Okay, I'm buying a house. At least, I think I am - the fully signed contract should be winging its way to me even now via this magical internet thingy. And then, or now actually, you know, the real fun starts as I make my way through a crazy maze of documents trying to prove that I am worthy to borrow vast sums of money. I'd like to point out in a kind of grumpy manner that really, the bank is trying to figure out not if I am worthy to borrow but, more to the point, if I am worthy to make them one shit ton of interest money over the course of my 30 year mortgage. Yes, thirty years. In thirty years I will own my house free and clear. I'll also be 75 years old but, whoa, let's not think about that. Maybe I should only have been considering houses without stairs. Nah. By then I'll have a jetpack. But anyway, although I am still scared to count on this house, I am really beginning to think that this is going to happen and I actually am going to be moving to a house I actually own and actually even already love for all that it is not a pristine and beautiful Arts & Crafts bungalow but instead a mid 60s poor man's house of odd angles and surprising corners, which is to say, kind of just like me.
So, because the universe is delicately balanced along with a lot of shagging angels on the head of a disco ball lit pin, when one thing goes right, others must go wrong. Fortunately, instead of one big thing going right and one big thing going wrong, we have one big thing going right (so far, at least. I'll get back to you after I've actually found all these bloody documents and the banks have actually sworn in demon blood to give me this money at the end of September) and a lot of small things going annoyingly wrong. So many, in fact, that they need to be listed to keep them clear:
1. My kitten has pointy feet. Her feet and her teeth are so pointy that when she climbs up me like a tree, as she is wont to do, usually when I'm not paying attention to her, she leaves little marks. My thighs look like I'm given to self loathing with a razor blade but that wouldn't be a big deal, except for the fact that . . .
2. My kitten also has fleas. Or, perhaps, the dogs have fleas or Mojo the visiting dog (S is in Florida for a business meeting because she's all cool and execu-chick that way) has fleas or I have fleas or whatever, but something tiny and biting shared the bed with me Monday night, which led me to half wake up in the middle of the night and scratch my knees furiously, with the result that now, what with the aforementioned tiny cuts and now bleeding bites, I can't show my legs above the shin. However, itching pales in comparison to the lovely discovery this morning that . . .
3. Either Mojo or Pebble had diarrhea all over my room last night, culminating with a final burst actually on the side of my bed. Fortunately I didn't lie in it, which is surprising, since I've been sleeping ridiculously heavily lately, which I attribute to the heat and also to the fact that . . .
4. My 15 year old alarm clock seems to have finally died. Now I have to buy another one, which is a drag since I have no extra money since . . .
5. My car got towed last night. This is my own fault, sort of, since I had pulled my parking pass off my rearview mirror in order to loan it to S when she volunteered for the museum on Bele Chere and then I forgot to put it back up. So my coworker kindly drove me down to the impound lot, conveniently located practically right next door to C's warehouse, where the Repo Woman sneered in my face and said, when I pulled the pass out of my purse to show her, "Don't do you no good in your pocketbook, now do it, honey?" At which point I shot her and took my $40 back.
Well, no, actually I handed her my $40 meekly and that's why I don't have enough money to buy another alarm clock. But at least I have an active fantasy life.