(The title of this post was meant to convey the Losing Of Amy's Mind, but is also [for those of y'all who are not as down and gritty and street as me] the title of an Eminem song where he goes "just lose it AH-AH-AH-AH-AH" in this weird voice, and I have been walking around the house singing that for hours now, and I don't know why I feel compelled to tell you this, except to say: I have for dead serious lost my everloving mind.)
Noah has another cold. This is probably cold number five or six or 17 or so. I've lost track. Am I supposed to keep track? Because sometimes I just feel like scribbling "MUCUS!" on every page of Noah's baby book and calling it an infancy.
The only thing that gives Noah any relief is this stuff, however I currently cannot find our bottle since Noah loves chewing on the rubber top of the dropper and has probably chucked it behind the couch somewhere. And before you yell at me for letting my child use a bottle of medicine as a plaything, let me explain: I am a really rotten mother.
I am so rotten, in fact, that I dragged him out shopping with Bunny and Max (Julie: STOP CALLING ME BUNNY) (Amy: NO) yesterday, and I didn't even give them the benefit of a "hey, we're awash in snot, you still want us to come over and gum on your furniture?" heads up. Then I almost got us lost on the way to the mall, then was minutes away from buying Noah and Max matching penguin hats, and then I ordered garlic fries at lunch.
And then I wondered why I have no friends.
In between snot patrol, we're also waiting to maybe possibly potentially get an offer on our condo. A young couple came to see the place on Friday and then again on Sunday. We walked in on them after a long day of touring open houses out in the suburbs, clutching a stack of glossy info sheets on houses that ran the gamut of crap to awful crap, and were both thrown into existential chaos when we saw them sitting on our couch, gazing around our home with That Look of Real Estate Love, and I nearly passed out when I realized one of them had brought their MOM, like holy shit, they are going to buy our house and we won't be allowed to live here any more.
This is alternatively terrifying and...terrifying. What if they change their minds (which does seem increasingly likely as the hours tick by this morning with no word from the realtor)? I will be mad. And annoyed. But what if they DO submit an offer AND WE HAVE TO MOVE?
We've toured dozens of houses over the past month, in dozens of different neighborhoods, across three different damn states, thanks to a recent attack of WE CANNOT LIVE IN THE SUBURBS NO NO NO. Our realtor must think we're nuts, since when we started this whole thing we named exactly two neighborhoods we liked and even had them further narrowed down to a specific four-block range. Now Jason is in love with some insanely renovated rowhouse with no yard in the DC hood and I'm hung up on some little colonial in Silver Spring with no living room and our realtor is all, "What happened to Arlington?" and then we're all, "Oh yeah! What's available there? And while you're on it, please run a search on Alexandria, Del Ray, Falls Church, Wheaton, Kensington, Takoma Park, Bethesda and the entire District of Columbia. Thanks."
Every house in our pathetic little price range smells like old people. Old people who liked powder blue shag carpet and sponge-painted kitchens and one place still had visible outlines of three litter boxes lined up on the yellowed lineoleum. And everytime we tour a vacant house like that I cannot stop wondering if the previous owner was old like, "time to retire with the cats to a condo in Boca old" or "sooner or later the neighbors noticed the smell old." I am sick. And then I cannot even think about living in that house, fuck the "good bones" or "tons of potential," I want a notarized document promising that NO ONE DIED HERE, accompanied by photos of the previous owners holding today's newspaper.
There was this one house that was a smidge out of our price range* with a three-person hot tub on the deck out back. That was highly rocking, and could have probably made up for the sponge-painted kitchen if I hadn't decided to make some kind of highly inappropriate boom-chicka-bow joke about elderly swingers and threesomes and COMPLETELY RUINED the "lush private backyard oasis" for both of us, forever.
*Is there any price point in real estate where this stops happening? Like if you can afford to spend a million dollars**, do you still ever go, "but if we could just afford $1.5 million, we could get that third wing and an au pair suite! dammit!"
**Do you know what you get in the DC area for a million dollars? We got mixed up one Sunday and wandered into the wrong open house -- because it was just another fucking CAPE COD like every other fucking CAPE COD we've seen -- and it was pretty nice except the basement wasn't finished and the kitchen needed new countertops (hunter green formica! aeeeii!), and then we picked up the info sheet and realized they wanted 1.3 MILLION DOLLARS for this house, at which point I began choking violently, like I was having some kind of socioeconomic disparity allergy and we had to leave.
And then we came home to our overly-orange condo (we were aiming for terra cotta and missed by a wide margin). Our lovely clean condo with a phantom cat odor but no old person smell of death. Yes, we have to share the lone bathroom and the three flights of stairs are killing me some days, and okay, it really was never this clean or nice-looking until we put it on the market, but still. This is where we brought our baby home to, and okay, the sink was stopped up that day because our contractor put our garbage disposal in wrong, and okay, there's no room to bring another baby home to, and no yard and no basement and the loft is nice until you hit your head on the low ceilings for the millionth time.
God, I hope we get an offer. Maybe some sponge-painting would help.