I am sitting in my fort made of boxes, with my scarf and coat on, like a seven-year-old on a miserable weather day, all by herself, waiting for something. For the ninth day in a row, I am not closing on my house. This time, after getting home at 2am from a mind-melting twelve hours at work and a few cobbled-together hours of something like sleep, I found during the (allegedly) final walk-through that the back bedroom’s wall had suddenly grown stripes. Either the house was painting itself in decorator fashion, or there was water damage.
Sandy. Sandy and the roof, or a joint, or a chimney or some other such insidious flaw.
I am so, so tired. Work, work stress, house stress, this godforsaken obstacle course of an apartment that can’t be cleaned for all the piles of boxes, the mental gymnastics of scheduling between an unforgiving job and blessedly flexible movers and helpers I feel guilty for putting out… a hurricane, a nor’easter (meaning more work)… oh, and did you know there was an earthquake in New Jersey the other day? Really? That wasn’t just a tad over the line?
*Whistle blown* *Flag thrown* Unnecessary roughness – Offense. Penalty: um… I’ll work on that.
And so I flopped on my couch in my coat and scarf. Might as well keep it on. It’s a little chilly and now I’ve got to go to work in an hour.
Yes, yes, I’m glad the wall grew stripes before I owned the house. But I would much prefer it not having grown them at all. Now I’m not at all sure I trust the guy who’s selling me the house to get the problem fixed correctly, and the lock on the loan is up Friday, which means if we don’t close Friday, I’m at the theoretical mercy of new interest rates and the paperwork has to be redrawn, stuff has to go back to the underwriter, blah… blah…
I have trust issues. Did we not go over this?
I already had to have a fight with the loan processor yesterday because I found $720 in three separate appraisal fees to be a tad… um… what’s the word?… completely unacceptable. Turns out the second and third charges were levied because the work wasn’t done on the house when the appraiser was there the first time (um, seller’s problem, not mine) and because they went back after the storm (the appraiser, mind you… not the inspector… at the bank’s demand, not in an area required for a re-check, and definitely not worth the charge). Talk about assessing value. Tip: rain does not shrink a house. It’s not made out of wool. And if I charged $175 every time I walked through a house all blase’-blase’ I’d be a damned millionaire.
I won the fight, by the way. Neener neener neener. And Hottie McHousehunter may be nice to look at, but I am covering my own ass in this purchase and I will cut a bitch if I have to.
And I think you should know that it’s getting very Lord of the Flies in my apartment these days. I mean I wouldn’t be shocked to discover a boy with a bayonet and facepaint jump out from behind a pile of boxes any minute now and spear the cat because there’s no food in this place. I wouldn’t be shocked if the cat jumped out wielding a bayonet and facepaint, for that matter.
Oh, and… AND… take a wild guess who decided to poke me with a stick in the cyber-universe.
Thaaat’s right. Jack.
I had posted my usual stirring and rousing-in-the-chestal-region words about election day on the Zuckerberg page, written with cadence and rhythm of which Sam Seaborn would be proud, casting the shadow of history in favor of taking responsibility and being grateful for opportunity, urging my friends to go vote. Right? And who cares if people like it or comment or don’t. But Jack, with whom there is a stark and tense silence on all levels of communication, real or electronic, decides to comment that an uninformed or coerced vote is worse than no vote at all and yadda yadda yadda.
People. You’ve been reading my political stuff for ages. Do I go in for uninformed or coerced votes?
I think I heard a “no.”
And Jack knows that. But Jack uses “I’m not informed enough” as an excuse not to vote, despite the fact that he is very, very well disposed to information that he simply refuses to consume. In the ten years before the most recent shananigans, it was, believe it or not, the only thing we have ever argued about. And now he’s going to say it under my patriotically chest-stirring words of inspiration and profundity? To irk me, under the guise of reasoned discourse?
The man’s fear of commitment, unbelievably, extends even to political races, and his cowardice in conversation, to the internet.
Being strong and smart is so damned exhausting. I know that sounds gross, but it’s true. I’m tired. Someone carry me? Please?
Empowerment ahead. Somewhere. No, really, I’m sure of it. I might even take my coat off when I get there.
Say, I’m on Twitter now. Follow over yonder on the right. The bird button. Do it. I’m lonely.