Bliss, house babble, and my mirror-phobia confession
I'm still in the recovery process from the emotional overload of the past few days. I had no idea it was physically possible to ride such an intense wave of euphoria for so long. Granted, I was so giddy and ecstatic all day yesterday that I was physically exhausted by 7 PM, but I stayed up until after midnight anyway watching continuing coverage and recaps of the inauguration and the Neighborhood Ball. I watched his speech 4 times, and I read the text a few times to boot, and I sobbed like a baby and looked very much like Stephen Colbert did at the beginning of the Report last night. MAC liquigel liner is pretty resilient stuff, but after all of the 'Bama Bliss of the day, it had streaked all over my face and shirt. So worth it. I'm still utterly drained, so that's all I can muster about yesterday. It's not like I'm given to poignant entries, anyway.
I spoke with Cassie's supervisor yesterday; she works at a printing company, but her supervisor has a second job as a real estate agent. His company is listing the boneyard colonial, and I think he'll be my realtor. He gets glowing reviews from Cassie, and he's set up an appointment with me to show me the house this Sunday. I do hope it's in a nice neighborhood, and I hope it's just as wonderful as the pictures show. Yes, I know this is only the first listing I'm taking seriously, the first one I'm actually going to go see in person, but still. . . house hunting is tremendous fun, but I'm so very ready to have a place of my own, and on paper, this house is nearly perfect (oh, if only it had a claw foot tub! And, um, and address a little closer to 20th St. . . .). I know that if there's something about this house that doesn't sit right, or sends up red flags, then I've got plenty of time and options to find My House. It certainly wouldn't hurt to take the extra time to save a little more. But one can't help but feel overwhelmingly hopeful when one comes across a listing that grabs her so. And if the house does turn out to be one that I absolutely cannot pass by, well, I just hope I manage to keep my squealing and frantic hand-clapping and scary Joker grin to a bare minimum. I must play it cool, I must pretend to be a hard sell so that I get a better deal and so that they give me stuff. And if it ends up being a total disappointment, then at least I'll have met with a realtor, and I can tell him what I do want and he can find it for me. It will be fun, there will be more exciting finds, more anticipation, more dreaming and hoping. Either way, house hunting is way more fun than man hunting. Not that I man hunt. Well, not that kind of man hunt. Or the other kind, really. (wow, there's really no way I could have worded that without it sounding creepy and weird. So much for that joke. . .) But you know what I mean. ::casually nudges my crossbow and spear set out of sight::
Yeah, house hunting is also a hell of a lot more fun than apartment hunting and job hunting. Chicago, baby, you're just gonna have to sit tight for a few more years before I head out your way. I'll come visit. I promise. Maybe I'll even get to network with your publishers as I start submitting to writing contests and conferences. Right now, I've just got to do the best thing I can do for myself financially. I know you understand. Just hold on, I'll find my way there eventually.
Anyway, in response to your inquiry, Maureen: Cassie said the neighborhood doesn't seem to be that bad. She says the houses around "mine" are just as nice and well-kept as "mine," and it's very quiet. She also said the cemetery is huge, very open, and well lit, so she can't imagine much shady behavior going on around there. Nicole lives a few blocks away and says it's okay. Nelson confirms that it's not really anything to worry about. Ninth St, he says, is bad news, but the part where I'm looking is decent. I don't know, I'll have to drive around a bit and get a feel for the cars and people and vibe myself. So even though it's much closer to the dangerous parts of center city than I'd like, I have yet to hear anyone say, "Yeah, you'd better invest in some Kevlar and pepper spray." Like I said, I'll find out for myself this weekend!
However, wherever I end up, I can tell you this much: I'm going to have to buy a brand-spanking new bedroom set. See, my current set is on loan from my mom, and it's a turn of the (last) century antique set. It's gorgeous, and it would look incredible in a Victorian home (or a colonial, as the case my be), but the mirror would freak me out waaaaaay too much. I'm weird about mirrors, especially old ones. I can (kind of) handle having a 100-year-old mirror in my current room because the house is "new" in the sense that we're the only people who have ever lived here. Mom and Steve had it built in 1995. No lingering energies around here, nope nope. But moving into a 100+-year-old house with an antique mirror? Never gonna happen. ESPECIALLY if I end up moving into a 136-year-old house across the street from a cemetery. I don't even want to think of the dread I'd have to live with. See, I wouldn't mind seeing a ghost in the house. But for some reason, if I see something reflected in a mirror that isn't there when I turn around. . . . well, that would guarantee me a one way trip to a padded cell. Can't explain it, but yes, this vain, narcissistic little Leo is scared of mirrors. Whenever I do use one, I keep my eyes focused very firmly on my own image-- I cannot bring myself to look in the "background" of the reflection. I don't use mirrors to look behind me if I can help it. (Exception being car mirrors, of course. I use them all the time, but I do refuse to look in the backseat when glancing at my rearview. Nope, eyes focus through the rear window, I NEVER look at the backseat/passenger head level). Newer mirrors are easier for me to use, but antique mirrors give me sick feelings in my stomach if I look at them for too long. I get to wondering far too much about what they've reflected over the years. But that's a whole 'nother post right there.
So on that note, I'm going to pop on over to the Ikea website and look for a pretty, cheap bedroom set boasting a vanity with a NEW-NEVER-USED-BY-DEAD-PEOPLE mirror.
I spoke with Cassie's supervisor yesterday; she works at a printing company, but her supervisor has a second job as a real estate agent. His company is listing the boneyard colonial, and I think he'll be my realtor. He gets glowing reviews from Cassie, and he's set up an appointment with me to show me the house this Sunday. I do hope it's in a nice neighborhood, and I hope it's just as wonderful as the pictures show. Yes, I know this is only the first listing I'm taking seriously, the first one I'm actually going to go see in person, but still. . . house hunting is tremendous fun, but I'm so very ready to have a place of my own, and on paper, this house is nearly perfect (oh, if only it had a claw foot tub! And, um, and address a little closer to 20th St. . . .). I know that if there's something about this house that doesn't sit right, or sends up red flags, then I've got plenty of time and options to find My House. It certainly wouldn't hurt to take the extra time to save a little more. But one can't help but feel overwhelmingly hopeful when one comes across a listing that grabs her so. And if the house does turn out to be one that I absolutely cannot pass by, well, I just hope I manage to keep my squealing and frantic hand-clapping and scary Joker grin to a bare minimum. I must play it cool, I must pretend to be a hard sell so that I get a better deal and so that they give me stuff. And if it ends up being a total disappointment, then at least I'll have met with a realtor, and I can tell him what I do want and he can find it for me. It will be fun, there will be more exciting finds, more anticipation, more dreaming and hoping. Either way, house hunting is way more fun than man hunting. Not that I man hunt. Well, not that kind of man hunt. Or the other kind, really. (wow, there's really no way I could have worded that without it sounding creepy and weird. So much for that joke. . .) But you know what I mean. ::casually nudges my crossbow and spear set out of sight::
Yeah, house hunting is also a hell of a lot more fun than apartment hunting and job hunting. Chicago, baby, you're just gonna have to sit tight for a few more years before I head out your way. I'll come visit. I promise. Maybe I'll even get to network with your publishers as I start submitting to writing contests and conferences. Right now, I've just got to do the best thing I can do for myself financially. I know you understand. Just hold on, I'll find my way there eventually.
Anyway, in response to your inquiry, Maureen: Cassie said the neighborhood doesn't seem to be that bad. She says the houses around "mine" are just as nice and well-kept as "mine," and it's very quiet. She also said the cemetery is huge, very open, and well lit, so she can't imagine much shady behavior going on around there. Nicole lives a few blocks away and says it's okay. Nelson confirms that it's not really anything to worry about. Ninth St, he says, is bad news, but the part where I'm looking is decent. I don't know, I'll have to drive around a bit and get a feel for the cars and people and vibe myself. So even though it's much closer to the dangerous parts of center city than I'd like, I have yet to hear anyone say, "Yeah, you'd better invest in some Kevlar and pepper spray." Like I said, I'll find out for myself this weekend!
However, wherever I end up, I can tell you this much: I'm going to have to buy a brand-spanking new bedroom set. See, my current set is on loan from my mom, and it's a turn of the (last) century antique set. It's gorgeous, and it would look incredible in a Victorian home (or a colonial, as the case my be), but the mirror would freak me out waaaaaay too much. I'm weird about mirrors, especially old ones. I can (kind of) handle having a 100-year-old mirror in my current room because the house is "new" in the sense that we're the only people who have ever lived here. Mom and Steve had it built in 1995. No lingering energies around here, nope nope. But moving into a 100+-year-old house with an antique mirror? Never gonna happen. ESPECIALLY if I end up moving into a 136-year-old house across the street from a cemetery. I don't even want to think of the dread I'd have to live with. See, I wouldn't mind seeing a ghost in the house. But for some reason, if I see something reflected in a mirror that isn't there when I turn around. . . . well, that would guarantee me a one way trip to a padded cell. Can't explain it, but yes, this vain, narcissistic little Leo is scared of mirrors. Whenever I do use one, I keep my eyes focused very firmly on my own image-- I cannot bring myself to look in the "background" of the reflection. I don't use mirrors to look behind me if I can help it. (Exception being car mirrors, of course. I use them all the time, but I do refuse to look in the backseat when glancing at my rearview. Nope, eyes focus through the rear window, I NEVER look at the backseat/passenger head level). Newer mirrors are easier for me to use, but antique mirrors give me sick feelings in my stomach if I look at them for too long. I get to wondering far too much about what they've reflected over the years. But that's a whole 'nother post right there.
So on that note, I'm going to pop on over to the Ikea website and look for a pretty, cheap bedroom set boasting a vanity with a NEW-NEVER-USED-BY-DEAD-PEOPLE mirror.