Sold!

Well, almost. We accepted an offer on the house for the full asking price. We still have the inspection, appraisal, and the closing, but we couldn't have asked for a better deal, really. The contract zipped around for signatures via PDF, email, and fax, and Geena Davis was able to do the whole thing, presumably from her bed, where she is convalescing post-gall bladder removal. She told us that this is her Personal Record for shortest listing time--12 days (again, fast for a town of 40 thousand or so, unlike nearby Major Urban Center where places can go in 9 minutes). Actually, by the time the listing appeared on the web, the sign went in the yard, and mailings went out, it was really more like a week. Plus, we priced the place 35 grand higher than Geena Davis suggested. The buyer asked for us to purchase a home warranty for her, which we gladly agreed to. I'm continuing to spiff the place up, some paint here, some new trim there.

She (the buyer) also requested all extant window treatments, which is fine except for some cheapie IKEA panel curtains that we have had up in our last 3 places. They only cost like 20 bucks, but kind of have sentimental value. Ah, well, perhaps a small lesson in not getting attached to material stuff. Nostalgia can be a debilitating disease.

Wow, now we actually have to think about moving; I was just finally getting my head around the idea of selling.

Womb with a view

Horrible title to this post, I apologize. We just had a new 4D ultrasound today, and everything looks great. The doctor asked for this repeat visit, since they couldn't view all the chambers of the heart that they wanted to last time at Fancy University Hospital. This time, we went to Fancy University Hospital's Satellite Office nearer to us.

Unfortunately, our appointment coincided with two events, (1) our second house showing, which wasn't a big deal, and (2) The Complete Collapse of Civilization For No Particular Reason, which almost interferred seriously with our schedule today.

I should back up. We started the morning with a "Realtor Tour," when 17 (we counted) realtors came through our house to get a general impression of the place, and hopefully get a sense which of their clients would want to buy it. I tended to like the affect of the 50ish, polished, professional, manicured women who looked to have a couple decades' experience in the biz, but we're sticking with young Geena Davis. Although she's been at it only 5 years, she's a straight-shooter, deep into the technology end of home selling (she's done great ads for us on the web, in flyers, brochures, and slick mailings), and has a good vibe. Weirdly (given her age) she had gall bladder surgery today, but she still returned two emails. Man, that's dedication.

As part of our home-showing drill, we spoiled Caesar and Lulu by buying two cages designed for medium-sized dogs (I went with the "1630," btw, which is built for a 40-pound dog, so not bad for a cat). The cages are a necessity, since whenever anyone opens the front door, the cats torpedo outside, throwing themselves into shrubs, attempting murder of rabbits, etc. With an afternoon showing scheduled, we safely ensconced the cats into their studio apartments, gave them their wiggleworms, and left for the ultrasound.

I hit red lights every ten feet for twelve miles until there were suddenly *no* lights. We allowed ourselves plenty of time, but traffic was now at a complete standstill. For some unknown reason, every signal was nonfunctional, columns of cars were paralyzed at intersections in every direction, and cops were only sporadically waving people along. I don't handle traffic well, so I'm pretty sure I had an aneurism or two on the way. We arrived 25 minutes late and saw the tech heading down the hallway to leave, but we managed to have the screening regardless. I learned that those machines take a while to boot up once they're completely shut down.

The doctor (a new one we've not met) was there right away and exuded all the great qualities that were completely absent from me over the previous hour: sanity, equilibrium, perspective, and warmth. I joked to Marci later that she should probably have kids with him, instead. He had such a zen-like disposition, I couldn't picture him yelling obscenities at his steering wheel. "He's sixty," she said.

Dr. i explained that Marci is at slightly increased risk of having an infant with Down Syndrome, given her age. I'm very familiar with all of those facts, since my sister was born with this genetic disorder. However, my mom had her at around 27, and, regardless, it's spontaneous and doesn't run in families. He asked if Marci would be having an amnio, and we said that the results would be irrelevant, since we would obviously keep the baby either way. I told him about my sister, and he said, "They're fine. Down Syndrome children are fine." Besides, he said nothing they've seen so far indicates DS for us, anyway.

Although we've had our own share of tests, I think it's psychologically dangerous for test-mania to consume parents-to-be. It only creates an illusion of control. After all, how do you test to find out if the kid is going to ride in a car with drunk friends? Or dive headfirst into the shallow end? Or play that junior high game where people choke each other until they pass out? This might be an important formative period for my own habit of mind regarding Peanut's well being; I might as well start working on my mellow now.

The images, again, were stunning to us, and they gave us about five. The Peanut weighs 2 pounds at 24 weeks (how do they get weight with an ultrasound? That one baffles me . . .) and the doctor said he looks like a "carbon copy" of me. I guess I can kind of see it, too.

One image we just call "grumpy;" Marci thinks she sees the closest likeness to me in that one.

Marry, Bang, Kill

Inspired, in part, by Kathy Griffin's My Life on the D-List finale this week, Marci and I played a few rounds of marry, bang, or kill over a couple delmonicos at our local steak place. If you don't know how it goes, it's fairly simple. Your job is to pitch triads of personalities to your partner (or group, or whoever) , and the other person has to categorize the choices as to who she would marry, who she would bang, and who she would kill. It's a bonus if the person can justify their choices.


My first options were too easy, I think. I pitched Ewan McGregor, Jonathan Rhys Meyers, and Russell Crowe to Marci. She fired right back: kill Crow, bang Meyers, and marry Ewan. I should have known she'd go for the long-term committment with Ewan--sense of humor is important. She said she admires Crow's acting, but that's about the extent of it, so off with his head, and Meyers is probably useless for conversation. I upped the ante and went political: Bush, Clinton, and Kerry. Another one, that, as it turns out, was too easy. Kill Kerry, marry Bush, and bang Clinton. I guess I wasn't considering the lasting effects of that Star report. Plus, Bush could probably do a lot of stuff around the house. In every photo op I see him in, he's fixing a fence or castrating a bull or something. I really went below the belt on the next one: Letterman, Leno, O'Brien. That one stumped her; I thought I saw some visable hesitation and wincing, but she quickly recovered: Kill O'Brien, bang Leno, and marry Letterman. Conan O'Brien's become such a squirrely kook, I can see that one. I think the Leno choice was based on age. I shouldn't have gone there, since then she threw at me Oprah, Rosie O'Donnell, and Star Jones. Well, I married Oprah, killed O'Donnell, and had a one-nighter with Jones. That one hurt--you do better! Plus we're talking Star Jones post-*The View.* No more red carpets in her future; I just saw her hosting *House Hunters* on HGTV.



Her challenge to me was: Gwyneth Paltrow, Julianne Moore, and Renee Zellweger. Marci knows that I have irrational issues about each one of these actresses, so this was tougher than it might look. Ultimately, I decided to kill Paltrow, though I immediately regretted my choice since she's probably the most stable of the three. Zellweger is definitely the bang option, being such a coke freak and all. I sort of defaulted into a life of marital bliss with Julianne Moore.

I gave her a tough one: Colin Firth, Colin Farrell, Colin Quinn. Again, almost no hesitation. Kill Farrell, bang Quinn, and marry Firth. It's almost as if she's already thought about all of this . . .

Things sort of went off the rails when we got down to Grimace, the Hamburglar and Ronald McDonald.

Home sweet mudhole part 2

We took the two hour drive to see the site of our future condo on Friday. As I had assumed, the builders are saying mid October before we could think about moving in. The foundation was there, so we could at least better imagine the floorplan. With August 28th as the starting date for Marci's graduate program, this would put us in a bit of a housing squeeze. As luck would have it, the realtor working for the building has promised us living space in an empty unit until our place is finished. If it takes, say, six weeks, we'll just pay rent and about 80% of that would go into our downpayment. Not bad.

We also toured the local YMCA and found that they have a brand new fitness area (machines, free weights, cardio, etc.), a great lap pool, a good looking steam room (essential for any civilized human) and--the real perk--free childcare for kids as young as 6 weeks. They'll watch the kid two hours a day, seven days a week. With that kind of schedule, Marci's going to look like The Hulk. However, they don't change diapers, and if your kid screams for too long they come and find you (and throw you out, I assume).

By a scheduling coincidence, it worked out that Marci and I, her brother and wife (they live near the future condo), and Marci's parents were all in town by her university, so we hung out a bit, toured a cool theatre from the 1920s, and all had dinner together at an Irish pub. Everyone gets along really well and it doesn't just seem because of the alcohol, though that probably never hurts.

On this homefront, I had to politely request of my neighbor that he not keep his big, ugly, inflatable child's swimming pool in his front (yes, the front) yard. He politely obliged. I lied and blamed the request on our realtor.

Home sweet mudhole

The realtor sign is going up in the yard today. I ran off copies of our sales brochure and stuck them in all of our neighbors' mailboxes, but so far they haven't all scrambled over at once with their checkbooks. We're getting a lot of new traffic, though, because they're rebuilding a semi-major thoroughfare a block away; this should further increase our visability. The growing traffic has brought with it some people who like to go 50 miles an hour up our quaint residential street. When convenient, say, when I'm out in front stretching for a run, or messing around with the landscaping, I've taken to shouting things at these people. The city tells me they don't have any signs that read "Slow Down Jackass, so a couple of weeks ago I had them erect some new "Children Playing" signage, which of course didn't do any good. The shouting seems to work slightly better. Anyway, Marci tells me that now that people have a legitimate reason for driving by and looking at the house, I need to refrain from shouting and giving dirty looks.

We've gotten word through Marci's brother (who lives close to where our condo is being built) that there's still just a mudhole where the condo is supposed to be. About a month ago, we heard that they were just about ready to pour the foundation. Originally, the target time for completion was "September," which meant the 1st of the month to me, and probably meant mid-october to the builders. Classes start for Marci on August 28th, so we've been pricing extended-stay places near her university, for what I assume will be an upcoming 'homeless' period for us. I think she should consider joining a sorority and just living in the campus house. She could be the only Delta Zeta with a full-time job, 7 months pregnant, married, and in her 30s. I envision our own version of "Old School." Just replace Will Ferrell running in the middle of the street post-frat party with a drunk, laughing, naked pregnant woman.

Designed to Sell

Just like the HGTV show where people scramble to make all the last-minute modifications to their home they can before putting it on the market, that’s what Marci and I have been up to the last two days. On the show, they have this woman who walks through seller’s homes, insults their stuff, ridicules their taste or slovenly habits, and hopefully encourages them to get it together before potential buyers walk in. We didn’t have the luxury of paying someone to verbally abuse us, so we had to be our own hostile audience.

We mentioned to our realtor (who definitely has a Geena Davis ala Accidental Tourist affect, only younger) that we’d be all set by this Friday for showings; however, she called yesterday about a couple who wanted to check the place out today at 1pm. The place has been on the market less than 1 day, so we were excited to get a showing so quickly. The downside was that Sunday night was spent putting in a new bathroom vanity and sink, installing a light fixture, putting in new base molding, sprucing the yard, painting, buying some houseplants, caulking seams, and cleaning the deck. Also, the cats Caesar and Lulu are kind of nuts about dashing outside, so we bought a big cage for them. Our last house sold (we’re convinced) because we’re pretty good at setting up a mellow vibe for showings: candles, Nora Jones CD playing softly in the background, etc. Sometimes I give our coffee mill a crank on the way out since most people subconsciously dig the aroma. I think it’s also good advice to hide all personal photos, too. I could probably do a separate post on how dumb most family photos look hanging all over a house anyway; it’s particularly true when you’re trying to unload a place.

Geena Davis arrived a bit before the house shoppers, so Marci and I just went a few blocks over to a local ice cream place for a couple milkshakes (since it's 96 degrees here). If we have shakes every time someone wants to see the house, though, our asses eventually won’t fit through the door.
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On the last ultrasound (the schpancy 4D version at 21 weeks), they apparently didn’t get every image of The Peanut’s heart that they wanted, so we’re going in again on the 25th. We’re pretty excited about this visit, since we didn’t think we’d be having another official US, though we considered going to another place that does them (in a mall, believe it or not) and just paying for it. This “bonus” image will be at 24 weeks. We have a pretty sizable photo album already, and the Little Man hasn’t even gotten himself born yet.

It struck me recently how pregnancy amounts to entering some larger human family where people regularly ask how you’re doing, and make observations concerning your appearance and progress in ways that don’t happen in a non-pregnant state. People seem supportive, interested, and enthusiastic about it all, particularly people who already have kids. A chemistry professor I work with told me a couple weeks ago “you have no idea how much your own parents love you until you have your own kid; in fact, you won’t believe they love you that much.” He’s not a particularly sentimental guy; he was just making an observation, like the scientist that he is.

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Greg was victorious on his local 5K once again on Saturday—three years in a row now (see his link in a previous post). He had Marci, me, and some friends over afterward for some (well!) grilled meat and beer, which was all excellent and a lot of fun. Actually, there were a total of three pregnant women present, so I was sorry that I didn’t bring the Doppler. I probably could have incorporated it into some sort of drinking game.

Ski Run 5K

I just got back from the run. Marci didn't come along on this one, but I did have her instructions "don't call me from the hospital." A buddy of mine who's a pretty serious runner (he's published some stuff in Runner's World) came out for it, so we had a chance to catch up, but all chatter stopped by the first steep hill, when the fun/misery began. I think the course bested the bulk of the competitors. We've had some torrential rain around here the last couple days, so much of the route was an up and downhill mudslick. There was some confusion on the course as well, and a number of people, myself included, missed a turn around an inclining ridge. What really took it out of me was a 50-foot muddy embankment with a rope climb. There was a long line for the rope, so those who elected to forego said rope (stupidly, like I did) resorted to clawing their way up the hill on knuckles and knees. There was an extra "evil" option for those who wanted to do it, which turned out to not be as bad as whatever monster I'd created in my head (essentially traversing another gulch, circling a tree, and back down the gulch). I modified my personal goals several times along the way. My first unrealistic one was not to walk any of the course, my next was don't slide haphazardly down any major inclines, and my last (and the only one I really met) was don't puke.

I've been looking for a way to chart my progress on more traditional running, and this from Apple looks promising. If you're really a dedicated runner, check out Greg's blog. It's loaded with first-hand experience, tips and suggestions for runners, and is an overall fun read.

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Our visit with Dr. W. was uneventful: Marci's now in week 23.

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We met with the realtor yesterday, who was immediately likeable, young, and a bit quirky. For one thing, she is the inventor of "Wiggle Worm" cat toys, so she brought a couple along for Lulu and Caesar. The things look like little smiling worms and are full of catnip. Caesar liked his so much that he bit her. We're hoping the place sells fast. It's really ideal if someone wants a vintage place (it was built in 1905) that doesn't need work (we've upgraded or replaced almost everything). We initially thought about keeping the place while Marci does her coursework; however, we think we'll want a bigger place when we move back into town again, anyway, so why not shed the responsibility now? The condo by her university (they tell us) should be finished by September. It should have plenty of space for us, and a nice-sized room for The Peanut.

In terms of important future decisions, I've been thinking about toys. It turns out that you can get stuff for kids that you're not embarrassed to leave out if you shop here. There's no reason an innocent child should be the victim of bad design.

iTunes it out

In case anyone's been wondering what PostModernDad has on his iPod, this is the lineup I've been using to keep motivated for the upcoming 5K I have this Saturday:

The Denial Twist-White Stripes
Song 2-Blur
Pretty Vegas-INXS
Take Me Out-Franz Ferdinand
Comfortably Numb-Scissor Sisters
Dragula-Rob Zombie
Freak on a Leash-Korn (where's my backwards 'R' key?)
Bulls on Parade-Rage Against the Machine
Firestarter-Prodigy
Tubthumping-Chumbawumba
John the Revelator-Depeche Mode
Slow-Kylie Minogue (Chemical Brotherers Mix)
Ruiner-Nine Inch Nails

Cool-down:
Teardrop-Massive Attack
Landed-Ben Folds
100 Years-Five for Fighting


This race is unique because the course lies on a ski slope that typically doesn't get much use in July. I completed the race last year (it was the first annual), but it was 85 degrees and humid, so I didn't get much for style points. Another cool feature of the course is that it is populated by shouting drill sargeants, a guy in a Smoky the Bear costume, Civil War Reenactment guys, and random people encouraging or razzing the runners. The event was catered by a deli last year, so all the racers ended up eating hot beef brisket sandwiches at 9:30 in the morning, which were quite damn good.

In thinking about continuing my routine post-birth, I've been checking out jogging strollers, and the BOB seems to be a good contender. The model I like they call the "Stroller Strides Fitness" version. The stroller part looks solid, but it comes with "exercise tubing," a fitness manual, and a bunch of other junk that looks sort of goofy. If the stretching/strength routine they prescribe somehow involves the stroller itself, I'm pretty much guaranteed to look like the biggest jackass in the park.

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In other news, we've decided to sell the house and live full-time where Marci will be pursuing her doctorate; the realtor is coming Friday. More on that . . .

Just for kicks

What started as Marci having vague impressions of movement has now graduated into pretty decent kicks. I can now place my hand just below her navel and feel an occasional "thump." Last night, Marci reported that she could see movement while she lay in the bathtub. It's exciting to have two ways to assess Peanut's progress. These new movements along with the fetal doppler, as well as our recent US, really put us in touch with the little guy.

We just watched a Tivo'd episode of Supernanny. If you are unfamiliar with the format, it's a reality-based endeavor in which a prim, authoritative British woman visits families with misbehaving children, takes notes on the family's activites, and works with them on issues of discipline, etc. I usually see it when I'm on the treadmill at the Y and read the scrollbars. She often works with American families, but she was back in the UK for this episode. The night we watched, Supernanny was dealing with Matthew, a ten-year-old who called his mom profane names and attempted to beat the shit out of everybody.

I thought that a kid who was this profoundly screwed up would be beyond the resources of the Supernanny, but I was wrong. With the implementation of the "chillout chair" and a little "Work It Out" routine (which included some breathing exercises, jumping jacks, and a little crazy dance designed to channel his blind, frothing rage), the kid seemed to have half a shot at not becoming a serial killer by the end of the show.

The root issue was the fact that the parents lived in mortal fear of enforcing any discipline, each claiming that it "broke their (own) hearts" to set any limits. Further, mom never let dad control "her" son (they were a blended family) while dad tended to focus on "his" two daughters. Mom got into the weird habit of taking 3 hours to put the kids to bed, and kept whimpering about how it "broke her (again, her own, not the kid's) heart to leave the room." I eventually found myself on Matthew's side, wanting to kick and punch the crap out of them too.

If some of the little kicks Marci is feeling are any indication, we should probably get on Supernanny's waiting list . . .

Oh, Boy!

It's official; we're having a boy-child. We found out midweek during a 4D scan at Fancy University Hospital in Major Urban Center. Before going in Marci thought we should write our guesses down on slips of paper and hold onto them until we find out. The new US equipment is sophisticated to a degree that you not only find out all the traditional info, but can actually see the face of your soon-to-be (in our case) son in detail, in motion. We were lucky and could actually see him smile!

What amazes me is that until quite recently, no humans have had an opportunity to glimpse that quiet internal world in quite this way. It was really like visiting another planet. While we were interested in gender, which Kim (the tech) identified almost immediatey, and his little face, which was overwhelming to see, she quickly went about the business of identifying many other structures and systems. Each long bone was identified, then cranium, orbits, and vertabrae. She checked out his lungs, bladder, stomach, kidneys, and spent a lot of time identifying and imaging each structure of his brain and heart. Kim remarked "nice cerebral cortex," which I guess is the kid's first complement. The heart imaging particularly fascinated me, as they studied each valve and chamber, in motion.

Kim couldn't get every single image she wanted, so she had Marci turn to her side and lie still for a bit, figuring he would likely reposition himself. She returned a short time later, and, sure enough, he had flipped over and she got a few more images for our doctor. We assumed we would have to wait until we spoke to Dr. W. for an official evaluation, but Kim said one of the FUH (see above) doctors would be in shortly to talk to us, and do some additional scanning.

In the meantime, two (rather cute, honestly) residents stopped in and asked if they could do some imaging while we waited. One appeared to be a more senior res who was introducing the other to use of the equipment. After some time, Dr. H. greeted us and she began a mini-lesson for the residents. Is this breech or transverse? Why isn't this the best way to lateral scan the aorta? See how crappy the image of the heart is when I do this? That's because the waves don't pass through bone. I like a doctor who says "crappy."

She eventually took over and got the remaining angles she needed, and also printed some additional "portraits" we could take with us.

On Friday, we went to see Dr. W. again. We were due to see him next week, anyway, but Marci had been spotting a bit, so we were concerned about that. I also wanted to know if there was any risk in our dining on raw meat for the 4th of July. I had read these awful things about "toxo," and wanted to make sure things were cool.

He examined Marci's cervix and determined that everything was fine in terms of the spotting, so we felt relieved about that. I asked about our neighbor's attempt to kill us, and he said the incidence of aquiring something nasty that way are, in his words, "rare, rare, rare, rare, rare." He went on to say that, despite all the anxiety-producing information out there, microbes aren't really waiting to "pounce" at the first instance of eating a Wrong Thing. "That's not really the way it works," he said.

I'm glad he disabused me of that idea, because that was pretty much the exact model I had in my head.

We're seeing him again this Friday, so that he can further discuss the ultrasound with us.

Oh, yeah, I forgot to mention that Marci and I traded our folded slips of paper shortly after our scan. They each said "boy."

Ignore this message

Since I've posted a view ad spots, I've noticed that the only ads that show up are related to toilets. This must be because I referenced "Kohler" in an earlier post. Though I think toilets are very important to all of us, perhaps if I include groovier links to iPods, Ikea, Smart Car, and 2Chix Maternity, the ads might be more interesting . . .

4th of July Poisoning

Some quasi-aquaintances invited me and Marci over for some holiday festivities. It's hard to explain the type of community we found ourselves in (briefly). The setting was somewhat rural, and the place bills itself as a secure, gated facility with its own armed security force, a couple of restaurants, weekly entertainment, and "special events" such as "ethnic"-themed dinners and holiday parades. This month, for example, the on-compound restaurant's weekly dinner schedule included "Cajun" night, "Mexican" night, and "Bohemian" night (?). I've heard about this community before but never had occasion to visit, so I checked out their website, and their newsletter, which included interesting features such as a monthly article by the head of the security force, entitled "Inside the Gates."

If all of this sounds like something from a bad science fiction film, the reality only gets worse.

The community, being private, is also unmapable, so Googling directions to our destination wasn't possible. When we arrived at the gate, there was a small line of cars waiting to gain entry. When our turn came, a 70 year old woman in a lawn chair asked my name and where I was going, then just waved us through. If my name had a hyphenated "Al" or "Abu" in it somewhere, her reaction might have been different, but the place didn't strike me as much of a "hardened" facility. It's one of those places where every street has the same name, and essentially one street meanders its bizantine way through the whole development.

Apparently, the real advantage of living in a gated community is the ability to whiz around the neighborhood drunk on a golf cart, since this is what most of the denizens of "Grainville Acres" were up to on the 4th. As the golf buggys were the main modes of transport, people had to do something with their cars (people have to leave the "Acres" occasionally for groceries, I assume--you can't have such wacky ethnic food every day!). What they did with their cars was park them on their lawns, and I don't mean one car, I mean dozens of cars, hundreds of cars. Cars stacked two deep. Cars angled into ditches. Cars backed up to front porches with ice-loaded trunks open for handy grabbing of beer.

No car, however was in a garage, and it soon became apparent why: In Grainville Acres, Garages are living rooms. Televisions, couches, beds, refrigerators, dining tables, all arranged among the tool cabinets and industrial shelving, and all fully peopled at house after house. What everyone, it seems, has in common at the Acres beyond lawn parking, golf cart careening and garage dwelling, is smoking. From grandparents to toddlers, they were all puffing away. They smoked and played volleyball, they smoked and carried babies, they smoked and high-fived each other, they smoked for the sheer joy of secure community living.

We eventually found the house and it looked like a small family gathering, so we came back home.

Our neighbors saw us and invited us over for barbeque, which was delicious but was, unfortunately, raw meat with a veneer of blackening. Since we all like each other, I don't think they were deliberately trying to poison us, but you never know. Actually, we don't like to think of ourselves as high-maintenance, but with Marci's pregnancy we've (okay, I've) become picky and paranoid. Have some potatoes alioli? No, raw egg. Have some greek salad? No, unpasteurized feta. How about a burger? Great! I don't think we even noticed until we were half-way through them that blood was running down our chins.

Another thing to ask Dr. W. about . . .