I'm stuck at work and am unlikely to be home in time for Buffy tonight. Anyone who could provide a tape of this evening's episode would have my undying gratitude. Or something.

So, this weekend we unpacked more boxes. I think other people sneak into our house while we're at work and add more boxes, personally, because no matter how many we unpack, there seem to always be more.

Since we bought a new TV (not big, or anything, only 27 inches, but it has built-in DVD and VHS), on Thursday when I replaced my smooshed laptop, we went looking for TV stands on Saturday, as a break from opening boxes. We'd planned to buy a basic black stand, but they were ugly, and anyway, no one had the model we could live with. Instead, we bought a corner stand made out of pear wood (which blends nicely with our collection of mostly-teak furniture) and steel tubes, and, while it doesn't have nifty drawers in which to hide discs and tapes, it does look cool in the living room, and only blocks a few inches of the front window.

We went looking for guest room furniture, because my mother is coming on the 23rd, and it'd be nice to have a bed for her to sleep in. Cort's clearance center has an entire Mission-ish bedroom suite for $500. And they deliver. Yay, Cort. (If you've never heard of them, they furnish corporate rentals and rent to movie studios and magazines, for layouts and such, then they sell off the used stuff. Inexpensively.)

Yesterday, I felt jet-lagged, and kind of unwrapped some of the pots and pans, stopping when I'd found my quarry: The peanut butter. And we gave the dogs baths.

We still don't have net access, hence the title of this. I feel so crippled without it. So much so that I actually signed up for a dial-up account, just to check mail, but the slowness was too aggravating, so I didn't stay online.

So far, wrt access, our results are this: DSL – too far, and our lines are weird. Ask . He'll explain that in technogeek. Wireless: Too many trees between us and the nearest tower, and we're too far from all the mountain towers. Satellite: The home solutions don't support networked computers (at least DirecTV doesn't, and Sprint no longer sells new access), and the corporate version is $1795 to set up + $119/month + extra if you want tech support, and they won't guarantee a speed. Cable: Not available in our neighborhood. Which leaves us with wrangling low prices for T1. Fuzzy says he might get $240 month as an employee at his company. I can deal with that.

As if everyone doesn't know that. So, I'll be nice. I won't bitch about the fact that the sellers weren't out by noon on Thursday as per our stipulation for not charging them two days of rent-back, and so, on Friday, we ended up paying three men to have lunch. And I won't bitch about the fact that we had to call them at 9:00 PM on Friday to make them come get their dogs (one was a wolf hybrid) so that our dogs could use our yard unmolested.

I won't whine that the termite work is going to stretch through the whole week, that we apparently have wiring for FOUR phone lines, and therefore half the house is not yet accessible by phone, or that we still haven't resolved some cable issues.

I certainly won't complain that we've been living there since Friday, and still haven't managed to go grocery shopping (though we have to tonight because we're out of dog food), or clean the jacuzzi tub to the point where I'm willing to sit in it, as opposed to merely showering, or actually swim in the pool (and I *so* want to swim in my pool).

No. I won't do that.

Instead I'll share that Kerry from Kilroy Pest Control is the most wonderful amazing man on Earth, is funny, and smart, and spent an hour capping off the feeder line from the seller's icemaker when they finally moved their fridge out, and also offered to turn both of us into expert caulkers, and helped move the appliances.

I'll admit that I'm still in love with our new Neptune washer and dryer, so swift, so silent, though Jacobine was right, and they do sound kinda funny.

And I love that almost every room has a ceiling fan, and the kitchen has so much cabinet space, and we have an abundance of closet space, and, and, and….

So, this week, we're s-l-o-w-l-y unpacking and rearranging. We're supposed to be done with the termite work by Friday (new floors in both bathrooms, and replacing the wood floor in one bedroom), and the carpet people have already measured the bedroom and dressing room for new blue carpeting to replace the scary pinkstuff.

There is a light at the end of the tunnel.
And no, it's not a train.

He's not technically related to me, but is the father of the woman who was dating an adult-friend of my step-brother before my mother and step-father met (is that convoluted enough for you?)

However, in the way of 'made' families, he and his wife Olive (who prefers to be called Olivia, these days), quickly became as surrogate grandparents to A. and myself, offering free piano lessons, hosting Thanksgiving, by turns, (I won't mention the stories of how, at one such occaision we all – including Walter and Olive's own children – admitted that none of us liked O's uber-midwestern jell-o salad, or how they used canned cranberry sause, and didn't even mash it so the rings from the can weren't obvious) helping my stepfather move a refrigerator once. Stuff like that.

Walter is an artist, and taught at Modesto Junior College. Their house, in Modesto, was filled with sculpture and paintings and abstract art that defies description. He designed the stained glass for Modesto's Unitarian Church, and his son like-named, also makes art.

My mother and I would always laugh when we visited, because invariably Olive would exclaim, in her shrill tones, that somehow were still filled with incredible diction, “Wal-TER! You just can't DO that! You must be COLOR BLIND!” Of course she was really just referring to his lack of attention to what he was wearing, or what napkins were on the table, or some such.

When I turned 12, three months after Mom and Ira married, and I suddenly had, not only a step-brother, but one who was OLDER, and (thanks to the movie), I still had Annie on the brain, Walter sat down and drew his own rendition of the entire cast of the comic strip on boxes and tags and things and he and my parents filled the boxes with things with my name on them. Rulers, pillows, pins, those license plates for bikes.) I think he realized before my mother did that I was feeling like I had no identity. Smart man.

When I was thirteen, Olive offered Piano lessons, and, since we didn't have a piano, I'd ride over to her house after school, and practice there. She got mad at me because I zipped through her beginning book too quickly. But by then I'd already had four years of cello. I knew how to read music, just not how to play the piano. Since we moved, soon after, this was never resolved, and I still don't know how to play the piano, and anyway, I sold my piano. I'm thinking of replacing it with a keyboard, and attaching it to the computer. But I digress.

The same year, at some political rally, Walter and I did a scene in a skit together. I don't remember it, really, just that it happened, and he made it fun.

When I turned eighteen they moved to Palm Desert, and built their own personal oasis. And that's when Walter suddenly became all-too-human. The man who'd never been sick a day in his life, worked for three days on his house with a cracked rib cage and broken arm, after falling of the ridge of the roof. And he never really completely recovered. (I vaguely remember hearing that Olive yelled at him for getting hurt and interrupting her writing.)

Recently, Walter developed back troubles, and had to have surgery. They sent him home, thinking he'd heal quickly, but he developed an infection. As of right now, he's paralyzed except for his hands and feet, can't speak, and is extremely disoriented. And I'm sad for him, for the terror he and Olive must be going through, and for the horror of such a vibrant mind trapped in a body that can't do anything.

My mother said, when she called me to tell me of this, that if she was in the same position, she would not want to live, and I had orders to shoot her, or something.

I completely agree.

RH called me this morning at eleven to confirm that our loan was funded and would record today 'on special'.

This means that as soon as it records, which it has done, by now, we own our new house. YAY.

We're supposed to be able to move appliances and small stuff in tomorrow, as the major street in our area will be closed on Saturday, so we need ALL DAY FRIDAY to move big stuff.

Though, in this case, 'move' means, 'pay the movers to cart stuff around for us'.

I'm sitting here looking at computer desks, because we need new ones and all. Well, okay, we don't /need/ them. But we want them. And since we have to take apart everything to move, it's as good a time as any.

(Btw, if anyone wants our old desks, just yell. They're free.)

The housewarming is planned, at this point, for Saturday, October 26th. But it'll be an afternoon thing – 3-ish or so – because it's the last Saturday before Halloween, and I'm sure there are other parties people want to go to.

We're still haggling over net access from home. Fuzzy's threatening to build a radio tower so we can get wireless. I think we should just pay for the damned T1. Suggestions, anyone?

We were rudely awakened at eight this morning by our phone ringing. It was MBNA looking for my parents, who not only live in Mexico, but can't call him back because they can't dial 800-numbers from there. I took great pleasure in using the 'send caller to answering service' option on my little silver phone.

We went back to sleep, since even the dogs didn't want to leave bed just then, and were awakened at a much more acceptable nine o'clock by our realtor, confirming that she had the termite clearance on our new house, and was GO for SIGNOFF ON MONDAY. YES! I feel so antsy, but in all honesty, the fact that it's taken so long for this escrow has served us well. Our interest rate was half a point lower when we finally locked last week, than it was when we'd initially started our loan process, and because we're signing on the last day of September, with a November 1 loan payment, we're not paying ANY interest on the new loan. Well. One day. But what's a day?

So, if all goes according to plan, we will get the keys on Thursday, and have the appliances delivered, and the carpet guy come to measure, and on Friday we'll be having the movers move our stuff.

I'm itching to paint – there's so much PINK in this house, and I'm just not a pink person. I mean. I like baby pink…on ballerinas and girls under the age of ten. I like fuschia and magenta, but not on WALLS. This woman has one room painted entirely ruby-red, and the other maroon. The red, actually, I can live with, since it'll be the guest room, and the furniture in there will be our old black dresser set and black iron canopy bed. All very gothic.

The maroon will, I think, be the computer room, unless we decide we're having two separate computer rooms. We haven't decided yet. I kind of want the sitting room to be a sewing room. Fuzzy thinks we can put one computer in there, and the other bedroom will be my sewing room / office. We shall see.

I'm actually excited about pool toys, as well. And actually being able to treat trick-or-treaters, since we're in an actual neighborhood now, and everything.

And I'm also looking forward to having something other than my new house to talk about.

One more week.
I can handle one more week.

I'm having that urge again. The one that prompts me to shed my current identity and take on a new one. Oh, not my actual name or anything, though I've never particularly liked it. I'm in the mood to get rid of all my current domain names and take on something new.

I want a word, a single word, not too hard to spell, type, or pronounce, but something that fits me. AngstyBitchQueen is too long, of course, so I've ruled that out. And BoringChick isn't really the image I'm going for.

I collect hats.
I play the cello.
I love art, though I suck at making it.
I sing.
I write, though, admittedly most of what I write is pretty dull these days.
I think in songs.
I see in rooms.
I like designer drinks.
I hate baby-pink.
I'm mostly happy.
But I'm also often mercurial.

I've often added to my collection of domain names, but never really purged any, and now I want to purge everything.

I want a new online ID to go with my new house.

And I want a word that fits all of my moods.
And is somewhat obscure.

Suggestions are being taken. If I use yours, you get a box of Dan's Chocolates, in dark, milk, or mixed, on me.

Do help?

I have spent the entire day dealing with people who collectively have maybe one working brain-cell. I began my day in a happy buzz, after using my favorite conditioner in the shower, and getting a pumpking scone at Starbucks. (Yay, pumpkin scones. Not quite as good as Morning Glory muffins, but…)

But then it got worse.

BitchyBorrower called after her loan documents were in title to ask if now was an okay time to lower her loan amount. Um…no. Last week when we told you we were drawing docs would have been the time to ask. Which we told you. Twice.

DumberThanRocksAppraisalCompany called to ask me the square footage of the house they're appraising. I said, “Doesn't the appraiser have to tape the perimeter and measure?” Well, yes. “And wouldn't that help him come up with square footage?” response: Oh.

And Now there's Homophobic DocDrawer. We're doing a loan for two of my mother's best friends, and this post is locked because if they read it and knew this they'd be screaming. Kass and Libby are two of the coolest women ever, and one of the few lesbian couples to participate in the last gay marriage thing in SFO, and, like most of my mother's friends, are radical activists. NOT women you want to cross.

We moved their loan from FabulousRates lender because they tried to make them sign separate applications, and we refused to let that happen. Then, two days ago, my title rep from NewLender said, “They drew the docs based on the pre, not on the application or the doc order. Help.”

So I called the lender. D. didn't call me back, but apparently sent my message to the doc dept. Who also didn't call me back. Today, we hammered on them some more. Our rep said, “Well, the preliminary title report doesn't reflect married names, and anyway that's not recognized in CA.” I said, “It's no different than a divorced person going back to their former name. THis is why we gave you name change paperwork.”

So we battled, and finally Susan, who is really the loan officer, and has more time to talk than I do, called D. and said, “Either you call me back, or I call the press and tell them you're discriminating.”

He called back.
He was pissed.
Apparently, the doc-drawer OVERRODE the underwriter's instructions and changed the names to match the pre. Without authorization.

Stupid. Stupid. And almost a nightmare.

So, I'm tired of dealing with people who can't think.
And I'm tired of having to resort to threats and blackmail to get people to do their jobs.

And I'm done ranting now.

Really.

We've spent the last seven or so weeks doing stuff on the house that we technically don't own any more.

Today, we finally got to do something for the new house: We went to Western Appliance, where they were having a 'we're doing inventory on Monday, please help us have less to count' sale, and while we didn't ultimately get the fridge I'd been looking at with the freezer on the bottom, we did get a nice basic Whirlpool fridge…well, not basic, in terms of features. I mean, okay, no ice maker (not that we'd use one anyway), but it has all sorts of nifty bins, bottle holders, a can rack, and all the shelves slide out. They promise to move the hinges to the left side, too, so it won't open into the room.

And I got the washer and dryer I'd been eye-ing on the web: Neptune. It's a front load washer without an agitator, and uses way less water than any other waster. Yay for not wasting water. The detergent, bleach and softener all have nifty top-load dispensers. Also, the actual part where the laundry goes is tilted slightly up, so nothing can fall out when you open the door. And it's supposedly really quiet. We shall see. The dryer matches. Both have all sorts of nifty buttons and settings I'll probably never use.

While we were there we eyes televisions. Panasonic has one that has an integrated DVD and VCR, and it's under $1000. Tempting. Very tempting. We'll see how many loans I close.

The trip to B&N was disappointing, and the cafe was filled with students. I'm all for bringing a book and reading, but I hate when students use restaurants as libraries. It's not fair to people who just want a place to sit and drink their coffee.

I first discovered her during the summer after my first year of college. I'd been working in a funky neighborhood bookstore/cafe, and had been flirting with a local poet between making sales. I don't remember his name, now, but I remember that we had a long talk about the comfort of companionable silences, and how it was nice to be able to share a table and not have to converse, just have the sounds of glassware clicking gently on the tabletop, and the scratching of pens as the only noise.

He let me read a poem, and asked what I was always filling notebooks with when I was working, and there were no customers to serve. I blushed, and told him I was 'just babbling on paper.' He asked if it was a story, and I said no, just thoughts. Even then, I had the strong feeling that, much as I love to read it, writing fiction was not for me.

He went to the shelves in our small-but-eclectic 'writing and reference' section, and brought me back an oversized paperback called Writing Down the Bones. I revealed that the cover had intrigued me – it looked so frivolous – but, he said, it's not.

So I read it. And I nearly didn't realize when my shift was over because I was so entrenched in, entranced by, this book.

Yes, it's essentially a writing manual.
No, it's not like any other writing manual you could ever imagine.

Natalie Goldberg doesn't so much instruct as suggest. She's a great proponent of using notebooks, because handwriting is more visceral and more organic than typing words on a screen. She pushes for writing practice and writing meditation and timed exercises.

But most of all, she's adamant that when you're sitting down, and putting pen to paper, or even fingers to keyboard, you turn off the self-censor, and send the internal-editor to bed.

Her rules are simple, and in a later book, she joked that they apply to everything from writing to cooking to running to sex:
Keep your hand moving. Meaning don't stop to think, to edit, to see how long you've been writing.
Lose control. Let yourself go wild. If it flows, go with it.
Don't think. Just write.

I have never met Natalie Goldberg. One of my fondest dreams is to spend a week in Taos, New Mexico (and if you know me, and know how much of a desert person I'm NOT, you'll understand how much I want to do this), and take her writing classes.

I rarely have time, these days, to take a notebook (paper or plastic) to a cafe and sit and just scribble or babble. But I still want to.

Goal for Q3: Return to writing practice. Write /something/ every day.