March 29, 2011 - Breakfast

I've returned to this zone of steady self-deception about food and alcohol, and in consequence once again when I'm crouched at my computer my gut comes out to meet my elbows. My wife too has a belly, but with a reason, given her pregnancy with twins. I pat the top of her stomach when she can bear to have me near her (I am variably too warm, too invasive of her space, smell strangely of various foods or beverages) and the protrusion is large, hard to the touch, and impossible to ignore.

We were going to take a vacation in April, but instead we decided to relax by getting involved in a failing real-estate deal. Every conversation peppered with lies, every phone call a poke with a stick to see if they can get money out of us. People who are paid not to act in our best interest pretending to act in our best interest.

So far the broker has asked for a 50% down payment and a "non-refundable" $60,000 deposit, among other things; these are, best I can tell, real-estate unicorns, but still they ask, testing what's possible given that they have full access to my bank account and knowledge of my inner workings. Yesterday my wife screamed "What the fuck?" at the broker on the phone and then later sobbed. I stayed not-quite-calm through the ministries of beer and whisky, but couldn't sleep, instead spending two hours yelling at an imaginary realtor while twisting on the couch at night (I slept there to avoid keeping [Wife] awake), finally drifting off in a haze of white hatred. Every conversation rehearses anger and defeat, concentrating on the victorious moment where I tell the realtor, whom I suspect is a drunk and whom I am certain is a liar, how badly he fucked everything up and what a failure he is. Experience shows me that this confrontation will never, ever go the way I want; there is no victory to be extracted, aside from actually moving in to the apartment, which now looks unlikely.

We obtained a mortgage in four days, which means we can probably do the same a year from now, and I had a nice chat yesterday with a realtor who has a rental down the block that would be appropriate--our needs are specific, an elevator building with two bedrooms, due to [Wife]'s condition and the likelihood of bedrest. I'll go look at it on Wednesday, and if it looks okay, we can process the paperwork and move in on Friday. Not to where we expected to move, but somewhere. It's an option, maybe.

I've been surrounded by a tower of packing boxes for three weeks now. I must remind myself over and over again that this is not a struggle; this is a challenge. Which is true. My wife has a struggle, with steady vomiting and nausea, and lemon-sized parasites feasting on her guts. I have a struggle with sandwiches. But real-estate in Brooklyn, for people with money in the bank, is not a struggle. It's a hopeful challenge, something to be beaten against, but there is no risk to my health or that of others, aside from the stress, if this deal falls through. There is fear and unreliability, but we can solve those with phone calls and cash. We'll recover from the stress, and we'll be wiser.

So that is the challenge. This right here, this website, is the struggle.

I'm going to stop yelling at the realtor in my head. It does nothing.