Daily life getting in the way of blogging….what’s the world coming to?

The Rock Star and I have been deeply immersed in the maintenance of the two large life changes coming our way recently. One pretty much takes care of itself, although a lot of people want to poke you with sharp things and ask you personal questions about your ladyplace. With all of the medical ladyplace related complications I’ve endured in my life, I’ve pretty much gotten used to people being all up in my bid’ness on a fairly regular basis, so I’m not so much minding this time when I might actually get a pretty cool baby out of it at the end.

The house is a different story. It’s entailed a lot of document signing and frantic shuttling of cash into different accounts. “We have to pay WHO? For WHAT? They want it WHEN? WHY?” We’ve also been meeting with our mortgage advisor. I’m supremely grateful that The Rock Star understands most of the stuff she’s talking about, because I have an unfortunate tendancy to shut down in the presence of numbers. I hope that I’ve not been dribbling on myself. If I have, both the Rock Star and the mortgage advisor have been too polite to mention it.

I, of course, am anxious to get to the fun part that involves buying paint, floors and new shiny things. To this end, The Rock Star and I found ourselves in Ikea in Milton Keynes over the weekend.

I tend to get overload in places that offer so much merchandise the second floor resembles the Vehicle Assembly Building at Cape Canaveral. Ikea gets around this “shop glaze” by arranging their products into actual living spaces. (Indeed it wouldn’t surprise me if someone, somewhere, has managed to live inside an Ikea for an extended period of time. Their living rooms are certainly more comfortable than mine.) This layout actually affects your sense of aesthetic balance, as all of the room spaces are laid out in impeccable taste. One could be completely struck by a room entirely populated by red, shiny plastic furniture completely against one’s will.

The Rock Star was instantly drawn to the children’s furniture section where he experienced a passionate longing for the bed of his childhood dreams. I have the feeling that he might have been tempted to buy it despite the fact that a) his legs would probably overshoot the base by about 2 feet and b) that there would be no room for me. Should our future offspring desire such a bed, I have the feeling they will be fighting their father for a place come bedtime.

We did actually find some sensible and attractive grown up bedroom furniture, although, due to the fact that it’s actually one of Ikea’s more pricey ranges, we may have to buy a piece a month until we get the room furnished. We also found some lovely lamps that will probably only last as long as it takes for one of us to put our foot through one. But until then, they’ll look ace.

Now all we need is somewhere to put it all. Roll on, mortgage.

The Rock Star’s mobile rang.

Is it them? I typed over Messenger.

Yeah. he replied. Okay, here’s what happening…

We’ve been waiting for this call for about 2 weeks now. Those of you following the Great Property Search will know that we actually put a bid in on the house of our choice about 2 weeks ago. The person selling the house picked that exact moment to launch himself off on a yacht in Turkey, so we’ve been sitting around twiddling our thumbs since, half heartedly looking at other properties, but all the time wishing that we could be with the one we loved.

The other lady put in a slightly higher bid than ours… says the Rock Star.

FUCK. I said. When I hear bad news, I have a hard time letting anyone finish.

…so the owner was like, well, if it all looks ok, I’ll go with her. But the agent spent all day yesterday trying to get ahold of her and now gets the feeling that she’s stalling.

FUCK FUCK FUCKSOCKS. I offered.

…so the owner told the agent if he had a bad feeling about it, he should just sell to us. He just got a call from the owner while he was talking to me and is going to call me back as soon as he speaks with him.

FUCKTASTIC. I have a hard time with even potential rejection.

I could literally feel my hair falling out. Until seconds later.

It’s ours!

WHAT?? SERIOUSLY???

It

Is

Ours!

So.

Yeah.

We’re having a baby.

I thought about how I’d write this particular blog, but in the end, the truth seems to be the best form of expression. Plus, I’m kinda tired, so that’s how it goes.

We’ve had some trouble in the past, as some of you guys might know. This time we kind of took the bull by the horns and started progesterone treatment in the time period before a lot of women even realize that they’re knocked up. And so far, so good. The end of the first trimester is on top of us now, which is great, cause it supposedly means feeling better and being able to enjoy yourself.

I’m not one of those women that ever expected to love being pregnant. I see a lot of them on bulletin boards cooing over their swelling bellies and giant boobs and have a hard time identifying. Pregnancy is a means to an end. I want kids, so I must endure carrying the damn things around in my most privatest of parts for the best part of 36 weeks. I believe I will enjoy the HAVING of children, but the MAKING of children will not be making my Top 10 Happy Fun Things list. I don’t think my feelings on the subject are going to change between now and the beginning of March when the little bugger shows up.

Being approved for our mortgage, whether or not we actually win this elusive piece of property (estate agents STILL can’t find the damn seller. I only hope he hasn’t pulled a Jimmy Hoffa on us.) has made us feel much more secure in the knowledge that we WILL be able to house the newcomer. (Refered to at the moment as The Intergalactic Space Prawn) We’re still hoping that we’ve bid high enough to buy this house, but if not, we feel better knowing that the minute another one comes along, we can pounce.

I still have my doubts and fears about this pregnancy. Miscarriage can do that to you. But at the moment, I feel awfully positive and so does The Rock Star. Any good vibes coming our way in the near future would be much appreciated.

I was really excessively pleased this morning when I woke up to discover that the solar system had gotten a little bigger.

I mean, it’s not like these are NEW planets. The very notion of NEW stuff in the galaxy is really a little silly since it’s pretty much all been floating around in one form or another since the beginning of time, but the notion that our solar system as WE knew it had welcomed three new “pluton” class planets, was really kind of exciting.

Not only do we have three new initiates in our little society of spherical rocks and gas giants, but one of them doesn’t even have a name yet. No, I mean a real name. It is an affront to both God and man to name a whole entire planet after a made up butch chick in a leather bra who was worshiped not 2000 years ago, but rather for a brief period in the 90’s between 7-8 on a Thursday night with repeats at 10 on Sunday mornings.

Along with deciding what to call our newest and furthest planet, I wonder if the society might also consider a long over-due rethink on Uranus. For even the non-adolescent minded among us, one cannot deny that either way you pronounce it (UrANUS or URANus) it just doesn’t sound very nice.

My favorite Uranus joke comes from Season 1 of Matt Groening’s underappreciated Futurama. The protagonist, Fry, frozen in the 20th centry and unfrozen in the 31st, is using an invention called a “smelloscope” to sniff the odors given off by heavenly bodies.

Prof. Farnsworth: You’ll find that every heavenly body has its own particular scent. Here, I’ll point it at Jupiter.

[Fry sniffs.]

Fry: Smells like strawberries.

Farnsworth: Exactly! And now Saturn.

[Fry sniffs.]

Fry: Pine needles. Oh, man, this is great! Hey, as long as you don’t make me smell Uranus.

[He laughs.]

Leela: I don’t get it.

Farnsworth: I’m sorry, Fry, but astronomers renamed Uranus in 2620 to end that stupid joke once and for all.

Fry: Oh. What’s it called now?

Farnsworth: Urectum.

Anyone else with me? Anyone?

Limbo is a crazy piece of real estate.

We’re still balanced on the edge of our seats to discover whether or not we’ve got the winning bid on the house that we’ve been dribbling over for the last few weeks.

It’s down to just two bidders. We believe the enemy is a single female with no chain. (We had hoped that any other bidders might be encumbered by another property, instead of a couple of bums living on a boat.) We have bid higher than we’d hoped to, although not outside the range that we’d decided was financially comfortable for us, nor is it the asking price for the property. Unlike a lot of houses in our area, the price we hope to pay for this particular domicile isn’t unreasonable for the amount of space and the quality of the neighbourhood. We won’t feel like we’re grabbing our ankles forking out the cash.

Ring, you bloody phone.

Today we make an offer on the house that we love.

All fingers and toes crossed.

This morning, as I was walking down to the postbox, the guy who lives next door to The Rock Star’s parents was attempting to get his toddler into their car.Perhaps to entice said toddler into her car seat, or perhaps to kill small wildlife in the area, he popped a cd of children’s music into the car stereo at full volume with all the doors open.

I have never sprinted back from the postbox before, but you can bet that I did today. There is a truth that I have not discovered until today; A LOT OF RECORDED CHILDREN’S MUSIC IS DEEPLY DISTURBING.

I wondered briefly, after reviving my nerves with a cup of tea, how a music company auditions for the type of people who sing on these albums. Where do they find people with these creepifying, wide-eyed, big teeth voices?

My knick-knack paddywhacking experience this morning jolted my memory back to one of my personal favourite children’s albums- one that is likely to reverberate in the skulls of my parents until their dying day- The Bert and Ernie Sing Along.

As we all know, Sesame Street is really the best proof there is for the existence of a higher being. This particular album had a rough plotline holding it together, which even to this day, makes me giggle. Bert is in the bathtub when Ernie bursts in with a grand piano, because “everything sounds better in the bathroom”. Soon, the entire SS cast is gathered in Bert and Ernie’s bathroom to sing, leaving Bert stranded in a cold tub of water with only suds to protest his Muppet modesty. (We always loved watching Ernie frustrate Bert, but in real life, if you had a roommate like Ernie, you’d most likely stab him until he was dead in the first few months of his tenancy.)

This album has got some total classics on it- stuff that I won’t shudder to hear when my children ask to hear it over and over again. Unfortunately, this album never made it to CD (It came out the year I was born, 1975) but I found it on eBay on vinyl.

It will be mine.

Is it a sign of age or simply crankiness when one starts becoming enraged with really, really awful customer service?

This morning, I had to speak to a bank on the phone. Oh yes, a bank.

I left the States when I was 24. Being 24, I had few reasons to want to contact my bank other than if I accidentally went nuts at Old Navy and went into the red on my account. (Only happened once.) Being in my 30’s now and part of a pair of people wishing to purchase property, I have the distinct misfortune to wish to communicate with my bank.

My bank seems to be extremely adept at preventing this.

In a flash of what can only be termed customer service inspiration, my particular bank decided to a) deny access of direct branch numbers to account holders and b) move call centres that will inevitably be dealing with an influx of angry customer calls saying, “where the fuck has my branch number gone?” to Mumbai.

Think what you want about my issue with this. I know myownself that I’m not a terrible racist cow. The fact about Indian call centres is not that their staff is untrained; they are. It’s not that they’re uneducated; they’re not. It’s that you can’t understand a bloody word they’re saying. They get frustrated with you, you get frustrated with them….it just adds up to bad customer service points for the bank. It’s not their fault their accents are difficult for the Western ear, but equally, it’s not my fault that I am possessed of said Western ear. (Hell, I used to dread having to talk to our Glaswegian manager on the phone when I worked my first retail job here in the UK)

The Rock Star was planning on heading in to town this afternoon for a chat with a mortgage advisior. Being unable to locate the branch telephone number, I was forced to call the “help”line to get it.

I was fortunate to end up with a “customer service representative” who’s accent was fairly Westernized.

“Hi,” I said, “I’d like the direct number for the Leighton Buzzard branch, please.”

“Are you an account holder?”

“Yes.”

“Can I ask why you’re requesting the number?”

What I wanted to say was, “Because it’s my bloody bank and my money is there and it’s none of your business why I want to talk to someone at the branch, so give it to me now, or I swear I will fly out to whatever region of the sub-continent you inhabit and choke you.”

“Because,” I said with some restraint, “my husband and I would like to talk to a mortgage advisor.”

“I could put you on the phone with one of our mortgage advisors.”

“We want to talk to someone in person.” I said through gritted teeth, “Someone AT OUR BRANCH.”

“Ok, I’ll put you through.”

“Is there a reason why I can’t have the number so that I can call them myself?”

“I don’t actually have the number here, but I can transfer you.”

My spirit was broken at that point. He didn’t even managed to transfer me to the right person. I suppose I should be grateful that it was even the right branch.

Right.

So, The Rock Star and I have come across the first place that we really feel comfortable about. It’s a first floor maisonette. (I’m not sure this term is used in the States- it denotes an apartment that spans two levels.)

I’m trying to resist the urge to get excited about this place due to the intrinsically evil nature of the real estate market in which your dream home can literally be snatched right out from under your feet and virtually no one tells the truth even on pain of torture. (They should sell First Time Buyer Estate Agent kits that include bamboo shoots, electrical tape and a sock full of quarters) However, it is difficult to contain my enthusiasm.

It is a fixer-upper. All of the jobs are fairly minor ones. No knocking down walls or fundamentally altering the shape of the place. But the minor jobs are many, so it’s possible that the expense might be major.

1) Double glazed windows. It hasn’t got them. Luckily. there are not a huge number to replace.

2) Central heating. It hasn’t got that either. After watching the Idiot put in central heating in his house (badly) we figure that if he can do it, we TOTALLY can.

3) Floors. All covered, at the moment, in manky blue carpet, which would have to be burned far, far away. We’re not entirely sure what’s UNDER the manky blue carpet, though, so we’re not sure if we’re talking laminate flooring or an industrial strength floor sander, filler and varnish. My guess, just from the feel, is the former.

4) The bathroom. No shower. Bad fittings.

5) The kitchen. Tolerable, but if we want to add value, it MUST be refitted. The very VERY odd laminate flooring which is decorated with a silver square pattern is bad for the eyes.

6) Painting. Done right this time instead of by a trained gorilla.

Obviously, we don’t have the cash to do all of these things at once, but some faults are more liveable with than others.

The reason we like this place so much is the size. Agents have, up until now, tried to convince us that it is normal to pay a fortune for a second bedroom that’s the size of a walk-in closet. “But…” we’ve spluttered, “you can’t even fit a double bed in here!” This place has space. Lots of it. It has trees. And a garage. And quiet.

I’m getting too attached, aren’t I?

I tried to find some kind of thoughtful and witty quotes about homes and home buying to begin this post, but the best I could come up with was, “what a load of bollocks.” And that’s my own opinion.

The Rock Star and I are beginning to look at houses. While our life on the water is idyllic (British Waterways put paid to Operation Big Boat with a brusque letter saying that a Dutch Barge would take up too much of their damn canal) space is starting to become an issue and now that it looks like we’re going to be coming into possession of a sizable chunk of money, we thought it would be a good time to try to jump into the housing market. (although we weren’t exactly overjoyed to discover The Bank of England decided to raise interest rates this morning. Thanks, guys!)

We live in a VERY pricey area of the UK- 30 minutes North of London, smack dab in the middle of the commuter belt. For the same money that we’ll be spending on a tiny 2 bed flat in our area, (140k to 150k) we could buy a 3 bedroom house with big basement and backyard around where my parents live in rural Maryland. Hence, the load of bollocks.

We’re virgin house buyers. 6 years in a tiny space makes every house or flat look like a palace. Although, on the other hand, it also makes us a lot less tolerant of places that are offering little space for a lot of cash. We were shown two flats in a “highly sought after” estate community by a suspiciously over- polished and under-knowledgeable 19 year old wideboy who tried very hard to convince us that these were “great value for money”. This is obviously real estate code for “not enough space to swing a cat, plus your neighbors will be having loud parties every night right outside your door in the “common area””. We may be virgins, but it doesn’t mean that we’re totally ignorant.

The first place we saw was totally ideal- a 3 bedroom flat near the centre of town. But as we left, the next prospective buyer drove up in a Lexus; obviously an investment buyer, who we shot daggers at as he heaved his fat ass out of his heated leather seat. Investment buyers are the enemy in this area- any house even remotely affordable to first time buyers will be snapped up almost immediately by people with more income than they know what to do with, leaving us with an abysmal selection of 3 and 4 bedroom houses that aren’t even CLOSE to a fist time price range. Our dream flat was sold this morning.

We’re venturing out again this afternoon to have a look at two more places that aren’t as ideally located as we’d hoped, but come a little bit closer to our meagre pocketbooks.

Further updates as events warrant.