My Rubberbandball

So, we put in an offer on a bigger house in our neighborhood on Sunday afternoon, after deciding over lunch on Saturday to take the plunge. We started scrambling to put our stuff in storage and suffice to say that this week has been very stressful and overwhelming while Matt scrambles at work, then comes home and scrambles on house stuff while I try to stay on top of my dissertation, manage my exhaustion and short fuse, and wrangle Harry, who is … challenging … these days.

Anyhoo, we got a verbal counteroffer on Tuesday (”we want more money and to close in 45 days”). The written offer came yesterday: they declined our offer, but invited us to resubmit a new offer with some new terms. Apparently, they were pissed that we offered them $240K (making it very clear that this was the starting point and that we were very willing to negotiate), which was $9,900 less than their list price. They had just lowered their asking price from $269,900 (where it sat on the market for 99 days) to $249,900 and were offended that we didn’t offer them something closer to that original list price (que?!?!?!). Apparently, $249,900 is their rock-bottom price. Why they listed it at that is beyond me, but their realtor is newly minted and eager to get their house sold.

So, they want full asking price, $2,500 in earnest money, and to close in 45 days. That means we have to get our house on the market and SOLD within 45 days. Now, I either want to embiggen our house or get a bigger one before Rex Boy is born, but on these terms? Not so much. I kind of want to tell them to grow up and list their house at a price that they’d be comfortable working down from, rather than acting like petulant children when they get their FIRST and ONLY offer in FOUR MONTHS in a SHITTY MARKET.

I mean, we’re not the desperate ones here. I’m not sure why they would act like this in a buyer’s market. I think it’s greed, but Matt thinks it’s naivety. Whatever. They can take their extra 600 square feet, adorable kitchen, livable backyard with covered porch and tire swing and shove it, as far as I’m concerned.

Grump, grump, grump.

– sleeping

– or, not sleeping because I get too frickafrackin’ hot to sleep. Thanks, hormones!

– reading the Twilight series (thanks, dissertation chair!)

– vying for title of World’s Meanest Mommy and/or Wife (seriously, I’m the worst version of myself these days)

– tacitly agreeing to Harry’s demands to name his baby sister “Rex Boy”

– packing up the house to put on the market

– denouncing Jezebel while still secretly reading it several times per day

– stalking my friends on Twitter

– falling behind on ALL of my craft projects

– obsessively spinning (and LOVING) the new Weezer record

I’m slowly working on a “what I’ve been up to” post, which might even publish this week, but in the meantime, I have a more pressing concern. I need to make room in my closet, as we’re undergoing a MAY-JUH decluttering effort over here. My wedding dress takes up an enormous amount of space in the closet, and I feel like I’m at a crossroads with this garment. Should I:

1) Sell it on Craigslist supah cheap and be done with it? [CON: what if I regret getting rid of it?]

2) Clean and preserve it for future generations? [CON: Not that much of a decluttering move; also, expensive]

3) Turn some piece of it into a keepsake? [CON: Having to keep up with/keep CLEAN an ivory satin keepsake]

Thoughts?

So, I stumbled across this blog a month or so ago, which ignited my love of all things Ecco (ooooh, those red patent Mary Janes! YOU WILL BE MINES!). And now, of course, she’s gone on indefinite hiatus. Where am I supposed to get my intertube vintage/cool clothes/unnatural fixation with expensive shoes fix? Does anyone have any suggestions?

We’re back from Paris, busy as hell and dealing with a very cranky toddler who seems to be combating some sort of tummy bug. Photos to come. But for now, please do enjoy this exchange between me and Matt as we discuss potential plans for the weekend:

Matt: I was looking forward to seeing L. Ron Man: Super-Scientologist, but the movie is not out yet.  Dang!

Me: L. Ron Man would be a good movie, as long as the movie theatre also served pints of the weird Scientologist baby formula on special.

Matt: Maybe we could go see the new movie, The Polk.  It’s about a guy who is exposed to gamma radiation and transforms into U.S. President James K. Polk whenever he drinks iced tea.  I heard it was pretty bad, though.

Me: Is that sweet or unsweet?

Matt: Sweet.  During a key scene in the movie, the pre-Polk says, “Don’t give me sweet tea.  You wouldn’t like it if I had sweet tea.  Hey, this is sweet tea!  Aaaaargh!  Manifest destiny!!!!!”

Me: I just made a very unflattering sound with my nose.

Shiny new passport in hand, Harry’s new suitcase packed, splitting headache, and somewhat caught up on Fresh Air podcasts. Dare I attempt to bake cookies tonight?

So, at 4:30 this afternoon, I dug my passport out from the pile of papers and CDs on my desk and put it in a place where I could get to it easily.

Then I looked at the expiration date. 28 June 2008. I thought it expired in December 2008. I can’t leave the country with the expiry so near. So, tomorrow, I go to my regional passport office with a file of papers and ready to write a Very Large Check (I imagine) in the hopes that we can fix this in time.

Pray for us.

I want to write a post about the results of the ultrasound, the discovery of the baby’s sex in particular, and how it’s stirred up all of these complicated feelings for me and left me a big, weepy puddle of tears in inappropriate situations ever since, but HOLY SHIT, Y’ALL. We’re leaving for Paris this weekend, and I am so overwhelmed I don’t know what to do with myself. I don’t know what to do while we’re there, don’t know what to pack, apart from the $120 shoes I just put on my credit card (NAUGHTY). All I know is that I want to buy a big box of macarons while in Paris to share with my girlfriends when we return, go see Versailles, and not spend our whole trip there trying to figure out what to do, going to all the wrong places, and totally missing out on the Paris Experience.

Also, I’m worried that I’m going to look like a big fat Ugly American in all the wrong clothes, speaking halting French with a horrible accent. I want to go to the fancy lingerie place, but I know that the “quintessential Parisian woman” who runs the joint will take one look at my pregnant 42DDDs and swollen belly and command me to leave her sight. The lines at the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower will be too long and who wants to do all of that touristy bullcrap anyway?

And let’s not even DISCUSS how desperately worried about Harry I’ll be and how much I’ll miss him and how I can guaran-damn-tee that I’m going to melt into tears the minute we pull away from my aunt’s house on Sunday morning, paralyzed with grief at leaving my sweet boy behind, even though I know he’ll probably be setting Guitar Hero records on his cousins’ Wii mere moments after we’re gone.

Ach, my heart. Who knew vacations could be so stressful?

1. Harry’s second “dance” class was last night and he LOVED it. He did so much better than the last time, when he clung to me and cried for the first 10 minutes. Last night, he participated actively and was just adorable. I was so freaking proud, it was ridiculous. And he looks so cute in his tiny little ballet shoes!

2. I keep meaning to report on our first dissertation group meeting, in which we workshopped my most developed diss chapter. It was soooooo helpful, and I have a MUCH clearer picture of what these chapters are supposed to look like. Now then, if I can’t get my little head focused on these revisions, I’m going to be very embarrassed the week we workshop said revisions.

3. Today is our 19-week ultrasound. Place your bets on Baby Boo’s sex in the comments!