Rachael

I am terribly grumpy. And it’s not just because of who our president will continue to be. (That couldn’t be called grumpy, anyway. That’s more like shell-shocked. Despondent.) I am not feeling eloquent enough to even try to address that. Go read Lala’s take. I may be prejudiced, but I don’t think that’s why it made me feel a tiny bit better somehow.

I’m just grumpy because of a carpet cleaner. I had a company send a guy out to clean the one carpet in my old apartment. He was fine, and did an okay job. He left his file folder in my apartment, and called to ask when he could get it back. When I got the message, I was on the way to drop Bethany at the airport, and then I had to go to work. I told him I’d go to the old place at five in the morning after work, get the folder and leave it on the front porch. He could come pick it up any time after that. He said that was all right.

I got off work yesterday at five. I’d been up at that point for twenty-two hours. I got to my old apartment. Bethany had confirmed that she had seen the folder in my place when we had left, but she had assumed it was mine and hadn’t said anything about it.

The folder was nowhere to be found. I thought, huh. It must be somewhere else. I was cleaning the tub when he had me sign the charge slip: maybe he had left it in the bathroom. I checked. Nope, no file folder, but the window was open, the sill was filthy, and the screen was on upside down and partially open. I then checked the living room — the sliding glass door was unlocked, and the back gate was standing wide open.

Erg.

Now. Okay. I wasn’t technically living there anymore, and the only thing missing was his file folder. I can understand the motivation. Perhaps he was scared of getting in trouble at work if he didn’t have his files. But it was a major lapse in good judgment, since now he’s REALLY going to be in trouble.

And therein lies my Rachaelish problem. I called the cops and had them make an incident card. This is documentation, but less formal than a report. I didn’t want to press felony burglary charges against the guy, since, as stated, I could understand the motivation and no damage was done.

But what I wanted was an apology from him. (I think I was a little naive about that — someone who breaks in doesn’t normally apologize later.) And not having to pay the carpet cleaning bill would have been nice, too. I was furious that someone had entered my old home (still full of the stuff that I’m not sure what to do with) without my permission, through the bathroom window. So I called his company and told them what had happened.

The manager was horrible. I really think she could have made it all go away by saying, “I’m so sorry. We’ll figure out what went wrong, and we’ll get back to you. I’m sure there’s an explanation. But in the meantime, I’m so sorry.”

Instead, she said, “So what you’re saying to meeeee…. [Long, acrid pause.] Lemme get this straight. Someone broke into your house. And the only thing stolen was the file folder YOU say he left in your house.”

“HE said he left it in my house.”

“Whatever. What makes you think it was our employee?”

Golly, I don’t know. It’s true, there might be a horrible Oakland criminal on the loose who ransacks homes for cruddy-looking old file folders. Terrifying, isn’t it? Fer fuck’s sake. I believe that’s just about what I told her, too (although I didn’t swear). She said the owner would call me. He never did.

The cleaner dude, however, did call me. And that just made it worse. I answered, mistake number one. I should have let it go to voice mail. Mistake number two, I asked to know what he had been thinking, breaking into my home. He pled his innocence so well that I actually almost fell for it. He sounded so sad and offended that I would consider him able to commit such a crime that I got off the phone and drove to my old place to see if the files had fallen behind the bookcase. Of course, they hadn’t. Then I just felt stupid. And taken.

But now my main problem is guilt. And while I know you’ll all sigh and send me comments telling me I’ve done the right thing, really I’m not sure that I have. There was no damage to my place. He probably considered it vacant. He took nothing but his own property. Had he called me and said that it was imperative that he get his files back or his boss would kill him, I can see myself telling him to try to break in. Now he might lose his job, and I’m picturing him with four small kids in dirty clothes, and a crying wife who has to now work 19-hour days instead of the 14-hour ones she’s been doing recently. Plus, he’s sober and this will depress him enough to fall off the wagon onto a four-day binge. And his sick mother needs the operation he’s been saving for. And his brother just died, leaving him responsible for his widow and nine more children.

You know, something like that.

It galls me that he lied to me, baldly, on the phone. It pisses me off that he broke into my place. But in the larger scheme, this doesn’t really matter, and perhaps I just made someone’s life really rough, for very little reason, because I was too tired to really think it through before making phone calls. I think that’s what’s eating me up.

Bah. Blerg. Ne’er a dull moment, nosireejimbobarooney. Bleha. (Try it, it’s much more effective than a simple bleah.) Now, to get in my (MY) bathtub and swim off the grumps. My house! Oh! Yay!

Oh, my gosh. Those comments! This: Thank you. Really. From my heart, thank you. Oh, I’m HAPPY. Hey, did I tell you? I have a HOME!

Huge happy sigh.

And now, more pictures! Bethany‘s in town for the weekend (all right, my weekend, since I suppose Tuesday doesn’t usually count as such), and she’s in my tub right now. Surprised? Bathany never misses an opportunity. We’ve been running around all day and I’ve been a grump from HELL. I *love* being in my new place. But I *hate* all that crap and literal dirt that is still left in the old apartment. I used Beth for good ole slave labor today, so she deserves the bath. After she gets out, I’ll jump in and then take her to the airport before I go to work. There’s still junk at the old place, but it’ll get sorted yet, right? Right?

All righty. Here’s moving day:

Yes, that’s the Desk of Doom standing up behind us. The best thing I’ve done in a long time was hiring those movers. They actually got the desk out of the bedroom and into the front yard, where it’s still sitting with a tacky “Free” sign flapping from it in the wind. I couldn’t watch them move it out the front door — I was positive it was going to kill someone.

My first bubble bath:

The tile is real, but kind of dirty looking. They’re 2X2 white tiles with white grout, and some of them are dark with what looks like car grease. I’ve scrubbed with the regular cleansers, and I just bought some industrial peel-the-inside-of-your-nose-off stuff that I’ll try later, when I’ve fully unpacked and feel up to the challenge. That bath, though? Sublime. Really. Insane. The shower? Not so great. I’ve changed the shower head and that helps, but the pressure just isn’t good enough to get a good flow of water. Eh. I like baths better anyway.

Something else I had to be philosophical about was this: I propped up a shelf in the bathroom temporarily and then heard a great crash. It had fallen right on the toilet tank cover and whacked a great chunk of porcelain off the corner. I know it’s fixable, or I could just buy a new cover, but jaiz. I would have liked to have waited more than an hour and a half to break something in my own home.

So then, looking from the bathroom through the living room toward the bedroom:

And out the front windows:

Standing in that spot, the kitchen is to your right. Here’s one shot:

And looking back toward the living room:

The flowers are from Lala. They made me feel much better about the cracked porcelain. And the toilet tank that ran (I fixed it with Paton’s Classic Merino, orange). And the heater that’s off for safety. And the living room windows that don’t open. Lordy. But do you hear me complaining? Nope. You won’t, either. I’m so frikken lucky that I’ve been afforded (used loosely here) this opportunity that if you DO hear me complaining, report me to the Cry Me A River Police. Really. Remind me of this then, okay? (I’m also lucky I have friends like the Dude, who fixed the toilet, my shower, my outside light, and rigged my Tivo to talk to my fabulous new DVD player (also from Lala — tell me I ain’t spoiled to hell).

Goodness! I started this post this afternoon — it’s now almost four in the morning and I still can’t remember half the things I was going to write about. Not even a quarter of them. Random snippets: I’m on the freeway, but semi-trucks aren’t allowed on this section of it, so the traffic only goes whooshwhooshwhoosh soothingly, along with the occasional scream of a motorcycle going by at the speed of light. My next-door neighbor is nice. I don’t like my upstairs neighbor’s boyfriend who parks in my spot. There’s a hibiscus outside my door. I keep getting my junk drawer mixed up with my cutlery drawer. The bedroom gets warm in the afternoon sun. It is quiet. Opening your own door and inviting someone in is infinitely more enjoyable than opening someone else’s door to do the same thing. Plus, some people get annoyed when you just open their doors like that.

Egad, I’m sleepified.

https://rachaelherron.com/oh_my_gosh_thos/

Hi, there! I missed you! I couldn’t wait to tell y’all about it, but I just now got me some DSL back. Let me catch you up with a lil photo-blog, okay?

The ex-owner got his shit out on Friday. I got the call when I woke up that the key was in hiding, and I should high-tail it over to make sure nothing was vastly wrong in the place, so I had no time to collect anyone to go with me to open the door for the first time. I got in the car and drove over, nervous as hell.

I found the key.

I gave a hop and carried myself across the threshold. The only other thing I carried was this:

It’s my unfinished novel, all 500+ pages of it. I wanted to honor the fact that this will be my home while I finish this book, and we came in together. Yep.

So. We’re in. This is how I feel.

Pretty mushy, huh? Yeah, you’re right. I was all sappy’n’stuff. I took a walk through, all on my own, in my new home. MY NEW HOME. (I’m still not over it.)

I called Marama to thank her for being the one person who did the absolute most for me through all this house-buying stuff. If she hadn’t believed in me like she did, if she hadn’t encouraged me to keep going with it on an absolutely daily basis, I would have given up. And look at me now!

Then my peeps started coming over. First, my La arrived, bearing flowers and dogs. (Oh, my god, read her “update (annotated)” entry about my move. I rolled.) Here she is, trying to open the wee bottle of champah-nya that I brought with me — we never did pop that sucker. I suppose we could have smashed the bottle on the balcony, like they do on ship prows, but then I’d just have to clean it up.

Then my girls arrived, sisters Christy and Bethany.

We had to celebrate my favorite part of my new abode:

Have I mentioned how I feel about my clawfoot bathtub? This is how I feel about my clawfoot bathtub:

This is how Harriet feels about hardwood floors. I feel the same way. I would have done the same thing, but I had company over:

Okay. There. I wanted to get these posted. In the next post I’ll give you pics of what it looks like now. I’ve still got a ton of boxes to unpack, but it does feel like a home now. And better yet, it feels like my home. That’s just CRAYZEE. Really.

You did it! All those crossed needles! All those wonderful, loving thoughts! You did it! You were right there with me! If I owe you an email, I’ll hit you back soon, but know that I love and adore all y’all. THANK YOU!

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!)