Warm lump of motherly love
Turns out there is no good way to photograph an injury on your rear end that you intend to post on the internet. There is no angle, no camera setting, that does not immediately say HEINIE!
So I’ll have to tell you, instead, with my powerful words of … telling stuff.
I can’t sleep right now, because I have a throbbing, heart-shaped bruise on my left hip. I’ve been thinking of it as my heart-shaped bruise of love, because it’s an injury I sustained while mucking around on the rocks in the creek at Double Rock Park. And I was mucking around on the rocks in the creek at Double Rock Park because that is what Owen loves dearly to do, and I dearly love him, so I do what I can to see that squinty, happy smile he does.
You may be able to tell, from my hockey-player’s toothless grin, that I am less graceful than most people. I have a strong tendency to meet the ground with body parts other than my feet. Between the moment I lose my balance and the moment I hit the earth, my body also forgets how to brace itself for impact. So I usually land pretty hard. Today I was following my little explorer up the banks of the creek when I stepped on a slime-covered rock and landed on my endside in three inches of orange-ish, germy, foamy water, watching my right Birkenstock sail downstream and hoping I caught it before it hit the pool with the dead worm in it (having already reconnoitered the area, I knew what horrors lay below). In that regard, at least, luck was in my corner. Sandal was retrieved in short order; with wet shorts, though, dignity was much harder to reclaim.
But later this evening, as I stared, fascinated, over my shoulder at my tangible proof of maternal sacrifice, I understood that river-smelly sandals and an alarmingly hot-to-the-touch butt bruise are a small price to pay for the mental photograph I captured today. My little brave son, standing with his chest thrust out on a smooth rock precipice 15 feet above me, dappled by leaf shade, shading his eyes against the glare and surveying his conquered territory. Seeing him as I knew he wanted to be seen — not as a preschooler in galoshes, but as a strong, clever swashbuckler, able to leap from rock to rock, outsmart his enemies and protect his loved ones from danger.
He loves the river, and I love him, therefore I love the river. Even when it bites me in the ass.
Maghound
An item while debating internally whether my Gmail is broken.
… (Gmail not broken, as I have just received tantalizing e-mail from Apple about 3G iPhone. Not-so-surprising follow-up: I really, really want an iPhone.)
As I was saying, an item. Was reading Romenesko, as is my wont on a Tuesday, and read that Time Inc. will be launching a sort-of Netflix for magazine freaks such as myself, called Maghound. A subscription service for your magazine subscriptions. There are several price tiers: for $4 a month, you can get three magazine titles; for $10, you can get seven. The best part is that you can change your title selections from month to month. I love this idea. Sometimes I feel like WIRED, sometimes I feel like Better Homes and Gardens, sometimes I feel like BUST. As certain people of my acquaintance will tell you, I myself am a magazine fanatic (only poverty prevents me from subscribing to dozens). I regularly check them out at the library (does anyone else do that?). I save them. I hoard them. I have to be sternly instructed to get rid of them.
So, to have a good rate on popular magazines with the option to mix it up month to month? Sold. Can’t wait for the launch.
Update: Good points on why it won’t work, though
Limbo like me
Firstly, I have to share: I have a case of writer’s block like you wouldn’t believe. There is some unsettling stuff going on at work. So that’s — well, it’s unsettling. Then there’s the comedown off of selling one’s house: you no longer have to knock yourself out keeping the house clean and dropping everything for a potential seller. The phone is no longer ringing off the hook. The house has reverted to its normal sticky, slobby state. And we are suddenly struck with no true plan for the days. Having one’s teacher-husband home for summer vacation is fabulous, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything, but without his daily routine the whole family kind of crawls to a stop, unsure what to do next.
A lot of our time now is spent panicking about where to live next. The neighborhoods I like are a bit too far away for us to drive to and check out any old time we feel like it. And preliminary calculations are telling us that, instead of trading up, we’re actually going to have to find a home that costs less than what we’re currently living in. So THAT’S depressing.
But then I think, well, hey. If we shave a good chunk of money off our monthly mortgage, really downsize in terms of housing costs … maybe then I will be able to afford an iPhone. Maybe even an iPhone AND a Prius (or whatever). Perhaps things are not all bad.
Meanwhile, though, Iain and I are just staring blankly at Google Maps, wondering where to live, and I’m still being horribly vague about where we’re moving to because of business at work. I promise I’ll come out with more details, but I have to put work first.
Sold!
We like to move it move it
So! Since last I had a second to pop in here, we’ve had nine buyers come through, including five at a good Open House on Sunday. We have another showing in an hour and a half (ack!) and then we’re meeting with the agents at 2 p.m. to discuss some offers. Offers! Two! That makes plural!
The suspense is killing me.
OMG, first showing
So we are officially on the market. I can’t believe we’re doing this. And somebody is actually going to come see the house! They want to see my house! In 33 minutes! Cormac is napping and it’s almost dinnertime so I guess we’ll be hanging out at Applebee’s, crossing fingers. The house is all cleaned up, although there’s laundry running, and I hope that finishes up soon because a first-floor laundry room, while AWESOME, is also loud.
God, I bet I’m forgetting something. What do I need to be doing right now? Hiding the rest of the dirty laundry, that’s what. OMG. This is too weird.
Library haul this week
- The Wire, Season 4, three discs ($7.50)
- The Ivorybill Hunters
- The Black Swan
- Entertainment Weekly
- Domino
- Real Simple
- Alton Brown, I’m Just Here For More Food
- The Whimsical Bakehouse
- The Year of Eating Dangerously
- and a board book about Curious George
Thoughts while watching the fourth season of The Wire
• Jimmy McNulty: I can’t figure out what makes him so attractive.
• Utz Jalapeno potato chips smell weirdly like Chinese food.
• Hey, I’ve been there!
• And there!
• But never there. Oooh, scary.
• I feel much safer, as a Baltimore resident, post-Wire than I did before.
• Second season had my favorite version of the theme song.
• I still get Herc and Carver mixed up.
• And I still miss Frank.
• What took me so long to get on the Wire train? And why is David Simon so good?
Ready to do this thing nonetheless
Well, the house goes on the market in like two hours. As I explained to Owen, that means our friendly real estate agents are going to come over, take a bunch of pictures, and start letting strangers poke through our medicine cabinet. Like a party, right. Only without warning and without any Parrot Bay (and hopefully without any nude picture-messaging).
Our storage unit is 9/10 full. I have every intention of going over there and taking a photo, but as I mentioned, the damn place has been closed for days for “floor refinishing,” which I suspect is code for either “drug bust” or “bug dust”.
The house gets cleaned every night after the tots go to bed, and every morning by 8:30 a.m. it looks like a team of wild donkeys has stormed through.
I can’t believe we’re selling this place. I have finally come to halfway enjoy it, what with all the work we’ve put in. Sometimes I think about when we bought it; it was 2004, and the Baltimore housing bubble was just about hitting its peak. People were throwing thousands of dollars over asking price at anyone with a For-Sale sign. Houses were getting contracts within minutes of listing. Our own sellers nonchalantly tossed a list of conditions at us when we made an offer — they wanted to sell it as is, purple bathroom and all, and they wanted to move fast. And of course we had no option but to accept. The only reason we got any sort of deal is because they’d already bought a bigger house across town and were counting on their 100k profit for a down payment. Bastards.
Sometimes I think Iain and I were born at just the wrong time. By the time we graduated college, the dot com bubble had burst and the economy was entering a recession. Then, when we got pregnant and were ready to buy a house, real estate was soaring. Now that we are ready to sell, prices are plummeting and sellers are laughed at left and right. Sigh. If only we had been born, say, two years earlier, how things could have been different.
Anyway. Things are not so bad now; we are still at the beginning of the race, when the course looks short and flat and breezy. Anything could happen. Theoretically, we could get an offer Friday and be ready to go. What? It could happen. You never know.
Meantime, I think I’ll just start crate-training the children and save myself a headache or two. And if you’re looking to buy in the County, do drop me a line.
More on our future living plans slightly later in the summer, ja?
two macs
Bondi iMac running 8.5, 1-year-old Cormac running 24/7.
recent flickr
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my sewing tutorials
See my tutorials featured on SMS' Handmade Holidays!
