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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!

Waiting. Waiting, waiting, waiting. I need the phone to ring and for my realtor to tell me to come sign loan docs.

Erg.

Tap, tap, tap tappity tap.

I could also use more sleep.

HAH! And the phone rang, right then, after I typed that. I’m signing loan docs at 4:30pm today. An hour and a half. Yep. That’s good, right? Fewer things can go wrong now, right? Good god, how excited I am.

I am overwhelmed. And really, I’m overwhelmed, too. I have this new, crazy idea to try (again) to get out of this apartment by the 31st, which would be feasible if I find someone to rent it. There’s the catch. Another open house? Yick. That was like throwing a party at which I knew no one but Lala (but she was enough, really, the life of the party), and I don’t really want to do it again. But it would save me a thousand dollars.

But it’s nice to know I don’t HAVE to find anyone right now. I could take the extra month.

Oh, my god, it’s all happening, isn’t it? I think I’m going to run right now to burn off some of these nerves.

Nice job, knitters! All those crossed needles have been really working hard…..

Thanks for ALL the compliments on Cromarty! I lurve wearing it, I really do. It fits, and it’s soft (Koigu goodness), and when I met Mariko and Marie and Megan for a spot of yarn shopping on Monday, there was a group of knitters at the store. They made me model and spin and show off, and they made a big ole fuss over me. It felt great. And then we had frozen custard. All was right with the world.

Well, on the house front, I have good news. I can call it good news because it’s quite a bit better than bad news, which makes it good, right? My realtor said she talked to the lender’s agent and talked that person into going to the boss’s boss’s boss and telling him that her client “is a dispatcher, and there will be plenty of really unhappy cops and citizens if this girl doesn’t get her loan funded.” That is not true. There would be an unhappy writer/dispatcher/knitter in the Biggety-biggety-O, sure. But who am I to argue with corporate arm-twisting? They say that the boss agreed, and that the loan docs are going to come in any minute. Uh-huh.

Somehow this smacks of the guy at the car dealership shaking his head and saying, “Jaiz, I’d love to help you, but my boss isn’t going to like it. Man, I’d love it if you bought this car. My wife’s divorcing me, and I don’t know where I’m going to get the money for the court battle to see the kids.” (I once had a car salesman tell me exactly that. I waited until I was outside to roll my eyes.) And then he goes in the back room and he and The Boss talk about the Red Sox until he comes back out and says, “I don’t know how I did it, but he agreed. He’ll lower the price by seventy-three cents. Just for you. Whew. Ain’tchew lucky?”

Anyway. None of it sounds real anymore. We’ll just wait and see, and what’s meant to be, will be. I believe that, I really do.

There’s more good news, actually. My landlord called and apologetically said, “Rachael, all the people you sent me from the open house changed their minds or found other places to live. We have to start all over again.” This was the other night, when I thought for sure the lender wasn’t going to come through, so I said, “Oh, GOOD! Can I have it for another month?” I’ve already paid last-month’s-rent, so it won’t be any money out of pocket (a good thing, since I ain’t got none), and no matter what, it’ll either be a place to live, or it’ll give me more time to move. I swear, when I heard that, it was like a migraine lifting. And I didn’t even know I had a headache. I don’t think I knew just how upset I was at moving with no place to go until the fear was given a reprieve.

And I know it’s all happening because I have a lot of knitters’ fingers crossed for me. Y’all must be dropping stitches out there, huh? I appreciate it, SO much.

Love!

She is finished. Hot damn, she’s freaking done!

Specs:
Pattern: Alice Starmore’s Cromarty, from the book Celtic Collection
Yarn: Koigu Kersti merino, in a shade that has defied duplication (trust me on this one)
Needles: 1(US), because I’m out of my mind.
Yarn Provider: The Threadbear Boys. In return for it being a shop model for a while (sadly, during the winter as timing would have it), they provided (most of) the yarn (I felt guilty about my row gauge and bought some of it). So I’ll be wrapping it up and sending it out this week. Whew. And I’ll welcome her back with open arms (after wearing it just once, today, meeting with Mariko and Marie).

A little bit closer:

I’d show you the back, but it’s just more of the same. I tried to get the obligatory lying in on bed shot, but this is all that wanted to show up. The camera kept getting all the squiggles confused.

And a few more friends, because after working on this off and on (as yarn allowed) for eight MONTHS, it’s just ’bout time to break out the bubbly. The Double-barrelled Em:

And my new favorite, The Iris:

Because it’s a partay, and a BIG one, one simply must have a Whack Rabbit shot (also known as Spirit Fingers Gone Wild, Uncensored):

Yeooooowww!