A couple of weeks ago, I accidentally did something I'd wanted to do for a long time, but always had the sleepy good sense not to.
I punched Jethro in the balls when he snored.
To be fair, the tv was up as loud as it could go, and I was just about to solve a Medical Mystery. Jethro had dozed off and was snoring apneatically and at certain intervals, I would do him the favor of punching him on the leg so he would start breathing again. But being engrossed in the program, I had failed to notice his body shift and when his epiglottis had sealed long enough for me to become unconsciously concerned, I punched without looking.
I felt a certain thrill of horror shoot through my arm as my fist bounced on something soft and warm and jiggly instead of the muscle and bone I'd been expecting. I drew back my arm in consternation as Jethro's breath whooshed out. He curled, slowly, slowly into a fetal position, and slowly, slowly opened his eyes. I sat there, transfixed as a look of pain and confusion came over his face.
"You racked me!" he said, in a hurt, bewildered, accusatory way, looking at me with his sad, sweet eyes.
And then I laughed. I tried not to. But the more I tried not to, the harder I laughed. I'm laughing now. I hate myself.
The inspections were fantastic. A bit of cosmetic work, but the structure is sound as sound. It's really kind of nice. I don't dare go nuts until the bank approves our loan, but I can't help getting excited. I tend to take disappointment in stride and get on with life, but if everything went kapluey and we didn't get it, I would probably cry very very hard for at least a week.
Because, you see, it's the house I want forever 'n' ever.
Here it is:
Front (no, it's the back, Zelda)
More back yard (there's a lot of back yard).
View from the long, steep, curved driveway.
View from the long, steep front steps
Jethro and I didn't expect to find anything great at this stage of our lives. We were planning on buying a small, easy to maintain property, with no emotional investment, and saving up slowly for the house we wanted. But I love this one. It's the perfect compromise for Jethro and me. He wanted a home in a subdivision, close to the clinic and schools, and I wanted land to grow a garden and raise rabbits. The subdivision is nice and subdivision-ey with a community center, school, park, and general convenience, but the yard is almost half an acre. Half an acre of lovely trees and a house on a hill.
And while it's more than we wanted to spend on a little crap-box-eventual-rental-property, I don't think it's too much for a house we'd want to make our home forever 'n' ever.Anyway, I have three more weeks of school, then it will be freedom, blissful freedom.
However, the fact that the end of school and all the madness that accompanies it coincides with what we hope will be the house closing and a wedding in NY, means my stress level is about to hit a peak I heretofore did not know was possible. But my loins are girded. Girded, I tell you. Which probably accounts for some slight spasming.
I am not having a good day. My back is killing me. Jethro is working on it whenever he can squeeze me in, but it hurts really badly all down my left side. Also, I don't want to be thirty...gulp...three. Yes I know people are older than me, but I don't want to do it. I pretty much want to be 12 except with my kids and Jethro. And I know that sounds icky, but it's how I feel.
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.
I'm a crack-ho lazy mom who vacillates between feelings of inadequacy and delusions of grandeur. I am not bothered by kid snot, garlic breath or Bob Dylan's voice. But pinch me with your toes and I will probably kill you.