Archives for October 2004

In the continuing saga of Rachael’s new home, I still ain’t got no key. The ex-owner (referred to hereafter as Adam Henry. Police code, don’tcha know) still hasn’t returned my realtor’s calls. Instead, he is making his cop brother call her. The cop brother (referred to hereafter as Ineffective But Trying) told Ghet that he would do his best to wrap up his “deep undercover” gig and come over with his truck to remove the staging furniture last night. I’ve been at work, so I don’t know if this has been done or not. IBT tried to soothe Ghet’s ruffled feathers. She had none of it. He then asked for my phone number, so he could try to straighten things out with me. She said, “She’s too nice for you to talk to.” She related all of this gleefully to me. She enjoys this kind of fighting. This is a mentality I just do not understand, but I can definitely appreciate it.

I think this was mamacate‘s idea: I should find out where Mr. Henry lives and leave him a present. No, not dog-doo in a bag. No, TPing his house would just be silly.

I think Mr. Henry needs a desk. Like, in his driveway. Whatcha think? A housecooling present. Hmmm.

Irregardless*, come Saturday morning, if I don’t have that key, I’m getting a locksmith in to change the locks and let me in. I’ll then use my movers at Mr. Henry’s expense and dump his shit in the street. Or in the carport, since I don’t want to get sued. But it’s way more fun to think about it in the street.

And then, only then, will I begin to worry about subletting/leasing my old apartment. I have until December 1st to get the vacancy filled, so I’ve got time to finish moving and cleaning, but this is my dream, and I want it to come true sooner, rather than later: I’m sitting in my tiny living room, knitting and watching TV, a cat nearby and a La sitting close. The old apartment is rented, happily and easily. I’m unpacked, and the walls are painted. The house is clean and sweet, and I’m home. Soon, soon, soon. So may it be, as our Greta would say.

DSL is down at home until at least Monday, and I’m off work until Tuesday, so I will be completely offline for a while. Pictures then? Hopefully? In the meantime, I’ll show you the poncho my girl Kalea received (running mate Marama’s daughter). I made it to match the realtor’s girls’ ponchos, also in the Cashmerino. She was so tickled that she wanted to pose, and she told her mom she couldn’t wear it to school because she played tag a lot, “and it might get snagged.” When she brushed her teeth wearing it, she asked her mother to wrap a towel around her first.

And of course, the Iris:

Isn’t she a fabulous poncho diva?

Have a great weekend, all. Keeses!

*I just wanted to watch the Grammar Avengers squirm. Heh.

Can you believe that? Isn’t that the craziest thing y’ever heard? And you all… Now, you know those comments you left made me cry. Really. Wanna come over for a beer? My home is open to you.

Well, okay, in reality it isn’t. That’s only because it’s not even open to ME.

Sigh.

My realtor, Ghet, called me at 9:30am this morning to tell me the magic words. It was done. I was a homeowner. We agreed to meet later to pick up the key from the lockbox on site, and we would go inside. By some miracle, I managed to fall back asleep for a couple more hours, but I had that fitful sleep of extreme anticipation. It was like I was five again and it was Christmas Eve, waking every half-hour to see if it was time to get up yet. Is it time? Now? Isn’t it time yet?

Finally, it’s time to get up. Finally, it’s time to go open my door. MY door.

I arrive. My realtor is already there. She’s furious. Spitting mad, ferociously dangerous. The ex-owner (because, you know, I am the owner now — hey, didja know that?) has not removed the staging furniture inside and has REMOVED the key from the lockbox. On purpose. I have no way to get into my home. And he’s not returning any of the phone calls.

I am pretty damn crushed. Ghet calls the ex-owner’s assistant and screams. Lawsuits are mentioned. Rent-back is guaranteed. She threatens her with everything but brimstone on wheat toast.

But really. Okay. It’s my place. Whoooopeee! I can probably hire a locksmith to open the place and change the locks, and have the movers place the furniture out on the sidewalk on Saturday, when they’re moving in my stuff. It’s a pain. Not a catastrophe. In terms of problems, everyone should have this problem. Like Juliette said in a comment yesterday, “Buying a home in California is tantamount to buying a small Balkan country…and you are like the Queen of that country.” I am QUEEN! A queen without a key, that is.

I’m letting Ghet deal with it right now. I trust her junkyard-dog bark more than my little whine. But keep me out much longer? Grrrrr.

So for now, no photos. Soon. Well, I hope soon. Tomorrow the phone is going on in the new place and that means my DSL might be lost at home until next week. That means no photos since I won’t be able to get them from my computer up to the site. Hopefully I’ll be able to show you at least one photo. Oh, hell. You can see one now from when I walked through the staged furniture a while back. It’s not bad luck anymore. Here’s the living room.

Wahhh! Isn’t that fabulous? Of course, with my furniture, it will be more cluttered. And it’ll have way more yarn.

Oh. Knitting. Right. Ghet loved her scarf and wee ponchos. She wore the scarf draped elegantly while she paced the parking area, yelling into her cell phone. It was rad. She gave me a heavy cut crystal vase for my housewarming present. Crystal! I am not old enough or mature enough for crystal. I think I’ll keep knitting needles in it.

More later! MWAH!

The loan funded!

! ! ! ! ! ! ! !

Hot diggety damn, Martha. My realtor told me while I was sitting in the parking lot, just pulling up to work, and I just about lost my mind. I went upstairs and did this wild happy dance all around the communications center.

Really, a huge part of me thought it wouldn’t. And when I talked to my realtor’s brother (for whom I hurriedly made a Cashmerino scarf last night), he said that they’d had problems. Lots of problem. This was the Deal From Hell. The more I hear about it, the more I’m glad I was kept in the dark. I couldn’t sleep because I didn’t know what was going on. Had I known, I wouldn’t have been able to walk, let alone sleep.

So the last step is to record it. For those of you who don’t know what that means, don’t worry. I don’t either. I think it goes to the County Recorder’s Office, where it is writ in blood or Sharpie or koigu’n’elmers that I, Rachael Herron, an Unmarried Woman, does own the property. And that’s the easiest step. It should just take the morning. They say. With my luck however, said my realtor, the recorder’s office is going to burn down with my docs inside.

Barring that, I could have keys this afternoon. Or tomorrow. Oh, help!

This is a dream come true. One of my biggest, dearest dreams. I can’t WAIT to show you pictures. Finally. I haven’t shown them before for fear of jinxing it all. But soon. Oh!

Oh, oh!

You’re all perfect dolls for loving me. You know that? I mean it.

(Oh, the Salvation Army boys actually laughed at my desk and left me with it. Sigh. Ask me if I really care at this point. I don’t. I care that I’m going to have to move it out of the bedroom somehow in order to clean the carpet, but that’s going to be a chop-chop kinda deal. Yep. Get me an axe! Whoop!)

I hate my desk. I really do. I spent half an hour on the phone yesterday only to realize that EVERYONE hates a bizarrely heavy old office desk that likes to draw blood. Isn’t that weird? Finally, I called the Salvation Army.

“Do you take office desks?”
“Would you like to schedule a pick-up?”
“Well, yes, but I need to know if you take office desks.”
“What’s your zip code?”
“94609. So you’ll take it?”
“We can do a pick-up for you tomorrow in your area.”
“Will you take my desk?”
“What’s your name?”

I was either talking to a machine or someone who’s been sued in the past over an office desk. I gave up and the pick-up is supposed to happen between two and five today. Better be before 430 is all I gotta say—I have to go to work early tonight. I’m at the point now where if they don’t come today, or refuse it when they get here, I’m going to PAY someone to remove it. (Oh, I just remembered. My favorite Lala suggested that we bust it up into small pieces while it’s still in my room. How satisfying that would be. Oh, the crunch and splinter….)

I am not so smart. Didja know that? Last night I decided to help the picker uppers by moving the desk into the living room. I knew it was crazy, but I have confidence in myself. I heaved and ho-ed (hey!) until I got it turned enough to move a little, then I used almost all my strength to put pieces of cardboard under each foot. If I braced against things, the wall, or the heater, I could push hard enough to move it an inch at a time. I knew we had managed to get it IN the damn room, I figured that meant I could get it could get out.

My mind is a leetle slow when it comes to geometry. Some might actually call it a form of stupidity. It won’t hurt my feelings if you do. This is what I ended up with.

I had to do the Dukes of Hazzard slide over the top of it every time I wrangled another inch of movement. I got it to here and finally thought, “There’s no way in bloody hell this is EVER going to go through here. How did we DO that last time?”

And then (sadly, only then) I realized that we had made it stand up (UP!) and waltzed it through the doorways. Took three of us. I wasn’t going to be able to do it.

It took approximately thirteen thousand more Duke slides to get it back far enough into the room that I could squeak around it on all sides. Those guys from the thrift store better be great in number and full of steroids. Bandages in the truck wouldn’t hurt, either.

Packing proceeds apace. The living room and bathroom are done. Hoping to polish off the living room today, and the kitchen tomorrow. I haven’t heard anything about keys today, so I’m officially not expecting them now. Maybe tomorrow. Oh, I hope hope hope…. This is EXCITING! Whoop!

I’m packing. Really. I am. Okay, I guess I’m taking a little break at this exact moment. I hate packing. What I hate is the feeling of accomplishment followed by the instant exhalation that signals extreme frustration when you realize you’ve just found a whole ‘nother pocket of junk that you oh-so-cleverly hid months and months ago.

But on the other hand, when I looked under my bed, there wasn’t anything there. I loved that. Thank god I left at least one storage space alone.

I don’t have the key yet, which means the loan hasn’t yet funded, and the property hasn’t been recorded yet. (A small voice is still whispering that something could still go wrong, but I’m doing my best to ignore that voice. It’s hard.)

Up until now, I’ve been packing in small doses, doing the hard things, like cleaning out drawers and the closet and (gasp) the desk. Those are all done now, and today and tomorrow are for the real pack job. Everything goes into boxes except that which I need this week. You know, three tee shirts, seven pairs of underwear, two pairs of jeans, one sweater (I chose Olallieberry). Toiletries: Minimal. Cooking utensils: One pot and a stirrer and one set of silverware. (A stirrer? The hell?)

And believe it or not, I’ve been knitting. Hell, I’ll do anything to avoid packing, including start another “imperative” project. I wanted to thank my realtor some way, some way that wasn’t an expensive dinner or a case of wine. I’m sure she gets that all the time. I’ve found out from reliable sources that she isn’t going to make much at all on my property, since she’s paying all closing costs. She’s doing it as a favor to a friend of mine, and because a LOT of my coworkers use her for refinancing. And ‘cause she likes me. I really hope that’s one of the reasons. She tough as nails, but I like her.

The only time she’s not tough is when her two little girls come visit her in the office. Then she melts and squishes them and tells them to say hi to “Auntie Rachael.” (I love that.) She dresses them in matching outfits, usually pink ones. So I thought she might like two wee little ponchos, just big enough to fit a two year old and a five year old:

And I made Mom a scarf to match (with an angel pin at the end—she loves angels, and god knows if this is pulled off, she’ll have accomplished a miracle). The pile:

I loosely used the Harlot’s poncho pattern (cast on 34 stitches on size 15 needles, and went till Marama told me they were good lengths).

And dude, the yarn? Debbie Bliss Cashmerino Superchunky in color 16009. (Edging was Mountain Colors Mohair Loop in Indian Corn).

That Cashmerino? I lurve that stuff. I spent WAY too much on it (5 skeins for all 3 items), but it was worth it. I love cashmere.

I love cashmere.

Hey.

Didja know I love cashmere?

Working with this stuff made me realize that *I* need to make more things for *myself* in really nice yarn like that. The pleasure you get from working with it is incredible. Oh, the addiction.

All right. Really now. Back to packing. Mwah!

I signed!

Yup. I did. The weirdest part? Sitting there, signing pages that had my name on them along with deed information. (A deed! Dude.) And I thought it was very odd that Rachael Herron, an Unmarried Woman is buying this property from (let’s call him) John Smith, an Unmarried Man.

I don’t know why that feels weird. Maybe because when I think of Rachael Herron, I think: Writer, knitter, photographer, girl with lots of toilet paper and fountain pens. I don’t think: Rachael Herron, an Unmarried Woman. Huh.

I don’t think I knew how much I’d been stressing about the loan until I was sitting there, signing, signing, signing, and I felt a band start to tighten around the base of my skull. By the time I left the office, I had a migraine forming. By the time I got home, I was ready to fall over and medicate on the way down. By the time Lala arrived to go to a celebratory dinner before I had to go to work, I could barely stand without wobbling. I felt green and nauseated all night at work, but at least the pain had been lessened by the nasal spray shot of Imitrex that I take. (I’ve never snorted drugs in my life, but I swear, taking that stuff makes me feel like I’m hitting something. Bumpin’ on Imitrex. Indeed. Deed. Dude!)

Today? I’m up and sleepy. Took a four hour nap and now I’m going to start doing things on the List. I still feel like I’m tempting fate, as the loan is now in the process of funding and the property is being recorded, and I won’t really relax until the key is in my hand next week, but I realized I need to make practical phone calls like turning things on: electricity, phone, (whispered) cable. (Okay, I thought I was going to get rid of cable when I moved, but I’ve admitted it. I love it. I want it. I need it. I really love it.)

And the old apartment? I’ve decided I’m not going to worry about it. I have a line on someone who might want it. If she doesn’t, I will worry about renting it once I’m OUT. I don’t really care about the money at this point, and I’ll just worry about that part later. It’ll work out beeyootifully. I know it.

This morning, I drove from work to the New House. It was a ten minute drive, mostly surface streets, and the house looked so sweet…. Really, in that half-light of dawn? It did. Quiet and sleepy and someplace I would want to go when I was tired. Then I drove up and behind it and realized the 13, my favorite highway, is right behind it. Love it, love it, love it.

Really love it. Still a little scared, but most of the pressure has been alleviated. I’ve heard of people having problems in the days between signing the loan and getting the keys, but I haven’t heard of one that actually fell all the way through in those few days. And if it happened to you, please have mercy and don’t tell me that until later. I *really* need to get some sleep tonight.

Happy freakin’ weekend, all! Woot!