(Not so) Little Pink Houses

Oh boy. If you're tired and out of shape, slightly nauseous and frustrated from fighting with your perscription drug insurance company, carrying a growing belly, running after an excitable toddler, nursing a sore back, fatigued from an iron deficiency (pretty sure that's what the constant fatigue is from, it is not a thyroid problem as the test has shown), and dim of brain to the point where spelling "deficiency" and "nauseous" necessitates a spell check, exactly what you DO NOT WANT TO DO for an entire afternoon is look at houses with a Realtor. For Realz.
But that's what Chicky and I did yesterday. Three houses and an evaluation of our home in four hours. I've had almost a full day to recuperate but I'm still typing this with one eye open.

We're house hunting, as I mentioned the other day. I did mention that, yes? Ooh brain. Wheeeeee.

Over the weekend we even put a refundable deposit down on a piece of land in a nice development. But I think we'll be getting that deposit back because I don't think it's the right time to do this. Something feels... Off. And if I can't pull off a busy afternoon house hunting without needing a two hour nap the next day (Did I mention I stopped writing this to nap? Sometime after my brain went Bzzzzzt and shorted and sparked like our microwave did the other day. And that Chicky is still sleeping and has been for three and a half hours? Clearly we need to add some cardio or weight training to our every day routine) getting a house built right when I'm about to pop out a baby probably isn't the best idea.

And I think my priorities are messed up. One of the houses we looked at was pink - yes, the outside of the house was pretty, pretty princess pink, complete with crystal chandeliers, throw-up-in-your-mouth pink walls in almost all the rooms and shit like that - and I thought Yeah, we can do something with this. Or the other home that was lousy with square footage and I caught myself saying Too small, way too small. Too small? Who the hell do I think I am? Imelda Marcos and I need a separate room for my shoes?

A woman who clearly should not be making this big decision right now, that's who.

(Um, my shoe collection has gotten a bit out of control. It would be easier to just move it all to a separate room than try to organize it.)

So I think we're going to stay here for another year or two. Totally anti-climactic. Sorry. But as everything else in my life, everything is subject to change at a moment's notice. We might find our dream house due to my obsessive Realtor.com searching. Our dream house in our price range sans bubble gum pink walls. Or Mr. C could get transferred and move us halfway across the country. And I could have a major aneurysm and my eyes could pop out and roll down the hallway from the stress of it all. It could happen.