I Have Nothing Else To Do

So the Orthopedic Nightmare is in surgery.  Like, right this very second.   And I’ve got my laptop and my phone and a bar of dark chocolate and my earbuds so I’m doing okay.

But this really isn’t what I meant when I said I like my space.

Speaking of space, the Orthopedic Nightmare and I were discussing our current living space recently and realized that it’s lacking something fairly significant.  A pool.  And it’s really hot here in Austin.  The only relief in sight comes one week from today, when the temperature dips down to a chilly 98.  And so we’ve been thinking, well, maybe we’ll put in a pool.  Except that we live on a crazy busy corner and we’re thinking that our backyard maybe isn’t really conducive to a pool.  And so we said, well, maybe we should just move to a house that already has a pool.

But we can’t imagine finding a house that accommodates all of our wishes.  We want a pool.  The Boy wants a second story, which seems like a foolish move given the status of the Orthopedic Nightmare’s knees.  The Orthopedic Nightmare himself would like a music studio so he can concentrate on his guitars.  And I would like a house that’s really old, at least one hundred years old, with lots of charm and ancient hardwood floors and maybe a ghost.

Unfortunately, there are no such homes in central Austin.  At least, within our price range, which is far below 1.2 million.  But that hasn’t stopped us from dreaming, though sometimes our friends question our sanity.  Good luck with that, they say when we tell them what we want.

But my husband and I were out and about a couple of weeks ago and we stumbled upon a house that has all of these qualities, every single one of them.

Except that it’s not in the city.

In fact, it’s quite far from the city.

And I just don’t know if I want to be that far away from Quack’s.

Or the ballet.

Or Eastside Cafe.

And so my husband and I have been contemplating, when we haven’t been furiously arranging childcare for The Boy since my husband is having his spine fused.  I keep thinking about the house and wondering:  is this a moment I would be glad to be living miles and miles from Wheatsville Co-op? Would I be too busy swimming to care that I couldn’t trot over to Amy’s for ice cream?  Would I prefer to live a mere mile or so from Alamo Drafthouse or would I rather have a wrap-around front porch where I could sit and drink mint juleps while a ghost peered at me through the window?

I just can’t decide.  First World Problem.

Yesterday I went with my husband to see his neurosurgeon and while we were in the waiting room I said, Have you been thinking about the house?  Actually, my husband said, I’ve been concentrating on my discectomy, though I know that’s selfish of me.  And we laughed quite a bit and then we went back to a little room to chat with the doctor.  And I started feeling claustrophobic.  I hate doctor’s offices.  You know what I’m talking about:  that giant window that won’t open. The flourescent lights.  I literally thought I was going to pass out.  I even put on my sunglasses.  Seriously? my husband said, Are you really this much of a diva? And I kind of am, but I took off the glasses when the neurosurgeon came in anyway.

I paid for it later, though, when I stumbled out of the office all buzzy and nauseous.  I had to drive with the window down all the way home, even though it was, like, a hundred degrees outside.

Anyway, the whole incident reminded us both of what happened after I had brain surgery and my mother my father my brother someone who won’t allow me to write about them on my blog was staying in my hospital room with me.  And it was the middle of the night and I had to pee and so this person helped me out of bed and into the bathroom.  And there I was, lowering my pregnant self down onto the toilet, one hand gripping the IV contraption, my skull recently sawed open and my head aching because the best I could hope for as far as medication was concerned was Tylenol suppositories, and this person leans against the wall and says, Oh my god, my big toe is just killing me.

So my husband hasn’t been thinking much about the house.  Instead he’s having his spine fused.  And I’m listening to Bob Schneider and updating you and sucking on a piece of dark chocolate.

What else am I supposed to do with all this space?

Copyright © 2011 Jennifer Hritz  hritzontheedge  All Rights Reserved

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