Thursday, August 28, 2008

All I ask

is that a year from now? When our condo still hasn't sold, and we're still taking Sam down five flights of stairs to pee, and the baby is sleeping in an open bedroom, and we're repainting for the fiftieth time, as if THAT is going to make a difference?

I just want people teo say, "You were right, Kathy. We were wrong to doubt you. You were absolutely right. This condo never WILL sell. You are stuck here until you die. Good call!"

Thank you.

Wednesday, August 27, 2008

This Really Happened. Really.

We had two showings today. They were our first in kind of awhile, so we were relieved. My mom said it usually takes a week or so for people to notice you've reduced your price, but that didn't stop us from worrying.

Stephen called me at work to say the first showing seemed to go really well. Score! The second showing was at 6:20. Work was deathly boring, so I left around then, figuring I'd either just miss them, or get home while Stephen was showing them the building.

As I was riding the elevator up, I heard the alarm go off in the other elevator. Loudly, and for a long time. The other elevator passenger and I exchanged looks and nervous giggles. As the doors opened on the fifth floor, two things happened.

The passenger in the stuck elevator turned out to be the building dogwalker, who is, um, vocal. And kind of crazy. He began screaming loudly about being trapped, and how the dog in the elevator with him was a pug with all kinds of breahting problems and he was going to die if they weren't freed soon. I am not exaggerating, he was literally screeching about pugs dying in elevators.

The other thing? Stephen went running to the door to call out to the dogwalker and try to calm him down. That's right, Stephen was standing at the elevator bank. With our 6:20 showing.

Stephen did his best to calm the dogwalker down, called the fire department, and eventually he was freed. In the meantime, I showed our guests around to the rest of the building.

I really think we're gonna get an offer from the guy. What, you don't?

Target Demographic: SUCKERS

I'm still running. Very slowly, and not very far, but I am still running. I think I can hold out for another month or so, it actually feels better than it did maybe four to six weeks ago (though I can't explain why). However, absolutely none of my running tops fit. I mean, they do, but my belly hangs out the bottom, and since I've never been a fan of the belly hanging out (especially when it is full of fetus), that will not do.

I thought I would buy some maternity work-out tops. I have some big tshirts I can wear, but it is REALLY uncomfortable to run in cotton, especially when you are a sweathog like me. So I consulted the Great Lord Google, and He sent me to Title IX sports. I found a really comfortable-looking sleeveless running top. It looks just exactly like the ones I wear from Target, but, you know, there's room for me plus a baby. I was all prepared to add two or three to my cart when I noticed what they expect me to pay for said shirt (which is just like the ones I buy at Target but with room for a baby)- FORTY FIVE DOLLARS.

Are you freaking kidding me?!

Um, yeah, I'll be raiding Stephen's workout stash and running in that. He won't like it, but I don't particularly like the amount of hair that's sprouted from my belly, so we'll call it square.

Also? Bravo, Title IX Sports marketers. Way to invoke that sense of empowerment mixed with righteous indignation we all get when we think about the girls who came before us who didn't get to play soccer and basketball because all the money went to the boys. Because nothing says "empowering women to participate in sports" by committing highway freaking robbery on pregnnat women who want to keep exercising. You go, girl, that's what it makes me think.

Sunday, August 24, 2008

Freaky.

A week or so ago, there was a house on fire across the alley when I was coming home from work. I did not want to be a Looky-Lou (behavior I find appalling, I mean, who goes and watches someone's house burn?), but it couldn't be avoided. Every single time I turned down a different street, it was blocked off by a fire truck, so I finally went down the alley and then the wrong way down Ravenswood to get home. This took me right past the actual house on fire, where I saw no leaping flames or puppies being tossed from windows (is THAT what people want to see?), just lots of water, actually. I kind of forgot about it afer that.

Today we were out for a walk with Sam. As we approached the house, I mentioned to Stephen that there had been a fire recently. The house is one of those really ugly mausoleum houses that everyone is building, and now I'm at least beginning to understand why- the ONLY outward sign of damage was one boarded-up window. That was it. Amazing. As we walked past the house, there was some garbage outside the house. A big pile of Legos, half of them melted together. Some other stuff. And finally, propped up against the deck, was a crib mattress. Half burned.

I would imagine it was unoccupied at the time of the fire. There were no ambulances there when I drove by. Plus, I don't feel like like you'd leave that propped against your deck if it had been occupied at the time of the fire. It doesn't matter. Tell me you wouldn't spend the rest of your life imagining what would've happened if the fire started in the middle of the night, if the baby took a late nap that day, if if if if.

Friday, August 15, 2008

Fascist Pigs

Um, ok, yeah, not really, but I am mad at my Place of Employment, which has suddenly decided that things like Facebook and Snapfish/Shutterfly/Photobucket and anything with blog in the address are not necessary for the daily functions of our jobs. WhatEVER. When it is extremely slow and quiet, it makes the days long and torturous.

This prevented me from reporting on the craziest thing until just now. This morning, I had a dream that I was in my parents' garage, trying to herd cats. For the record, it was every bit as annoying as the expression implies. Also, in my dream, the cats could talk, or somehow make their thoughts known to me. What? I don't know. Anyway, I was talking to Stephen this afternoon (telephone calls to the spouse aren't banned. Yet.) and he said, "You dreamed that last night? I had a dream last night that we both got kittens and we were chasing them all over our house. And I think they could talk."

I realize this is probably only interesting to us, but seriously, how often do you have matching dreams with your sleepmate? Well, maybe a lot and we just don't know because we don't talk about it.

I was supposed to work out tonight and instead I slept on the couch for an hour and then ate approximately nine billion pretzel rolls. I should have worked out. I feel icky now. But the pretzel rolls were delicious.

I also spent this evening working on our baby registry. HATE. Hate hate hate. Especially hate Babies R Us, which seems to be diametrically opposed to A) waiting until your child is born to learn their sex and B)one piece infant sleepers. You know, the plain little jammies that newborns spend ALL their time in because you don't dress your newborn up in cute little outfits and if the kid is due in December, it's too cold to leave them lying around in a onesie? This is extra stressful because I know how women are, and I know that many of them will be looking at my registry, snorting at my stupidity and lack of sensibility because I am not registering for things like one-piece sleepers. I should not care what these women think, and I am totally aware of this, but it does not stop me from stressing.