Rachael

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!)

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!