Up in the Air
We were supposed to close on my house on Friday, but then it didn’t happen. We should close Monday. At first I was upset about it, but now I’m okay. These things happen, people tell me.
People need to tell the sellers, too, though, because they’re freaking out. They actually put their house (my house, that is) on the market for the weekend. How petty is that? Especially when some of my mail has already gone to the house, and I’m paying for their electricity as of today. For some reason, they’re scared I might not buy the house, after all. I’m suspecting it has something to do with cultural differences. They are hardcore Christians with the nuclear family thing going on. I’m a not-overtly-Christian single mom with an ethnic last name. Maybe, based on their myriad life experiences, they can’t help but see me as a person who can’t afford a house.
Either way, I need to get everything packed up today because it looks like I’ll be moving some weekday this week.
I’m saying this to you, and yet I’m sitting here typing in the same dress I put on at 8 PM last night, because I just got home two hours ago, and my boyfriend/co-packer is asleep in my bed, and nothing is packed but books (26 boxes and counting) and my boyfriend was planning to install the car speakers he bought me sometime this afternoon, and we wanted to see Scanner Darkly, too. (And I want to buy the score to it, if I can find it for sale in Houston.)
So… Yes, I’m sure it’ll get done somehow.
Yesterday we did a walk through with the paint chips I’ve been carrying in my purse for a while. They looked beautiful against the walls, and I’m very excited and proud of myself for picking such awesome colors. I based the entire house scheme on the terracotta floors in the kitchen, and the fact that I like green. So, after I saw the house for the first time and put a bid on it that very day, I went to Home Depot and found a chip that looked like the terracotta tile. (I’m very good at matching colors from memory, and very glad to have that skill.) Then I picked the pale green I most liked that looked good with the terracotta. Then I picked a brick red and a couple of salmon pinks that looked good in between.
It sounds weird, probably, but don’t worry. I’m going to do a whole before-and-after photo shoot. And then I’m going to be one of those obnoxious people who’s constantly obsessing over home renovations. I’m already fantasizing about the way I’ll redo the kitchen counters. I’m planning on tile, either mosaic blend or vitreous glass or some such thing.
Okay. No more. Slipped into a reverie for a second, there.
It’s time to wake up my boyfriend, I think.
I have to schedule movers, but I hate to do it til I know for sure.
I had final, final revisions on my novel due Monday, but I finished them Friday evening, so that was a load off my mind. Then I went and had a photo session with a soon-to-be-world-reknowned photographer, Rose, (catch her stuff on Nerve.com and Brazilian photography mags near you) (link not safe for work, prolly) at a local grocery store, in hopes of creating my new author photo, which Warner wants by September. Eek. (I won’t be nude in the photo, though. Most likely.)
I ate the same breakfast this morning, driving home from the house that contained the couch on which we spent the last hours of the night, as I ate for dinner before this all started. My breakfast of champions is:
“Hi. Can I get a medium iced latte with sugar-free hazelnut syrup, and a no-sugar-added banana nut cake, please?”
That’s what it’s called. You call it that in the drive-through window. The people on the other end of the speaker try to correct you, by saying “grande” and “nut coffee cake,” sometimes, but just say what I said and they’ll know what you mean, and they’ll make it taste good.
No more. To work now.
