And we're buying a house. We accepted the counter offer last week, and the inspections will be this Thursday. I have cold feet like anything. I mean, it's nearly perfect. It's 2500 sf, 4 bedrooms, 2 and a half bathrooms (you have no idea what a happy thought that is), enough room for our furniture and entertainment center, it's on a gigantic, nearly half acre cul-de-sac lot. It has a gorgeous view from the front door and the master bedroom. It's in a very large, but very pleasant, low-key subdivision, and miracle of miracles, it was in our price range!!!
But I'm scared of it. It intimidates me. It's this giant house on a hill - the first thing you see when you turn down the street. It stands out and I'm not quite sure what to do with it. I was excited to move into a trailer and now I find myself trying to buy a freakin' mansion.
I didn't sleep well all last night worrying about it. What if we hate the neighbors? What if there is a mudslide and the house disappears? What if we have a severe reversal of fortune and go bankrupt? What if I get in great shape from lugging groceries up a hill and up stairs? What if no one wants to buy it when Jethro and I retire? What if I go totally insane with self-doubt and burn it to the ground while I dance around outside, naked, with a martini, screaming Shakespeare and Bible verses?
I have a million things to do. I even have a list. I never have a list, but today, I have a list. I want a drink so badly, but I have to drive a million miles today. I should get going. I should. But I want to write more. I've missed it.
I should write about the bridal shower I helped put on over the weekend. I made this champagne punch that was awesome. I fibbed and said I had a recipe, but really I just made it up. It wasn't on purpose that I made it up. They didn't have the stuff I needed at the store, so I had to wing it. But if it turned out badly, I wanted to have someone to blame it on, so I said it was a recipe. But it actually turned out pretty good, so I should have just kept my mouth shut.
And another time I should have kept my mouth shut was at the shower when we were playing games because I ended up saying "ass cream" in front of the bride's mother. I blame the champagne punch.
After the shower, we went to the bachelorette party. I'd rented a limo driven by a man named Kenneth Cole. No lie. He had a cooler in the limo stocked with Bud Light and Bartles and James pineapple wine coolers.
It was fun.
The bachelorette party was weird because the bride had requested that it be classy. And we were classy. Horribly, boringly classy (for a bacelorette party) and yet we still seemed gauche.
Just think if we'd been wearing penis necklaces!
And I didn't get checked out once. That was even more depressing. Usually I can get someone to glance my way, even if they look away immediately, but not that night. I passed a guy in a very tiny hallway, and not only did he not look at me, he turned his head when I looked at him, as if to say, "I don't want your drunk ass even thinking for a second that you have a shot with me." As if I wanted one! Usually I prefer men who are over 4' 11" and who don't comb their hair into phallic little spikes. And that made me even more sad. I couldn't even get a first look from a fucking midget.
I'm going to go now. The sooner I can get things done, the sooner I can drink.