So, armed with minimal house buying knowledge we found ourselves a Realtor and went on a fun-filled exploration of houses. Some were big, others were small, more than one needed A LOT of work, aaaand holy-crap-are-houses-expensive! We discovered interesting things about non-apartment-dwelling life - namely property taxes (bend over and spread 'em - it's gonna hurt!), termites and what a roof is NOT supposed to look like, and found ourselves suddenly realizing we'd need a lot more than just a coffee maker and a microwave. We would need things like furnaces, hot water heaters, and lawn mowers. And that shit is pricey.
Somehow, this did not deter us, and we found a cute little cape cod we liked, put in a bid (eek!), got it inspected, and are now in the whirlwind throes of attorney review. Which, if you've never been there, is quite possibly one of the most stressful, agonizing situations I've ever experienced.
Seriously. I'd rather get a root canal without novacaine then deal with the waiting. Patience is not my strong suit.
Anyway, we put in our bid, got it accepted and then ML went on tour with his band. For a month. Thirty one days, to be exact. I kissed him goodbye, told him to have a good time and not fuck any groupies, and then he was off.
It was only after he was gone that it hit me. Who the fuck is going to pack up this apartment? Move furniture? Wrap everything up so we can be ready to move into a house we may or may not have?
I'll give you a hint - I'm pointin' at her:
I'm going to go ahead and pretend that the timing of this whole debacle wasn't some diabolically orchestrated plan of ML's, dry my tears, and start packing.
To be totally honest when I was done freaking the fuck out about this little... hiccup in my day to day existence, I instantly realized there will be probably be a multitude of FSE/mini-Edward photo opps to be had. Even if it is only me sobbing on FSE's cold, not-so-solid cardboard-y shoulder.
STY, the bestest BFF ever, has offered to help me pack and move (she just doesn't know it yet)! Not only that but poor STY is going to have deal with my hissy fits, panic attacks and waves of rage, not to mention shouldering some more of Twitarded day to day while I'm curled in the fetal position trying to figure out what a PMI is or how much it's going to cost to move a dryer vent up six inches (a lot, I'm sure). All I'm saying is she may need a few virtual hugs every now and then. And possibly bail money if she snaps and just puts me out of my (and her) misery.
Me and Edward behind the mountain of boxes STY wrestled up. We walked these (well, STY did because I was too short to see over them) all the way across town. In a granny cart. It's a preview to what our bag lady lives will look like in about thirty years or so...
That being said, I have no intention of abandoning Twiland but please forgive me if there are a few posts these next couple of weeks that are entitled, "I Can't Fucking Believe I Have to Pack All This Shit Up" or "Guess What I Found in the Pantry?" or " OOOh! THAT'S Why They Say "Lift With Your Legs, Not With Your Back!"
P.S. - I PROMISE on mini-Edward that the next chapter of 15 Step will be out this week.