My day in food

The sandwich I ordered for lunch at the coffeeshop was stale, bread was hard, meat was dry around the edges. Ordered a second one, which was EVEN MORE STALE. Major blood sugar crash. Left the place sweating, heart racing, delirious. Ended up at McDonald’s drive-through. Ate a quarter pounder at home. Cat just horked up a hairball that looks not unlike the hamburger I just ate. Sad.

27 week post-checkup update: weight gain has slowed, mercifully. +23 pounds in this pregnancy so far (for a while there, I was logging a 2lb. gain per week and I was TERRI/MORTIFIED). No protein in urine, blood pressure great, haven’t heard anything back about my GD screen so … no news is good news? Or is no news just no news? You can still see my ankles. No problems to report, other than it’s really irritating to get starving hungry every two hours and not have an umbilical cord to instantly deliver delicious food. SUCK IT, FETUS. Enjoy the good life while it lasts!!!

Pregnancy nose

Man, did my smeller amp up its sensitivity or what? Last night, I could hardly sleep. Harry was in bed with us, smelling vaguely of sour pee (he wears a diaper at night right now), I could smell the foulness of the bathmat in our bathroom (which was, admittedly, way overdue for a spin in the washer), and even though it was all the way across the house, behind several closed doors, I could smell the cat box. Holy moley, was I in hell.

I put Harry back in his bed, threw the bathmat into the hall, and just waited for the sweet release of death as regards the cat box. I eventually fell asleep, but the second I woke up again in the morning, the odors burned my nose yet again. It was sheer torture.

(Indeed, the cat box was also overdue for a cleaning — in our defense, as we are not filthy people, I can’t clean the litterbox while pregnant and Matt had been doing so much other work around the house that the task simply got backburnered.)

In my family, if you were the only person who smelled something untoward, the response would be “maybe it’s your upper lip.” Gross, right?  I don’t remember being part bloodhound when I was pregnant with Harry. Yet another thing they don’t tell you about pregnancy.

P.S. Am feeling totally charmed at the moment by the student who contacted me via Facebook, wondering what the book list is for my upcoming class this fall. So cute! So dedicated! Such a harbinger that she’s going to be a thorn in my side! Also, among her Facebook friends is a former student of mine who shed many a tear in my office. Referral?

Potty over here! Potty over there! Haaay!

So, on top of still scurrying to get our house ready to put on the market so that we can go back to the sellers of the house we’ve probably already lost out on, plus hurriedly drafting the first version of my fall syllabus and every other ball I/we have up in the air, we decided to go ahead and start potty training this weekend. We put away the diapers (I can’t stand the thought of throwing away perfectly good diapers that are also expensive) and told Harry that because he’s a big boy and starting big boy school this week (on Friday! which is also his third birthday!), he needs to start wearing his big boy pants.

He was pretty chilled about it, and in fact was very excited to be wearing his Thomas undies most of the day. Maybe it’s because we put a diaper on him for naptime and a Pull-Up for errand-running (I wasn’t going to do Pull-Ups because I’d heard that they actually hindered potty training, rather than helped them, but I didn’t want to be stuck at Whole Foods with sopping-wet Thomas undies and a confused child), but he only had one accident today! And it was while he was playing outside! SCORE! It could also be because Matt and I asked him every 7.2 minutes if he needed to go pee-pee. (And, actually, the accident happened on my watch because I was absorbed in writing my syllabus and sort of forgot to be on top of the pee-pee reminders.)

Tomorrow he’ll go to daycare with Pull-Ups for naptime, some spare undies, and a change of clothes. Mommy will be keeping her fingers crossed for a good day, and I really hope that come Friday, we’ll have made some progress. I’ll confess that I’m a wee bit embarrassed that Harry is turning three and starting preschool this week and we’ve not yet p-trained him, even though my head knows that every child is different and learns at his/her own pace.

In other news, once the dude is asleep tonight, I’ll be snuggling up with the pint of this that mysteriously ended up in my basket at Whole Foods, lactose intolerance be damned.

And … scene.

The sellers aren’t interested in accepting our offer unless they see that we’re aggressively marketing our house, and that we price our house competitively based on (their research on) the comps in our neighborhood. Basically, they want to approve of our list price and evaluate whether we’re making a good-faith effort to sell our house. You know, because we really WANT to pay two mortgages. Idiots.

Their realtor closed her email with this gem: “I think you’ll see that these are necessary steps to making good decisions in today’s market.”


Did I mention that our realtor has been in the business for more than 20 years? And that the sellers’ realtor has had her license for exactly 6 months? Who in this picture doesn’t know what the hell they’re doing?

I want to call their realtor, who is a friend of a friend, and explain that we haven’t listed and shown our house because we can’t get a fucking handyman on the horn (well, couldn’t — we finally got one hired for Monday, although we’re still waiting on his estimate) and that we figured we’d have a better chance of selling the house if it actually looked presentable. But, you know, we’re idiots and stuff who just go around, willy nilly, making offers to buy houses without any intention of selling our own.

And now that we’ve done a lot of decluttering and cool interior design stuff, I realize that our house is actually pretty cool, and once we’re finished decluttering, etc., I think it’ll actually be a space we can be proud of, if a little bit on the small side.

That said, we’ve got our eye on a couple of houses in the ‘hood, and are still hoping that something will come up in our most favorite neighborhood in town.

Nervous breakdown in 3…2…1

We put in a new offer on the house this morning. I hope that the sellers and their realtor have put on their Big Girl Panties and are ready to be grownups about the situation. We can’t get a handyman to return our calls to come fix some things that need professional fixing. Until these things get fixed, we can’t get the house ready to show. Our realtors are breathing down our necks to show the house.

I’m about 15 seconds away from setting my dissertation on fire and looking for a “real job.” My faculty mentor keeps changing our meeting time to go over my syllabus for the fall. I worry about my blood pressure.

Harry was hungry this morning and refusing food and acting like a little shit, hitting me in my stomach and screaming. My reaction was to put him in time out. On the front porch.

I have stretch marks around my belly button and constant heartburn.

Real estate blues

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.

What I’ve been up to

— 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

Straw Poll

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]



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?