A Girl...

Crimes of Passion

The photo in that last entry was taken during our Wednesday nightstalking* trip to the house. In order to be sure that this move will be a step up instead of a step sideways in terms of neighborhood drama, we decided to car-camp outside for an evening to observe the goings on in the area. In thirty minutes, we saw only one pimped-out car with bling-a-ling rims and it was not blasting "music" or whatever it is the kids are calling that noise these days. *shakes cane* Satisfied, we returned to our current neighborhood, where a mob of preschoolers was running barefoot up the middle of the street screaming their eyeballs out, unsupervised, at 10 p.m., their chubby cheeks smeared with the blood of a freshly slaughtered boar. Guard dogs barked, a car alarm whooped, and Simon gave all of it the finger.

Before stalking the house and after dropping by the realtor's (I'm considering keeping a pair of slippers in a cubby there so I can be comfortable during our near-daily consults) we stopped by Ikea to scope out things like butcher block islands and deck furniture and towering armoires. We've been to Ikea countless times over the years, seen everything there is to see, but on this trip there was something in the showroom the likes of which we'd never encountered before, except on Girls Next Door. Are you ready for this? Ikea is selling a round bed. Simon wants to buy one and hook up a motor so it rotates. Obviously, our wee disco ball will dangle delicately above it. Obviously.

The thing with this house is that although it's grown-up and sophisticated and classy, it's also fun--a fun house. A funhouse. A circular bed would fit right in. The only problem is that both of our feet hang off the ends, and it fits better in the attic guest bedroom than in the master bedroom, which means when Simon's mom visits she'd be sleeping in her baby son's miniature replica of Playboy Mansion Room 112 and I just don't think that's appropriate at this juncture. My parents, however, wouldn't batt an eye, which is both awesome and gross.

One of the most impressive features of the new house is the backyard, which is farmland and playground and suburban oasis all in one. I have a feeling we'll be spending a lot of time outside pulling weeds loafing in the hammock. Simon, who hates birds, even suggested we string up a feeder by one of the windows so Eve can enjoy a little bit of outside too. It's breaking our hearts to see how miserable she's been since our landlord put boards and chickenwire across her beloved pigeons' wooing alcove. Although I want Eve to be happy, I'm not sold on getting a birdhouse, though, as I don't want to have a dozen cheeping peepers powwowing at the window all hours of the day and night, especially the early early morning. Our compromise will probably be a hummingbird feeder. For Henry, of course.

Speaking of birds, Simon is sort of a catch-all employee at one of his jobsites, and a few days ago one of his coworkers called to tell him that there was a dead bird outside her window and could he remove it because it was making her sad? Instead of throwing it in the trash, he dug a little grave, made a tiny cross out of a straw he found nearby, and delivered a brief "ashes to ashes" eulogy, even though no one was around to hear it. He said the eulogy was a compromise between two contending inclinations: 1. performing both parts of Eponine's death song and 2. whacking the stiff little carcass on a tabletop a la Monty Python.

(We're scheduled to get inside the house on Monday for the first of several inspections. There shall be pictures!)

*We're not the ones who originally called it "stalking." On his way home from work Wednesday, Simon drove by the house just to test out his future commute. As he drove up, he saw a man putting garbage cans on the curb out front, so he stopped, rolled down the window, and asked the man if he was the realtor representing the sellers. "Are you...Simon?" the man said, indicating that our reputation has preceded us and in a big way. Later that evening, our realtor called and, between laughs, started the conversation with: "Are you two stalking the house?!" Call me defensive, but I'd hardly say it's stalking when we're paying good money to peep through the shutters after nightfall like tag-team voyeurs.