Hungry Like the Wolf

Friday night we were just about to go to sleep, when oh my hell, there was this incessant HOWLING and YELPING and it was … a pack of coyotes, which is apparently par for the course this time of year. This, naturally, led to a search of how to protect your pet in “coyote country” and my God, would you believe it was the ONE TIME Sunny had to go out and pee at midnight and that I brought a GIANT STICK? Because while I am apparently safe, especially now all girth-y like, coyotes like to eat wee dogs such as pugs, and because she’s such a pansy, she doesn’t stand a chance. Also, I can mostly guarantee that all *I’d* be good for is standing around and screaming while some dingo eats my baby.

(Also, PS, another pack just wailed outside AS I TYPE THIS. THE HORROR.)

I’m woefully behind on phone calls and e-mails to friends, and if you are one of them, I apologize. It’s just that the vast majority of my non-work time is now being spent shuffling from random condo to random house and/or making phone calls and asking questions about heating sources and the option for window AC units. It’s becoming a bit ridiculous, although would you believe that we’re actually considering STAYING in our tiny town, rather than moving closer to the city? I KNOW, I never thought it would happen either, especially given its lack of proximity to anything that sells anything at all.

But then I think about the fact that I have lunch with Adam three days a week (yes, we’re lame like that), and how he could walk to work, and be RIGHT THERE if I needed him with a new baby, as opposed to way more than an hour away, and … oh well. I don’t know. It doesn’t hurt that I’ve found approximately four times the amount of totally gorgeous homes here for a lot less money — or, I should say, accurately PRICED places, unlike the strangely, creepily overpriced (VERMONT) city market. Places that include CENTRAL AC, and if anyone remembers my long hot summer of misery, my God, that’s a huge selling point, as I don’t want to drown my baby in pools of my own sweat.

I did find a local mom group (look, I KNOW, but if I’m staying here, I really think I’ll need it), and I’d be sort of lying if I wasn’t strangely attracted to the idea of raising a baby in a small town where neighbors look out for you — my neighbors here are gems, truly, the deep-frying ones aside — and living out some bizarre JC Wiatt Country Baby fantasy. Apparently the hormones are working overtime on all kinds of delusions. We’ll see.

We’ll also see about this place that I’m looking at tomorrow which is the strangest thing I’ve ever seen — it’s a giant loft-like space in a 1930s renovated barn that includes — please wait for it — a 25-seat movie theater included with the house. I … what the …? I don’t know. I do know that it’s totally movie night at our house if we decide to take it. I might also add that Craigslist is completely and utterly useless in this case, and I don’t even look at it anymore. USELESS. Who knew?

In other news (like any of this is NEWS), I have been waking up at 5 a.m. every morning positively STARVING, and this morning at 6, I irritated the entire household by crunching on a pear in bed so loudly that it apparently sounded as though someone was “jackhammering in the bedroom.” Now, I doubt it was like that (A PEAR, come on), but I remember reading other pregnant bloggers’ accounts of late night/early morning wake-ups for snacks and thinking, Seriously? No freaking way.

I’m here to tell you: Way! It happens. I would not have been able to go back to sleep if not for that delightful, life-giving pear. Which reminds me, I had a sort of mystical experience this weekend with a batch of Japanese apple-pears and would now like my own personal supply (they were so good I was GROANING in ecstasy), and WOE, they are at the end of their season. I feel like there should be a special stockpile of all seasonal fruits in some kind of holy storage unit only accessible by pregnant women, starting with Asian pears. I was like a person in a movie who’d smoked too much weed and had the munchies — there was moaning! Writhing! And lots of “OH MY GOD TASTE THIS” as I shoved bits in front of an entirely unimpressed (and not high or pregnant) Adam.

And finally, three unrelated things that have confused me and/or stuck in my craw all weekend:

1) Why do outdoorsy people assume that we’re ALL outdoorsy? I saw a place this weekend where the dude dropped the names of approximately 1100 hiking trails in the area and tried to sell us on the fact that we could cross-country ski out the back of the house. Folks, do I SEEM like the type of person who longs to cross-country ski out the back of my house? I mean, it was all lovely, but he went ON and ON and Adam and I were a little glazed over by the end, because Jesus, we get it, YOU ARE OUTDOORSY. WE ARE NOT, however, and would prefer to focus on more important things like how many cable hook-ups there are and in what rooms, and hey, is there central AC, by chance? KNOW YOUR AUDIENCE.

2) Of all the terms for a woman’s breasts, I believe I am most mystified by the term “funbags.” No matter how you slice it, it’s not flattering. Bags don’t sound like anything particularly firm, not even the fun variety, like a bean bag chair.

3) Beverly Hills Chihuahua was the number one movie over the weekend. I don’t even know what to say other than that.

Happy Monday!

*Oh, Duran Duran. A bit of delightful ’80s nostalgia here.

20 comments October 5th, 2008