On Saturday we made an offer on a house in Grand Prairie, TX, which we both really loved.
On Monday we were told they’d accepted another offer on Friday, but it was contingent. We agreed to give it 24 hours.
On Tuesday – today – we made an offer on a different house in Grand Prairie, TX.
You can see it here.
This entry was written longhand in a notebook at 1:20 AM on Sunday Morning, 12 September 2004.
I’m sitting in bed, this horribly small double-instead-of-queen with conventional-instead-of-pillow-top mattresses rented bed, a towel beneath me (cheery, yellow, cotton, MINE) because it’s THAT time of the month, and the (also rented) sheets are white (very soft cotton, but still, white)and I’m terrified of staining them since the dogs have already left their messages on the carpet. I’m sleepy and crampy and craving peanut butter, which we have, but I’m not in the mood to actually walk to the kitchen. It is, after all, two whole rooms away, and I’ve finally gotten comfortable.
I spent all afternoon, with Fuzzy’s help, de-spyware-izing my laptop, which is serving as my primary – my ONLY – computer while we’re in housing limbo. (Anyone who doesn’t consider an apartment to be housing limbo has never owned real estate.)
Fuzzy, typically, is still computing while I sit here finding comfort in the flow of liquid ink (deep blue) over faintly blue college-ruled paper (I prefer green, but, paper is paper at this point). We have a tv in here, but expanded basic is worse than nothing at all, as there are no movies and no Bravo, and we have nothing to put the damned thing on top of anyway, so we watch the same basic channels on the rental tv in the living room, which is weird and black, and I still haven’ figured out any channels except O and the weather channel and scifi. Where the hell is NBC? Anyway, I’m kept company by the sound of NPR’s overnight BBC service issuing tinnily from the speaker in the rented and extremely cheap clock radio, with a counterpoint of Cleo snoring. Every so often she turns on her back and sticks her paws in the air, and I reach over and rub her warm pink and black belly. My dog is a total hussy, even when she’s asleep.
I need to sleep but my mind is racing, my imagination flirting with outlines for this year’s NaNoWriMo project, as well as with things about my new home state that I want to learn, discover, experience, remember, research. (About Nano, you’re allowed to do prep before the MONTH starts, just no actual writing.)
Fuzzy is concerned about me. Cleo wrapped her leash around my foot and I fell and banged my head on the stairs and the timing coincides with me being spacey, distracted, and muzzy, but I don’t think I blacked out really, and there’s no lump, and as I told the man, all my instincts are SCREAMING at me to make this place into a home, but it’s not home, it’s temporary, and 90% of our stuff is in storage.
I’m babbling and losing my train of thought, and becoming more interested in the BBC interviewing Toni Morrison than in writing any more tonight. I want to rest and float on the sound of distant voices.
And so I shall.
(Apologies to LJ readers who get my RSS feed)
So, after looking at thousands of really nice houses (ok, well, 30 – but it FELT like thousands), we’ve made an offer on this house in Grand Prairie, TX, which is about 25 minutes from Fuzzy’s office at the Dallas InfoMart, and about 20 minutes from Fort Worth.
We’re hoping they’ll answer quickly, as we want to do a short close.
We think it’s a great house: 5 bedrooms, 2.5 bathrooms, study, pool….and we like the neighborhood, which is 0.88 miles from the nearest Starbucks.
(We do have a backup house in the same neighborhood, in case this deal doesn’t go through. Smaller, but just as cute.)
For additional pictures, room sizes, etc. go here.
It’s not that there aren’t tons of things I could be writing about, because there are, but I’m still tired from the trip, and restless and antsy because we’re in this apartment. Ugh. It may be a foofy apartment, but it’s still not a HOUSE. I think it’s worse because all of our stuff is in storage, and while my laptop is great for blogging in bed, it’s not at all comfortable on a desk, as a primary system.
But we finally have a phone number, and even though I’m Bravo-less, the noise from the tv is keeping me from feeling disconnected.
On our trip, and even here, we’ve been waching the weather channel, mostly. And I’ve spent far too many hours looking at houses on the web, and trying to decide what I really really want. So far, the leading contenders are both at the top of our price range (a range I set based on what we can afford comfortably on ONE income), and I’m concerned that the areas are TOO remote, too suburban.
And Fuzzy won’t tell me what he LIKES, but then when I like something a LOT he doesn’t.
Well, off to look at another option and then dinner…and trying not to grumble that we haven’t picked a house YET, and I can’t deal with more than a month in this apartment.
*sigh*
We didn’t leave San Jose til after noon on 8/31, but we made it to Barstow anyway. The Ramada there was supposed to have net access in the rooms, but didn’t, because it wasn’t working, so I resorted to a public kiosk. They. Are. Horrible.
Today, we drove Route 66 in reverse: Barstow, Needles, Kingman, Flagstaff, Gallup. Most of the drive was fine, if boring, but the Barstow-Kingman section was the worst. Especially near Needles where the car told us the outside temp was 112 at noon. Thank god for high speed limits and flat roads.
We’re in Gallup now, and I’m trying to deal with horrible sunburn (from hanging outside while the movers were doing their bit on Tuesday), a sore throat (from breathing in the blasting a/c all day in the car), and just being tired. The dogs have been amazingly good for creatures who hate to travel. There was a small skirmish over a cheese nip today, but mostly they’ve learned to stay in their back seat, and sleep or at least stay still. However, you can feel their eyes boring into the back of your chair, as they send dog-telepathy messages of “hold me, feed me, love me.”
According to MapQuest, our foofy temp digs are 12.5 hours away… we may not do the whole drive tomorrow, but a good chunk of it, at least.
Bed now.
104 Boxes.
That’s how many we’ve packed, and while we’ve packed a LOT, we still haven’t touched the kitchen, my office, the innumerable breakable things, the art.
I, who tend to spend money on books, pens, shoes, and hats, more than anything, have somehow acquired vast amounts of STUFF I never knew I had.
Some of the boxes we’ve packed have been condensed from other boxes, long ignored, like the sweater-box full of my grandmother’s knitting (she died in December 2001, hasn’t knitted since 1999), including a half-complete lavender and silver scarf she was making for me. The yarn smelled like her favorite cologne, not strongly, but in small bits, as if part of herself was left there for me to find and embrace, all these years later. There were magazine clippings in the box as well, but I tossed those, as I was unable to figure out why they were relevant. Probably they were meant to be included in some unsent letter to one of us – her granddaughters, or her daughters. With knitting becoming a fad among my friends, I’m suddenly inspired to pick up where I stopped at the age of nine, and finish her work.
Another box was filled with books leftover from my childhood. Not the hardcover Winnie the Pooh collection that has graced my shelves for years, my pre-Disnefied stuffed Pooh Bear sitting near them for company, but older books, like In the Night Kitchen, and Where the Wild Things Are, classic childrens’ literature with art sophisticated enough to be appreciated by adults. Fuzzy and I are in the ‘trying’ stage of becoming parents – as in trying to conceive – and I know it’s wrong to bring a child into the world for selfish purposes, but there’s a lot of really good kiddie lit out there I’d love to have someone to share with.
Yet another unremembered box yielded treasures from Junior High School. Fuzzy insisted I keep my 8th Grade yearbook, even though I attempted to add it to the trash. I laughed at hard evidence of my first science fiction geekery: The entire series of novels related to the mini-series (and later regular series) V – the one about lizards masquerading as humans, who come to Earth to harvest humans as food. Very ’80’s.
Tomorrow – later today really – we’ll be packing most of the day, and working in party prep betweeen the boxes. This last gathering of close friends will be a nice break in a weekend of work, with the clock ticking louder and louder as we approach 8/31. The movers come in the morning on that day, and while I generally hate hotel rooms, I’m looking forward to spending that evening in a room I don’t have to clean, with air conditioning I don’t have to pay for.
For now, even though my mind is wide awake, and crying, “Write, write,” and my version of J.K. Rowlings’ Severus Snape is whispering enticing bits of dialogue into my inner ear, forming the next installment in my self-indulgent foray into fanfic, I am going to go steal two more hours of sleep.
::Cool, blue mornings::
Onesome: Cool– Well, summer is almost gone (except for those Down Under who are expecting it soon), and the cooler weather is coming. …and other than those who live in places like Hawai’i, things are about to change. Which do you prefer, the coolness of Winter where you live or the warmth of your Summer?
I love California winters, because rain is my favorite weather, although the nearly ceaseless rainstorms can be a bit much at times. Truly though, my favorite seasons are spring and fall. I love the lingering bite in the air winter turns into spring, and the first crispness, later in the year, as summer morphs into fall.
Twosome: Blue– Today’s softball: blue or green? Pick one! …okay, if it’s a tie (high or low), what color do you prefer for decorating or accents?
Both! As long as they match in tone and temperament, I love mixing blue and greem. Mediterranean Blue and Lime, for example, is a combination that I love (though the lime has to be in small punches).
Threesome: Mornings– Mornings, afternoons, evenings, nights… What’s your favorite time of day? …and what makes it so for you?
On the rare occasions when I’m up before seven, I like the stillness of early morning hours. As much as I claim I’m nocturnal, some of my best writing comes from those times. But I really love evenings. The time after work, when dinner’s done, and you’re curled up on the couch – precious!
How about you? When you’re ready, post your answers in your own space, and leave a comment at The Back Porchso they can find you!
I say… And you think… ?
Like this meme? Play along here.
We roll out of California a week from Weds. Possibly a week from Tues, if we finish loading the truck early enough.
Yesterday we managed to pack the living room books, and about half the contents of the garage. Today, the plan is to finish the garage, and pack the clothes we won’t need for the month we’re in escrow in TX, and living in a temp. apartment.
We’re debating getting a trailer hitch for Forester Gump and renting an actual towable u-haul, the teeny trailer-type, just so that we certified geeks can have our foofy computers. This is less of an issue for Fuzzy as it is for me, since I’ll be working from home, and my laptop just doesn’t have the computing power to which I’ve become accustomed.
The dogs KNOW something is up.
We left a whole bunch of stuff out on the lawn on a card table last night, with a giant FREE sign. This is a dandy way to get rid of stuff you don’t want, that you don’t have the patience to put in a garage sale, or the time to put on Ebay. People will take nearly ANYTHING for free. (In this case it was stray computer components, a plastic chest of drawers, stuff like that. Alas, no one has taken the table itself. Well. Perhaps we will find more free stuff to put out during Garage Part II, today.)
We made such progress yesterday, that I’ve gone from Completely and Utterly Overwhelmed to Just a Little Overwhelmed. Also, I’ve discovered that going off caffeine at the same time as a move is a Bad Thing. I’m certain that a good portion of my overwhelmedness had to do with a lack of macchiatos in my life.
It’s 11:21. Time to wake Fuzzy and get going.
I have a thing for sharks, and shark movies. I mean, I was raised on Jaws, and the only reason I don’t own a copy of Deep Blue Sea is that they were out when I went to look for it, and it hasn’t come up since then. And if you’ve read me for longer than a day, you know that the Discovery Channel’s Shark Week is something akin to Semana Santa for me.
It should come as no surprise, then, that I chose Open Water as my birthday movie tonight. And while I suspect that the majority of audiences, like the one I saw it with, will pan it, I quite enjoyed the film.
It’s the story, loosely based on real events, of two scuba divers left behind by their boat, while on vacation in a tropical location. (It was filmed 18 miles off the coast of the Bahamas, though the story it was based on took place in Australia), and are adrift, alone, in open water.
Critics have called it “the scariest shark movie since Jaws,” but it’s not scary in a blood and guts monster movie kind of way. It’s scary because it’s a human story. It’s two people stuck in a horrible situation. There’s very little action. There are endless shots of open water. There is odd aboriginal music used to mark the passage of time. But the scary part isn’t in the toothy fish circling ever nearer the humans, it’s in the moments that all of us recognized – like when, several hours into their ordeal – the husband accuses the wife of blaming him for their predicament, and she yells at him, “I wanted to go SKIING!”
I can’t tell any more without spoiling the movie, but if you do go see it, remember this: It was shot with a hand-held digital camcorder on a budget of $120,000. There are no special effects, because there was no budget – in fact, the sharks that do appear in the movie are real sharks (read about that here) because it was cheaper to use real animals. It’s an independent film. And it is NOT a monster movie.
(Though there were some monstrous people in the theatre…like the women sitting down the aisle from us who were unable to whisper, and kept commenting that the movie was stupid. I came close to throwing popcorn at them and telling them to shut up, but that would have been more disruptive than they were being.)
If you’re a nut for shark week, independent films, and unknown actors, see this movie. Otherwise, wait for the DVD.