eyed Reindeer look is set off nicely by my new halo of white hair. Yes, every new hair growing in along my forehead and temples is white. Which brings me up to maybe 10% gray in patches. I'm down with the grays, but not so much with the patches of flaming red on the face. Anyway my point is that I am totally at the peak of hotness, and trying to keep my stress eating to things in the microwave popcorn-flavored seltzer family. 

* * * *

The free cable is back on (yay! and we are not stealing it!)so I'm watching Roseanne whenever possible, and very much enjoying it from the perspective of Married Adult Mother-Type Person, even more than I did the first time around (I was almost the same age as Becky). I am realizing that whenever my firsthand role modeling for various adult situations like, oh, money troubles and whatall was lacking, I took my coping mechanisms from Roseanne. I can't decide whether that's awesome, unfortunate, or a goddamned shame*. Thoughts?

*Those are the three categories of things.

Zzzzzzzzzttt!

Why, that's the sound of my brain shorting out, is all. No need to be alarmed. Maybe I dragged the kids to the ped for shots to update the form for daycare and then left without the form; maybe I can't remember what day it is. If you squint real hard, you can still make out a greenish form the approximate shape of Uncle Jesse and maybe Bob Saget. Yeah, all that's left in my head are reruns of Full House. Not least because I wonder what that townhouse would cost today.

House things, dad things, blah blah blah. I'll write when I have anything to report.

At Least I Have My Hands Free Now

Well, we heard back from the landlords, who are proposing a grand total of $500 plus security deposit as an incentive. Because of the tax credit, you see.

And the owners of the house we're interested in sent a "final-for-now" counter that's about $5,000 below asking, and about $12,000 above where we want to end up.

I've looked at EVERY house in our price range in three sections of town, and not one is The One. Unless we are talking about The One that Smells Like Sewer Gas and Has Suspicious Paint Bubbling Beneath the Upstairs Toilet, or The One Where Someone Clearly Smoked a Pack of Cigarettes Immediately Before You Arrived at Nine A.M and Every Morning Before For the Last Twelve Years., or The One That Is Not a Duplex But Nonetheless Boasts Two Kitchens (And No, Is Not Kosher).

So all those balls I had in the air are going thunk thunk thunk around me. And frankly all I feel is relief. Well, there's some minor irritation but nothing a soothing ointment won't fix (hey, the tax credit was extended!). So without ado, my recipe for the finest soothing ointment of all:

Cheaper Dairy-Free Vegan Low-Carb Pumpkin Spice Latte

Brew up a cup of coffee, very strong. While it's going, take the following ingredients:

3-4 TB coconut milk (regular or light)

1-2 TB unsweetened vanilla almond milk

2-3 TB canned pumpkin

pumpkin pie spice to taste (clove, cinnamon, ginger)

stevia to taste (I use English Toffee flavor)

...and mix them all up in a giant mug. Heat it in the microwave for 30 seconds or so, and taste it -- should be kind of like pumpkin pie batter.

Pour your extra-dark coffee in there and stir. Sit back, drink it, and count your chickens.

Of course if you want to use cow milk or soy milk or sugar or agave nectar or a nice mild snake venom, it's none of my nevermind.

Well, Bust My Buttons

Youall are just too nice. I really didn't intend it as a please, please compliment me or I'm taking my keyboard and going home, but I guess in retrospect 1) it could have been read as such and 2) I kind of needed the boost. Like a Vivarin for the soul! Or some of that scary asthma-pill speed you used to be able to buy at the Shady Grady!

So here's the deal: I'll keep on keepin' on, and spit-shine the ol' resume so that I can apply for sketchy phishing writer job postings on Craigslist. And then I'll write about that.

Also, I may actually post a picture of one of my grocery lists. They look...well, they look insane. I spell things all crazy to entertain myself (AIGS -- CHEEDAR CHEZ -- CAT FUD --) and then I draw a million tiny little lines all over the list, which has invariably been written on the back of a credit card statement or a note from the gynecologist.

So, let's see: the big things. Right now, my top concerns are as follows:

1. Goddamn Frontline-resistant fleas

2. Keeping up with my dad's activities (seriously, I could just cut and paste from my aunt's emails and call it done; they're rich in both entertainment and shock value)

3. Waiting on counter-offer re: Very Nice House

What's that? I neglected to mention the last one? Yeah, well, we decided things were WAY too boring around here, and we just happened to find a beautiful house for which the owners would like just a smidge more money than we have to give, so, yeah. We're waiting on that.

On the upside, it's a stunner, with a lot of things in really good shape and relatively new. Great block, walking distance to elementary, nice neighbors. On the downside, nobody can promise me we'll get into that school (it's a lottery school, long story if you aren't local), and also, we'd be house-poor. And the water heater is kind of old.

In the Neutral column we have the fact that the house is a hundred years old. Which is very cool and also a little nail-bitey from the perspective of repairs up the road.

I love it, but I'm not going to pine for it if we don't get it.

Eeeeeee.

Joanna Leery Polyp...

is feeling kind of...irrelevant.

For fun I Googled myself with the word "hate" hoping to turn up some nasty trollin' action, but nothin'. And pretty much anything re: Jo Leery Polyp surrounds those halcyon days of infertility, early pregnancy, and finally Sophia's rollicking good time of a birth story. After that, it's all dead air.

I think I may have cashed in my fifteen minutes. Which is a little bit of a relief, as it was utterly painless and largely unremarkable save for the cadre of friends, in-person and online, that now surrounds me. Net gain: neato.

What now, though? What makes an interesting blog? I started in the enviable niche market of infertility blogging, and then I had to go and kill the goose that laid the golden egg. Yes, I'm being flip, because oh my god, those days were torment, and I have no wish to return to them. The blog quite literally kept me sane; it funneled all that energy that, left to its own devices, compelled me to purchase thirty pregnancy tests from the dollar store and then use them...all...in one weekend.

It seems crazy unless you've been there. Then you know it's crazy, and you know exactly how it happened.

Anyway, I'm kind of blundering niche-less through parenting bloggery. I was thinking of making a career of writing insulting letters to local newspaper columnists criticizing their grammar and including a copy of my own resume and a suggestion that I be allowed to replace them, but, you know, meh. There's already a "mom blog" column in our paper (yes, that's right: a print "blog". That is indistinguishable from a "column". A "really dull column". That reads like a retread of the Parents magazine letter from the editor.) and honestly, in this town, if Keith Urban isn't somehow involved, you ain't getting far. I don't know, he kind of has mommy hair. Maybe I could make money off that somehow.

So, internets. What would you suggest? What would you like to read about? Should I shut things down until I hit nursing school and crowbar open some new niche for myself? Keep on keepin' on? I guess Mimi Smartypants blogs about nothing-and-everything and is, like, totally famous and shit now, but she is Mimi Smartypants and I am me. I'm the middle school basketball coach in Hightstown, New Jersey, and she's Shaquille O'Neal. He plays basketball, right?

I guess I really don't want to shut down, if only because I'm not ready to burn up my diary, especially since this diary periodically compliments my writing. It's that aimless time of life, when the ambition starts gearing up again but the babies are too little to do anything sustained. Where's this whole internet thing going, folks? What do you think?