The Cold, Hard Truth: My Realty Check

Housing Market (HM): 7  versus  Sad Little Ole Me: 0

I love Vancouver.  I love living here.  I love that I can easily get to the water, the wilderness, the city and the mountains.  Other than the rain (look at my blog background...rainy mountains.  That isn't simply because it's a pretty picture, folks), I love this place.

What I don't like is that in order to get a bungalow - A BUNGALOW - within Vancouver city limits with a half decent basement suite for my parents, I'm looking at $900,000 at the very least.  Don't even get me started on how much I'd need to get a place on the west side because I just don't want to type that many zeros...my limit is five.

1.  I wanted to look at a house on Wall Street.  They just accepted an offer. HM 1 : Me 0
2.  I wanted to look at a house on East Georgia.  Whoops, they also just accepted an offer. HM 2 : Me 0
3.  I wanted to look at another house on Wall Street.  Guess what?  They accepted an offer. HM 3 : Me 0
4.  I asked to look at a house in Burnaby on Georgia.  Same frickin' deal. HM 4 : Me 0
5.  I begged to look at a house on 18th. No problem to look but it was awful. HM 5 : Me 0
6.  I cried to look at a place on Williams.  Oh, guess what?  They accepted an offer before even putting it up on MLS. WTF?? HM 6 : Me 0  
7.  I looked at another bungalow in Burnaby. We put in a bid - $22,000 over asking. And lost. Some schmuck bid $77,000 over asking with no conditions. Not even a bloody home inspection!!! HM 7 : Me 0 

Nooooooo!

This past weekend, I tentatively formed a thought that I might go look at a place at the top of our budget.  Until our real estate agent told us that they were expecting multiple offers.

OK Housing Market.  How's about I bid a Million Fricking Bucks and throw in my 2 cats for good measure?  No?  You want my left kidney too?  At this point, I'd almost consider that a good offer but rest assured, I will not allow a medical inspection before signing on the dotted line.

PS: I couldn't find a picture that was completely on point...strangely, Google is not littered with images of people punching each other and climbing over dead grannies and bleeding kittens to sign real estate contracts.  So this lovely picture will have to do.  Just imagine that daddy's nails are dirty because he just buried the last of the bodies of the other bidders in the back garden.  Sadly, he won't get a chance to clean them anytime soon because as soon as their little sweetheart goes to bed, mommy locks herself in the house's only bathroom while she scrubs and scrubs, trying to get the blood off her hands while crying softly so as to not wake their sweet little child.

The Last Post...

No, not my last post.  This is about another blogger's last post.

His name was Derek.  He was a Vancouverite with a wicked sense of humour.  He loved music, Diet Cherry Coke, and cheese in a can...apparently called Easy Cheese.

He had a wife.  He had 2 daughters.  And...he had cancer.

Derek is gone now.  He died the other day and the link I'm putting below will direct you to what he asked be posted after he passed away.  Although I didn't know him...I only knew him through his blogging voice...I am able to say with complete confidence that the world is now a poorer place.

Even if you don't read anything else in his blog, I highly recommend reading this.  I read it and I cried.  Lots.  If his Last Post motivates you to read more, then that's all the better because he was intelligent and funny and inspiring.

The Last Post

Chock Full'o'Crazy

I'm beginning to wonder if my kid has been switched out.

You know, the old "changeling" theory (no, not the movie).  I mean the "you-go-to-bed-one-night-after-tucking-in-your-sweet-little-baby-and-sometime-during-the-night-the-dark-sidhe-come-steal-your-baby-and-leave-a-cranky-crazy-little-doppelganger-in-their-place.

Yesterday, I began to wonder.

Scott had to stay late at work (again) so I went to pick her up solo (again).  I walked in Maria's back yard and within 1 minute, Brynn morphed from a happy-go-lucky toddler to an air raid siren.  A siren that wailed while I grabbed her stuff; talked to Maria about how Brynn's day was, walked to the car; strapped her in; drove her home; lugged her, her lunch bag, my work bag, and her diaper bag from the car, through the car park, into the elevator, through the courtyard, and up the stairs into our place.  She aaaaaoooooogaaaa'd as I took off her coat.  She caterwauled as I took off her shoes.  She bellowed as I put away her stuff.  She roared until I sat down on the floor in the kitchen, completely at a loss. 

She walked up to me, still shrieking...put her hands out to cup my face...and stopped!

I got a kiss and she sat on my lap to cuddle right there on the kitchen floor for the next 20 minutes as though absolutely nothing had just happened.

Yup.  We're chock full'o'crazy.

My Family is Not Perfect

Phew!

There.  I’ve said it.

I was surfing the blogosphere and noticed a ridiculously large group of yammerings that were written by women purporting to be the matriarch of "The Perfect Family."  

They love absolutely everything about being a mom.  

They are married to the perfect man.  

Their kids are genetic freaks of nature with absolutely no faults.
These women apparently get up each morning to sunshine beaming in the window and the chirping of birds while their husband brings them breakfast in bed and their children play quietly after penning a scathing critique of Gerardus 't Hooft's Nobel Prize winning thesis "For Elucidating the Quantum Structure of Electroweak Interactions."

I know you were probably all labouring under the misconception that I’m a Sofía Vergara look-a-like, married to Brad Pitt meets Gerard Butler with a smidge of Daniel Craig, with a daughter whose beauty and good nature are only outdone by her supernova intelligence and dazzling social skills.

I hate to burst your bubble but that just isn’t true.

Scott isn’t Brad Pitt, Gerard Butler, or Daniel Craig.  He’s Scott.  He burps. He farts and blames it on the cat or (gasp) on our daughter.  He doesn’t rinse the sink properly when he shaves.  He has hockey gear that should be designated a bio hazard and burned in a sealed compartment for the safety of all mankind.  He tunes me out.

He tunes me out.  Me.  MEEEEE? 

Cripes.  How is that even possible?  I’m not the strong, silent type and I’m loud.  I’m assertive.  I’m brash and pushy more often than not I’m saying some pretty interesting shiiiit…or at least mildly amusing shiiiiit…or something that is really just shit to fill the silence.  Well, I can see why he might want to tune me out some of the time but it boggles the mind that he can actually achieve this...and achieve it he does.  On a regular basis.  Whether what I’m saying is important or not. 

Scott: How was I supposed to know that? You never told me…No, you didn’t… No, you didn’t.

Scott: You never mentioned you needed THAT.

Scott: What? When the hell did I agree to your going to Palm Springs for 5 days with your sister? (oops, I haven't mentioned that yet)

Scott: I don't remember agreeing to put our house on the market and why are those movers taking away my stuff?

Sigh.

No.  I’ve got a belching, farting, messy, toxic mess of a husband who tunes me out but I love him.  Apparently, that's my type.

I, however, am Sofía Vergara’s long lost twin and Brynn is perfection incarnate so hopefully that will help restore at least a smidgen of your faith in the blogosphere.
 

 Me or my slightly less attractive sister, Sofía?

Me, of course!

Where is my...Where is my...Where is my Internet?

My internet router decided to take a much needed vacation late last week.

It apparently hopped a plane to Mexico, got lost, wandered around Guadalajara after dark (never a good idea) and got scooped up in an after dark kidnapping raid.  Its whereabouts are unknown but as we have yet to receive proof of life, it is presumed dead.

I mourned for a few minutes and then the anger began.  I wanted to check my email. (mild annoyance)  I wanted to look at properties online. (getting pissed)  I had work to do and rather than lugging all those binders home I planned on using the online versions filed with our regulatory body.  


AH NIDDED MAH DAHMN EHNTARNEHT.

Obviously, this also cramped my bliggedy bloggin' style.  Horrors!

My internet provider compassionately assured us that we'd receive a fancy shmancy new router sometime this week.  Tuesday, maybe Wednesday, perhaps Thursday, a chance of Friday...

Breaking Up is Hard to Do

Aaaaugh.  It's my theme today.  Live it.  Feel it.  Taste it. 

Daycare is my other theme. Yes, I'm blabbering about daycare.  Aaaaagain.

Recap: Brynn's caregiver is jetting off to Greece for 2 months on July 1st and returns to a four day work week.  Nice for her but a massive can'o'worms for us.  I can't even tell you how many places I called - including the ones Brynn's already wait listed for - and we were S.O.L. unless we were willing to split her week between 2 different daycares.  Obviously, NOT ideal.

Present day: we just received confirmation that Brynn has a FULL TIME place in a wonderful new daycare opening up here in Vancouver: Kids and Co. Cue the angels, heavenly spotlight, and blissful harp music.  To say this was a miracle is just shy of hyperbole...just. 

Time Warp: We're driving along a road we don't normally drive along.  I just happen to look up and see the sign saying Kids and Co are opening up soon and that they are having an open house (that Scott completely missed).  During their open house hours.  Before the hoards realized what was going on and gobbled up all the available spots.  Ohmanohmanohman. After a scream, a cartoon style screech and highly illegal u-turn, we high tailed it back to fill out an application.

Aaand back to present day: they told us we had a spot for June and I tried my best to sound sane on the phone while dancing around my living room like a coked-up ballerina. Could we defer to July?  Nope.  Full to the gills after June 1st.  Still dancing but I did feel sad about pulling Brynn from Maria's place early.  What to do?  Well, hell, I took the spot and agreed to move Brynn up to the toddler room, making room in the infant room for another lucky mom...I mean child.

So yesterday we had to tell our beloved caregiver that we're going to have to pull Brynn as of June 1st and not July 1st as originally planned.

It didn't go well.  Not well at all.

We left her place feeling as though we were scum.  She's somehow convinced that we made a point of finding something for June 1st and the rest of the conversation essentially boiled down to an extended guilt trip.  She's been so good to us.  Yup.  She's loved our baby.  Yup.  Brynn loves her.  Yup.  If she had known we were going to leave June 1st she would have booked her ticket to Greece for June.  Well we didn't choose June...it was chosen for us.  She worries that Brynn won't be well cared for at this new place and that she won't like it there.

Ummm...WTF!

To me, that just crossed a line that shouldn't be crossed.  We're stuck between a rock and a hard place because of her. We have to make sure our baby is well taken care of and we're not willing to give up a placement so highly prized moms literally cried when they were told their kid had a spot (No, I didn't cry.  Too busy dancing to cry) just to make our current caregiver a bit happier for one more month.  I like Maria, but not THAT much.  Hell, I'm not even sure I like Scott THAT much.

Well maybe I do.

Love you, honey.