I just joined Twitter. This has the possibility to be either:
a) Fun and useful. For when I'm out somewhere and see something I want to blog about, but don't have my laptop with me. I send random texts to my sister's cell about stuff I see, why not branch out?
b) Yet another online thing I join and ignore. Take Myspace, for example (I just heard Henny Youngman: "Take Myspace, please!"). Or Bebo. Or classmates.com. I will not join Facebook, mainly because a lot of people at my at-work knitting/crafting group keep pressuring me to do it. Also, I don't like that they won't let you see what you're joining until after you've joined. But I digress.
There's an option or a script or something to have your Twitter updates feed to your blog. If I find I'm actually using the service, I'll probably do that.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Tuesday, July 15, 2008
Last hurdles
I did a ton of cleaning at the apartment this weekend. I thought I'd be done on Sunday. One of my buckets sprang a leak halfway through Sunday, though, so I only had the one container with which to clean the floors and catch water from a defrosting fridge. The refrigerator took a lot longer than I expected, so I only got the bathroom floor washed by Sunday evening. I had a few things left to do in the kitchen, and I had Monday off (reinspection that morning, thought I might as well take the whole day in case I needed to clean some more. Hurray for planning ahead!) so I knocked off about six Sunday evening, went home, and collapsed.
Monday morning I got reinspected, so that the lenders would have proof that the electrical and water heater issues have been fixed. Took about ten minutes, got a thumbs-up from the inspector. Second-to-last hurdle cleared. I headed back to the apartment to finish up and hand in my keys.
Upon arriving at my place, I found the door and window open, all the lights on, and the place reeking of fresh paint. There was a paint roller in the kitchen sink, junk all over the living room floor (3 ten-gallon paint containers, the bits and pieces of what used to be the brackets for the Venetian blind, curtain rod...), and all of my things dumped unceremoniously into a corner "out of the way." Needless to say I was highly miffed. The complex handyman was nowhere in sight (of course), so I took all the stuff that was in my way and deposited them on the sidewalk. Put some paper towels under the paint roller before I put it outside, more to make a point regarding courtesy and care of other people's things than because I cared if the roller got dirty. I'm sure the message flew right over their heads. I finished what I had to do (taking frequent trips outside for gulps of fresh air) and was vacuuming the living room floor when the handyman came back.
I told him I'd asked Jim to wait until I'd finished. I told him it was partly because of my asthma, and that I never knew what would trigger it. He apologized, said he had no idea. He just went where he was told to go. I figured as much.
Why did I expect that man to honor my request, when he's shown me all along the only agenda he's interested in is his own? Isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?
Because I just wanted to get out of there, I didn't make a fuss with the manager about the paint when I handed back the keys. I told him the place wasn't as clean as I would have liked it to be, but that I was done. The oven, for example. I did that twice and still wasn't happy with it. He said not to worry, a lot of that stuff was going to be replaced anyway -- the vinyl flooring, the toilet, and probably the stove. Wish I'd known that before I spent most of Sunday scrubbing and swearing at marks I couldn't get out and wasn't sure I'd made to begin with. He made it sound like I'd get my deposit back. I'll believe it when I see it. My experience with landlords has been that once they have your money, they don't give it back. I'm treating that money as long-gone. If I get anything back, I'll use it to buy curtains, I guess.
So that's it. Last hurdle to home-ownership cleared, all loose ends tied. Now all I have to do is figure out where I'm putting everything.
Three last little things I want to mention:
Monday morning I got reinspected, so that the lenders would have proof that the electrical and water heater issues have been fixed. Took about ten minutes, got a thumbs-up from the inspector. Second-to-last hurdle cleared. I headed back to the apartment to finish up and hand in my keys.
Upon arriving at my place, I found the door and window open, all the lights on, and the place reeking of fresh paint. There was a paint roller in the kitchen sink, junk all over the living room floor (3 ten-gallon paint containers, the bits and pieces of what used to be the brackets for the Venetian blind, curtain rod...), and all of my things dumped unceremoniously into a corner "out of the way." Needless to say I was highly miffed. The complex handyman was nowhere in sight (of course), so I took all the stuff that was in my way and deposited them on the sidewalk. Put some paper towels under the paint roller before I put it outside, more to make a point regarding courtesy and care of other people's things than because I cared if the roller got dirty. I'm sure the message flew right over their heads. I finished what I had to do (taking frequent trips outside for gulps of fresh air) and was vacuuming the living room floor when the handyman came back.
I told him I'd asked Jim to wait until I'd finished. I told him it was partly because of my asthma, and that I never knew what would trigger it. He apologized, said he had no idea. He just went where he was told to go. I figured as much.
Why did I expect that man to honor my request, when he's shown me all along the only agenda he's interested in is his own? Isn't the definition of insanity doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result?
Because I just wanted to get out of there, I didn't make a fuss with the manager about the paint when I handed back the keys. I told him the place wasn't as clean as I would have liked it to be, but that I was done. The oven, for example. I did that twice and still wasn't happy with it. He said not to worry, a lot of that stuff was going to be replaced anyway -- the vinyl flooring, the toilet, and probably the stove. Wish I'd known that before I spent most of Sunday scrubbing and swearing at marks I couldn't get out and wasn't sure I'd made to begin with. He made it sound like I'd get my deposit back. I'll believe it when I see it. My experience with landlords has been that once they have your money, they don't give it back. I'm treating that money as long-gone. If I get anything back, I'll use it to buy curtains, I guess.
So that's it. Last hurdle to home-ownership cleared, all loose ends tied. Now all I have to do is figure out where I'm putting everything.
Three last little things I want to mention:
- The sellers made absolutely no attempt to forward their mail. For a few weeks there until my change of address paperwork went through, I was getting tons of mail for them. Credit card offers, bills, packages even. I gave that all to my agent yesterday, for her to give to their agent.
- Another thing I passed on? An envelope containing four cards I found in one of the master bedroom's closets: a Barnes & Noble membership card, a Turkish driver's license, an employee ID (also Turkish), and Target credit card with an expiration date of next month--unsigned on the back. These people are really lucky I'm honest.
- While I was gathering my stuff together prior to quitting the apartment for good yesterday, the handyman asked me how long I'd lived there. I told him 16 years. "Wow," he said. "This place looks really good, considering how long you've been in it. I've worked on some where they've only been in 2 years and the place looked like hell. This one only needed one coat of paint." That made me feel a little better. I've always been a little insecure about my abilities in the cleaning-and-maintenance department.
Thursday, July 10, 2008
Give him an inch, he thinks he's a ruler
When I went to pay my last ever rent (yee-haw!) and check on the apartment a few days ago, I found a note taped to my door. The manager had noticed I moved out and was hoping I remembered that I wasn't released from my lease until August 1. He also wanted to ask if he could come in now to do the painting and recarpeting instead of waiting until I gave the keys back to him. I think that's what he was asking, anyway. He's a stream-of-consciousness writer, and if I didn't know better I would swear English isn't his first language.
I am planning to take part of July to clean and was going to give the keys back to him around the middle of the month. That's always been the plan. It's what I told him when I asked to be let out of my lease. I tried to call him to let him know that yes, I remembered I still owed rent (I was there to pay it, after all) and remind him of what we'd talked about in April. Of course the answering machine cut me off right after I identified myself. "Messages full," it said. The office closes at 4:30, and by six pm the answering machine was already full? What's he do, never delete messages so that he can't be bothered by new ones?
So I emailed him. Got a garbled response in reply (big surprise). He really doesn't care whether I've cleaned first, he wants to do the painting and carpeting now. Yeah. That's what I want to deal with: dust, mold, fumes from cleaning products, and the smells of fresh paint and new carpet. What's he trying to do, kill me?
I told him, no, wait for me. There's still stuff on my floor. I don't think he's happy, but I'm past caring. He keeps on rushing me, I won't give him the keys back until July 31. It's still my place after all, even if I'm not living there any more.
Jeesh.
Really effective way to communicate, by the way, via a note on the door of an apartment you know is empty.
I am planning to take part of July to clean and was going to give the keys back to him around the middle of the month. That's always been the plan. It's what I told him when I asked to be let out of my lease. I tried to call him to let him know that yes, I remembered I still owed rent (I was there to pay it, after all) and remind him of what we'd talked about in April. Of course the answering machine cut me off right after I identified myself. "Messages full," it said. The office closes at 4:30, and by six pm the answering machine was already full? What's he do, never delete messages so that he can't be bothered by new ones?
So I emailed him. Got a garbled response in reply (big surprise). He really doesn't care whether I've cleaned first, he wants to do the painting and carpeting now. Yeah. That's what I want to deal with: dust, mold, fumes from cleaning products, and the smells of fresh paint and new carpet. What's he trying to do, kill me?
I told him, no, wait for me. There's still stuff on my floor. I don't think he's happy, but I'm past caring. He keeps on rushing me, I won't give him the keys back until July 31. It's still my place after all, even if I'm not living there any more.
Jeesh.
Really effective way to communicate, by the way, via a note on the door of an apartment you know is empty.
Tuesday, July 08, 2008
I didn't even know there was a word for this...
Coprolite. Today's word from A Word A Day. My goodness. I can think of at least five people I could describe using this word.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Photos of the new place
Just posted a few photos of the new place onto Flick'r. Most of the rooms still look a bit disordered and I really didn't want to record that so...there are some shots of the cat, of the kitchen, of the exterior and of the plant life in my garden. There's one that I haven't posted yet. It's of the ceiling in the craft room--I wanted to get a day shot and a night shot, but I keep forgetting to go in there after dark. As soon as I remember to do that, I'll post those two pictures.
Friday, June 27, 2008
From under a pile of boxes...
...I send you greetings. Am currently digging out from moving in. Will be back posting when I can find the living room again.
Let me give you the edited highlights, though:
Let me give you the edited highlights, though:
- There was a brief last-minute to-do about the truck we'd rented. My sister was supposed to pick it up at an office near them, but the place had no reservation listed. I had to sort it out long distance over my cell phone, but it turns out whoever I'd talked to on Thursday had reserved the truck for the wrong location. Fifteen minutes later (through the magic of computers), the reservation was in the right place and she could drive away with the truck.
- My family was amazed at the amount of stuff I'd managed to cram into that tiny apartment. At one point Stretch asked me: "Do you have a door into some other apartment that you're taking stuff from?" Come on, gang, I'd been in there a decade and a half, and I have pack rat tendencies. What did you expect? And why did you think I've been packing for two months?
- I need to get the townhouse reinspected now that the work required by the lenders is done. Before I call my realtor and say it's okay to call the inspector, I need to clear a path to the breaker box, which is surrounded by very heavy boxes of books. Guess what I'm doing Saturday?
- The hollyhocks by the front door are starting to bloom. The tall one is hot pink, and the one next to it is a deeper pink, somewhere in the magenta range. Must take a picture and post it.
- My third day in the new place I got my first door-to-door evangelist. Thought he'd be sneaky about his pitch and start by talking about Noah. Noah? Trying to tie in with the Mississippi floods? I didn't wait to find out. I'd answered the door covered in lilac and green splotches and brandishing a paint brush. Told him I was in the middle of something and then politely but firmly refused his offer to come back and talk to me later.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Hey gang, I'm a mortgagor!
This is the first moment I've had where I could fire up the ol' laptop without feeling guilty because I should be doing something else. So here's how it all went down:
Friday: Up at the crack of dawn. Examining, pitching, packing things until about nine, when I figured I should probably get myself ready. J. arrived at ten and took me to my soon-to-be townhouse. She said when she brought the electrician over there Wednesday the sellers still hadn't packed, and Mrs. Seller said she was taking the day off of work the next day to do it. As we pull in, we see a U-Haul parked out front. They're still moving things out and cleaning. Turns out the sellers left the day before, they're returning home to Turkey (I thought so! I'd said as much to J. at one point), and have given/sold the contents of their house to some other Turkish folks still living here. Friends of theirs, I think. We look around, everything is fine. One of the two men clearing out hands me the keys to the front door and to the mailbox. J. drives me off to the bank for settlement.
At settlement is the nice lady from the bank who got me the PHFA and county loans, the realtor for the sellers, a representative from a settlement agency, my realtor, and me (of course). The woman from the bank hands me a sheaf of papers. These are all my copies of the documents I'm about to sign. And away we go. She hands me a paper, explains what it means, I sign it. She takes that one away, hands me another one, explains it, I sign it. And so on until she runs out of papers. Then she switches chairs with the settlement agent and we start again. We go through the statement that says what I owe. I hand over a cashier's check for that. She hands me two checks: one from the county and one from the bank. I endorse them and hand them back to her, stopping to remark that quite a lot of money just passed through my hands. After the last piece of paper is signed and notarized, she folds her hands over the whole sheaf of them, smiles, and says,
"Congratulations, you are now in debt."
"Oh, I've been here before."
"Well, welcome back!"
We all shake hands, and J. drives me off to the Wal-Mart so that I can make copies of the keys. She gives me a hug and a present, a binder with all sorts of tags and labels in it, all set up and ready to be filled-- a sort of home documents organizer.
I call first my Mom and then my sister to let 'em know I'm now a homeowner. After I get keys made, have a celebratory lunch in the Eat 'n' Park, and buy a bottle of sparkling white wine for later on that night (Asti Spumante), I head on back to my apartment for more packing. At about three I call a taxi, and drag myself, a suitcase, a duffel bag, and a canvas shopping bag full of stuff over to my townhouse. From there I do laundry, and while I'm waiting for it to finish I sit on the steps and stare at my living room through the bars of the banister. I did take a few pictures, and just as soon as I figure out what I did with my memory card-to-USB converter, I'll post them to Flick'r. Mom and Dad had said they'd be here by 7, Ditter and Stretch thought they'd be here by 8. At 7, Mom calls to say that they're just leaving now--there was a terrific thunderstorm that they didn't feel comfortable driving in, and it just let up.
When Ditter and Stretch show up, I show them around the place. We take a look at my little front garden patch. There's an almost dead rosebush that she thinks she can show me how to bring back. There's also a huge hollyhock by the front door that Stretch thought was a weed. There's also all sorts of weeds and unidentified vegetation in there, and a small tree in need of pruning. I have no idea how to do that.
Ditter takes me shopping for all sorts of stuff I need and didn't think about--also, we're going to swing by the apartment and pick up the cat. While we're in the store (we were there a very long time. It was 10:30 when we hit the check-out line) Mom calls to say they hit fog so they had to go around "the long way," and they'll be another 45 minutes or so. After picking up the cat (and my sleeping bag, and a couple other things) we head on back to the house to find that my brother-in-law has weeded the patch, fixed a window screen that needed attention, and done a couple more minor fixes. He joked that if I'd already bought the paint, he'd have started one of the rooms already.
I let the cat out of her carrier and watch her slink around the place, investigating everything. She stays close to the wall--it must feel safer that way. We just get dinner started (at 11 at night!) when my parents pull in.
Upon crossing the threshold, Mom and Dad give me a golden dollar coin, two loaves of bread, and bottles of soda--some sort of tradition called a "first-footer," though it's usually a New Year's Day tradition. A dark-haired man is supposed to enter your house and give you money, drink, and bread.
Dinner is ready-made pizza bought in a grocery store and baked in 12 minutes and a glass of Asti Spumante to toast the new house. We finally go to bed around 12:30.
Saturday: I take my painting crew out for breakfast, then we buy paint and all sorts of other stuff: a flashlight, new doorknobs and deadbolts, all kinds of things I can't remember now. The previous evening, Ditter had whipped out a steno pad and a pen and wrote down everything I said in passing that sounded like something I needed. It reminded me of when she got married and I was her maid of honor--I had done something similar. Then we take it all home and paint. And paint, and paint, and paint. Then, just for grins, we paint a little. The tangerine dream master bedroom is hit with a coat of primer, and while that dries we paint the future guest bedroom "Violet Devotion" (lilac). Then some of us paint the master bedroom "Summer Ivy" (medium dark green), while others start to tape the living room. And by the way, it's humid and stinkin' hot, so we're all doing this and dripping with sweat. The new place has no air conditioning. The cat spends most of the day lying in the bathtub. Poor kitty is very hot. Her coat is too heavy for this heat.
Sunday: Ditter has an open house to run back in Lancaster, so she and Stretch leave around 8. Mom, Dad, and I paint the living room "Honey"--it's supposed to be a gold color but is a little more yellow on the wall than it was on the card or on the sample daub the mixer put on the lids when he was done. Maybe it's because it's going on top of a pale mint green, no primer in between. Doesn't really matter. I like this color too. Then we go back upstairs and do touch-ups of the lilac room and the green room. My parents leave around three.
Most of the rest of the week has been spent either clearing out and packing up the old place, waiting for one technician or another at the new place (cable guy yesterday, electrician today), or touching up the paint. I keep finding spots that need more paint. The green room is especially tricky. We were having trouble seeing what we were doing--there was a glare from outside that interfered with how well we could see the walls. I've had to wait until the sun goes down, turn on the overhead light, and dab, dab, dab away at the walls. I was doing that last night until 11. Did something similar today with the lilac room. I dragged a lamp in there 'cause there's a bit that anyone painting would have trouble with--to paint, you have to stand between the wall and the window, effectively obscuring your only source of light. There's no overhead light in there. I should go check it now that it's getting dark out and I'm not getting interference from the sun. Haven't even gotten to the living room yet. Need to do the same paint-at-night routine in there as well.
Couple of little irritants: the guys who bought/were given "everything" were extremely literal. They took every single curtain rod, and I think they took the toilet paper dispenser in the bathroom. Also, I found that I have only one working light bulb in each light fixture. If there are sockets for more than one, they're filled with burnt-out bulbs. Nice, huh? I don't care that much about the bulbs, I'm changing them all over to those fluorescent ones that use less energy. But the curtain rod thing irritates. Those are fixtures, they were supposed to stay. So when I painted my bedroom last night I got to do it in full view of anyone who happened to glance out the window. Everyone knows the master bedroom of #10 is green.
Ah well. Back to work, now that it's dark. Time to show folks what color the living room is.
Friday: Up at the crack of dawn. Examining, pitching, packing things until about nine, when I figured I should probably get myself ready. J. arrived at ten and took me to my soon-to-be townhouse. She said when she brought the electrician over there Wednesday the sellers still hadn't packed, and Mrs. Seller said she was taking the day off of work the next day to do it. As we pull in, we see a U-Haul parked out front. They're still moving things out and cleaning. Turns out the sellers left the day before, they're returning home to Turkey (I thought so! I'd said as much to J. at one point), and have given/sold the contents of their house to some other Turkish folks still living here. Friends of theirs, I think. We look around, everything is fine. One of the two men clearing out hands me the keys to the front door and to the mailbox. J. drives me off to the bank for settlement.
At settlement is the nice lady from the bank who got me the PHFA and county loans, the realtor for the sellers, a representative from a settlement agency, my realtor, and me (of course). The woman from the bank hands me a sheaf of papers. These are all my copies of the documents I'm about to sign. And away we go. She hands me a paper, explains what it means, I sign it. She takes that one away, hands me another one, explains it, I sign it. And so on until she runs out of papers. Then she switches chairs with the settlement agent and we start again. We go through the statement that says what I owe. I hand over a cashier's check for that. She hands me two checks: one from the county and one from the bank. I endorse them and hand them back to her, stopping to remark that quite a lot of money just passed through my hands. After the last piece of paper is signed and notarized, she folds her hands over the whole sheaf of them, smiles, and says,
"Congratulations, you are now in debt."
"Oh, I've been here before."
"Well, welcome back!"
We all shake hands, and J. drives me off to the Wal-Mart so that I can make copies of the keys. She gives me a hug and a present, a binder with all sorts of tags and labels in it, all set up and ready to be filled-- a sort of home documents organizer.
I call first my Mom and then my sister to let 'em know I'm now a homeowner. After I get keys made, have a celebratory lunch in the Eat 'n' Park, and buy a bottle of sparkling white wine for later on that night (Asti Spumante), I head on back to my apartment for more packing. At about three I call a taxi, and drag myself, a suitcase, a duffel bag, and a canvas shopping bag full of stuff over to my townhouse. From there I do laundry, and while I'm waiting for it to finish I sit on the steps and stare at my living room through the bars of the banister. I did take a few pictures, and just as soon as I figure out what I did with my memory card-to-USB converter, I'll post them to Flick'r. Mom and Dad had said they'd be here by 7, Ditter and Stretch thought they'd be here by 8. At 7, Mom calls to say that they're just leaving now--there was a terrific thunderstorm that they didn't feel comfortable driving in, and it just let up.
When Ditter and Stretch show up, I show them around the place. We take a look at my little front garden patch. There's an almost dead rosebush that she thinks she can show me how to bring back. There's also a huge hollyhock by the front door that Stretch thought was a weed. There's also all sorts of weeds and unidentified vegetation in there, and a small tree in need of pruning. I have no idea how to do that.
Ditter takes me shopping for all sorts of stuff I need and didn't think about--also, we're going to swing by the apartment and pick up the cat. While we're in the store (we were there a very long time. It was 10:30 when we hit the check-out line) Mom calls to say they hit fog so they had to go around "the long way," and they'll be another 45 minutes or so. After picking up the cat (and my sleeping bag, and a couple other things) we head on back to the house to find that my brother-in-law has weeded the patch, fixed a window screen that needed attention, and done a couple more minor fixes. He joked that if I'd already bought the paint, he'd have started one of the rooms already.
I let the cat out of her carrier and watch her slink around the place, investigating everything. She stays close to the wall--it must feel safer that way. We just get dinner started (at 11 at night!) when my parents pull in.
Upon crossing the threshold, Mom and Dad give me a golden dollar coin, two loaves of bread, and bottles of soda--some sort of tradition called a "first-footer," though it's usually a New Year's Day tradition. A dark-haired man is supposed to enter your house and give you money, drink, and bread.
Dinner is ready-made pizza bought in a grocery store and baked in 12 minutes and a glass of Asti Spumante to toast the new house. We finally go to bed around 12:30.
Saturday: I take my painting crew out for breakfast, then we buy paint and all sorts of other stuff: a flashlight, new doorknobs and deadbolts, all kinds of things I can't remember now. The previous evening, Ditter had whipped out a steno pad and a pen and wrote down everything I said in passing that sounded like something I needed. It reminded me of when she got married and I was her maid of honor--I had done something similar. Then we take it all home and paint. And paint, and paint, and paint. Then, just for grins, we paint a little. The tangerine dream master bedroom is hit with a coat of primer, and while that dries we paint the future guest bedroom "Violet Devotion" (lilac). Then some of us paint the master bedroom "Summer Ivy" (medium dark green), while others start to tape the living room. And by the way, it's humid and stinkin' hot, so we're all doing this and dripping with sweat. The new place has no air conditioning. The cat spends most of the day lying in the bathtub. Poor kitty is very hot. Her coat is too heavy for this heat.
Sunday: Ditter has an open house to run back in Lancaster, so she and Stretch leave around 8. Mom, Dad, and I paint the living room "Honey"--it's supposed to be a gold color but is a little more yellow on the wall than it was on the card or on the sample daub the mixer put on the lids when he was done. Maybe it's because it's going on top of a pale mint green, no primer in between. Doesn't really matter. I like this color too. Then we go back upstairs and do touch-ups of the lilac room and the green room. My parents leave around three.
Most of the rest of the week has been spent either clearing out and packing up the old place, waiting for one technician or another at the new place (cable guy yesterday, electrician today), or touching up the paint. I keep finding spots that need more paint. The green room is especially tricky. We were having trouble seeing what we were doing--there was a glare from outside that interfered with how well we could see the walls. I've had to wait until the sun goes down, turn on the overhead light, and dab, dab, dab away at the walls. I was doing that last night until 11. Did something similar today with the lilac room. I dragged a lamp in there 'cause there's a bit that anyone painting would have trouble with--to paint, you have to stand between the wall and the window, effectively obscuring your only source of light. There's no overhead light in there. I should go check it now that it's getting dark out and I'm not getting interference from the sun. Haven't even gotten to the living room yet. Need to do the same paint-at-night routine in there as well.
Couple of little irritants: the guys who bought/were given "everything" were extremely literal. They took every single curtain rod, and I think they took the toilet paper dispenser in the bathroom. Also, I found that I have only one working light bulb in each light fixture. If there are sockets for more than one, they're filled with burnt-out bulbs. Nice, huh? I don't care that much about the bulbs, I'm changing them all over to those fluorescent ones that use less energy. But the curtain rod thing irritates. Those are fixtures, they were supposed to stay. So when I painted my bedroom last night I got to do it in full view of anyone who happened to glance out the window. Everyone knows the master bedroom of #10 is green.
Ah well. Back to work, now that it's dark. Time to show folks what color the living room is.
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Squeeee
I just went to my bank and got a cashier's check for the amount I need for settlement tomorrow.
My realtor is picking me up at ten for a final walk-through of the property. This is to make sure it looks the way I expect it to--no damage since I last saw it, nothing removed that is supposed to be there, that rickety island in the kitchen gone. We had a brief to-do over the breaker box. The agreed-to repair of the test breaker never got done. Never a dull moment. J. had an electrician look at the box, and he said that the part he'd need is no longer made. The current breaker box is an old technology that still works but is no longer standard. The part would cost about $300, and that's only if someone somewhere had one in stock. Instead, he's putting in the new kind of breakers, and he's also going to change the outlets (boxes?) by the kitchen sink and in the bathrooms. He gave J. an estimate, and the sellers will be putting that estimated price into an escrow account to use for the repairs.
After I look around and agree that yes, this is what I am planning to buy we head off to the bank for settlement, which is set for 11 a.m. I'd say that by noon or 12:30 I will have signed my life away and been given a set of keys. At this point I'm going to want to sprint out of there before someone reconsiders and tries to take 'em back.
Cat will be transplanted by around three-thirty, four o'clock. Family should arrive between 7 and 8:30. I have no idea when I'm going to be online again. Sometime Tuesday the cable guy will be coming to set up my new cable/digital phone/high-speed internet service. Yay! Finally switching from dial-up to broadband! I'm guessing that the next post will be shortly after he leaves.
My realtor is picking me up at ten for a final walk-through of the property. This is to make sure it looks the way I expect it to--no damage since I last saw it, nothing removed that is supposed to be there, that rickety island in the kitchen gone. We had a brief to-do over the breaker box. The agreed-to repair of the test breaker never got done. Never a dull moment. J. had an electrician look at the box, and he said that the part he'd need is no longer made. The current breaker box is an old technology that still works but is no longer standard. The part would cost about $300, and that's only if someone somewhere had one in stock. Instead, he's putting in the new kind of breakers, and he's also going to change the outlets (boxes?) by the kitchen sink and in the bathrooms. He gave J. an estimate, and the sellers will be putting that estimated price into an escrow account to use for the repairs.
After I look around and agree that yes, this is what I am planning to buy we head off to the bank for settlement, which is set for 11 a.m. I'd say that by noon or 12:30 I will have signed my life away and been given a set of keys. At this point I'm going to want to sprint out of there before someone reconsiders and tries to take 'em back.
Cat will be transplanted by around three-thirty, four o'clock. Family should arrive between 7 and 8:30. I have no idea when I'm going to be online again. Sometime Tuesday the cable guy will be coming to set up my new cable/digital phone/high-speed internet service. Yay! Finally switching from dial-up to broadband! I'm guessing that the next post will be shortly after he leaves.
Sunday, June 08, 2008
Time out for a post
This whole packing things reminds me a little bit of the frenzy I whipped myself into when my apartment got inspected a couple of years ago. Especially the bit about the socks. Crikey, do I have socks. What do I think I am, a centipede? Who needs that many socks?
I'm finding other people's stuff in here as well. A dinner plate of the Chief Loon's (I think). After one of our game nights, she handed me a whole plate of teeny tiny cupcakes. Looks like I never gave the plate back. I also found some books people loaned me eons ago. One of 'em I thought I'd lost, seriously, irretrievably lost, and bought a replacement copy to give back to the lender. Found the replacement copy, too. Sent the better-looking of the two back to the lender via one of her cousins, with whom I work. Found Christmas presents I thought I mailed. Uh-oh. Found about a dollar and a half in pennies--not all at the same time, mind you. More like, "hey look, another penny!" Found so many knitting needles and crochet hooks of varying sizes that they have their own packing box now. I think I'm going to have to do that with scissors, too. And a small one for pens. If I had the time, I'd check each pen to see if it works first. But I don't have time. I'll do that when I unpack. Sure I will.
And Holy Mani/Pedi, Batman! I have tons of nail polish. Most of it was given to me as gifts--stocking stuffers, Easter basket filler. I think I probably bought the bottle of clear nail polish myself, and that was probably to do with a beading project where I was trying to secure a knot.
Lilah has tired of climbing on all the boxes after I close them up. Good. I was worried she'd knock something over. I've taken down the posters and framed pictures. I'm saving the framed embroidery for last. I am ruthlessly ditching stuff that I haven't used and/or don't really like and/or is getting a bit shabby. There's a sort of unwritten protocol to throwing things out in apartment complexes: anything that is probably still usable (in your opinion) you put next to the dumpster for someone to salvage who thinks he can use it. Yesterday morning I put out a framed picture of a black-and-white print that someone gave me a decade ago when they were clearing out, and when I came out again half an hour later with a bag of true trash, someone had already adopted it, and put a beat-up old computer monitor in its place. Came out half an hour after that, and the monitor was gone, too.
That reminds me of a story an ex-coworker told me about clearing out her apartment when she and her life-partner moved here from Alabama. They had a bunch of bookcases that they didn't want to take with them and that were too good to just throw out. So they put them by the dumpster at their apartment complex. After they put the first one out and walked back, they saw a young couple go over and take it to their place. Same couple took the second. And the third. Dee finally walked over to their apartment and offered to bring the two remaining bookcases right to them saving them both time and energy. They accepted, and came back to Dee's to carry one while she and Em brought the other one. She said the look on the guy's face was priceless when he opened the door to find her standing there. Surprised and guilty, like he thought she was going to yell at him for trash-picking.
Well, that's enough of a break. Time to go put some more of my apartment into small boxes.
I'm finding other people's stuff in here as well. A dinner plate of the Chief Loon's (I think). After one of our game nights, she handed me a whole plate of teeny tiny cupcakes. Looks like I never gave the plate back. I also found some books people loaned me eons ago. One of 'em I thought I'd lost, seriously, irretrievably lost, and bought a replacement copy to give back to the lender. Found the replacement copy, too. Sent the better-looking of the two back to the lender via one of her cousins, with whom I work. Found Christmas presents I thought I mailed. Uh-oh. Found about a dollar and a half in pennies--not all at the same time, mind you. More like, "hey look, another penny!" Found so many knitting needles and crochet hooks of varying sizes that they have their own packing box now. I think I'm going to have to do that with scissors, too. And a small one for pens. If I had the time, I'd check each pen to see if it works first. But I don't have time. I'll do that when I unpack. Sure I will.
And Holy Mani/Pedi, Batman! I have tons of nail polish. Most of it was given to me as gifts--stocking stuffers, Easter basket filler. I think I probably bought the bottle of clear nail polish myself, and that was probably to do with a beading project where I was trying to secure a knot.
Lilah has tired of climbing on all the boxes after I close them up. Good. I was worried she'd knock something over. I've taken down the posters and framed pictures. I'm saving the framed embroidery for last. I am ruthlessly ditching stuff that I haven't used and/or don't really like and/or is getting a bit shabby. There's a sort of unwritten protocol to throwing things out in apartment complexes: anything that is probably still usable (in your opinion) you put next to the dumpster for someone to salvage who thinks he can use it. Yesterday morning I put out a framed picture of a black-and-white print that someone gave me a decade ago when they were clearing out, and when I came out again half an hour later with a bag of true trash, someone had already adopted it, and put a beat-up old computer monitor in its place. Came out half an hour after that, and the monitor was gone, too.
That reminds me of a story an ex-coworker told me about clearing out her apartment when she and her life-partner moved here from Alabama. They had a bunch of bookcases that they didn't want to take with them and that were too good to just throw out. So they put them by the dumpster at their apartment complex. After they put the first one out and walked back, they saw a young couple go over and take it to their place. Same couple took the second. And the third. Dee finally walked over to their apartment and offered to bring the two remaining bookcases right to them saving them both time and energy. They accepted, and came back to Dee's to carry one while she and Em brought the other one. She said the look on the guy's face was priceless when he opened the door to find her standing there. Surprised and guilty, like he thought she was going to yell at him for trash-picking.
Well, that's enough of a break. Time to go put some more of my apartment into small boxes.
Friday, June 06, 2008
T-minus one week and counting...
This time next week I will probably be sitting, shocked and amazed, in the middle of the floor in my new living room.
Either that or I'll be furiously folding laundry, as I just this moment realized I need to buy queen-sized sheets for the air mattress I just bought, and that sounds like as good as anything for an inaugural load in the new-to-me washer and dryer. That I won't need to go on a cross-country trek to use.
I probably need pillows, too. And new towels. Well, I don't need new towels, but I'd like to have at least the first few I put out in the new bathroom match both the room and each other.
Either that or I'll be furiously folding laundry, as I just this moment realized I need to buy queen-sized sheets for the air mattress I just bought, and that sounds like as good as anything for an inaugural load in the new-to-me washer and dryer. That I won't need to go on a cross-country trek to use.
I probably need pillows, too. And new towels. Well, I don't need new towels, but I'd like to have at least the first few I put out in the new bathroom match both the room and each other.
Wednesday, June 04, 2008
Pondering change
Been saying this phrase a lot lately: I'm not going to miss that.
I've been saying this one, too: I am going to miss that, though.
For example:
At the bus stop: I'm going to miss that youngster I've been watching grow up. He's shy and bookish, and right now he's in that awkward, geeky phase boys go through right before they turn into either Adonis or one of the Goth teens--all piercings, black clothes, and eye makeup. Can't tell which way this one's going to go, and I wonder what he'll look like when (if) I see him again.
I am most decidedly not going to miss the creepy guy I call Twitch (only in my head. I'd never call him that to his face. I try not to address him at all, actually). I don't know whether he's OCD or something more serious. He never stands still at the bus stop, does the same series of moves and gestures over and over. He carries on muttered conversations with himself, and (here's the creepy part) pays way too much attention to me. Looks at me a little too long and hard when I walk up to the bus stop. Listens too closely to conversations I'm having. When I stand there reading a book, I can see him out of the corner of my eye cocking his head sideways to read the spine. The few times I've gotten on the bus ahead of him (instead of staying behind him so I can see him), I have to make sure I sit somewhere there isn't room for him to sit beside me. 'Cause given the opportunity, that's what he does--too close, of course. Bye, Twitch. Won't be seein' ya.
Laundry: I'm not going to miss dragging my dirty clothes across the complex to wash them. But I will miss random conversations had while waiting for a dryer to become available.
Utilities: I will miss having my utilities included in my rent. I won't miss sharing a water heater with three other apartments, however. Nor will I miss substandard electrical wiring. The lights dim for a fraction of a second when I turn on the power strip that I use for my computer equipment.
Neighbors: I have a nice upstairs neighbor. Friendly, polite, considerate, quiet. Gonna miss her. I won't miss hearing her every footstep, though.
Animals: I know more of my neighbors' dogs by name than I do the people who own them. Peanut, the cocker spaniel on the other side of the building. Pebbles, the tiny Yorkie next building over. Tucker, who I first met as an 8-week old puppy, now grey around the muzzle and getting decidedly fat. The beagle next door, however, I will feel no nostalgia for. He bays incessantly when his owner's away too long. (Bowwww! Bowwww! Bowwww! All. Night. Long.) I won't miss that.
The joys of renting: I will not miss this cramped little apartment, with its one window, no airflow, no sunlight (unless it bounces in off the snowy hillside at wintertime), tiny kitchen, and weird electrical set up -- the light switch for the kitchen is in the bedroom. Huh? Nor will I miss the maintenance folks who wander in whenever they feel like it, maybe giving you a day's notice if you're lucky. (Note to self. Stash an extra key in desk at work, to guard against locking self out of nice new home that no one else can get into without permission). One thing I will say for my little mouse-hole: it has a nice built-in bookcase that I'm definitely going to have trouble replacing. Just Cabinets, here I come again!
I've been saying this one, too: I am going to miss that, though.
For example:
At the bus stop: I'm going to miss that youngster I've been watching grow up. He's shy and bookish, and right now he's in that awkward, geeky phase boys go through right before they turn into either Adonis or one of the Goth teens--all piercings, black clothes, and eye makeup. Can't tell which way this one's going to go, and I wonder what he'll look like when (if) I see him again.
I am most decidedly not going to miss the creepy guy I call Twitch (only in my head. I'd never call him that to his face. I try not to address him at all, actually). I don't know whether he's OCD or something more serious. He never stands still at the bus stop, does the same series of moves and gestures over and over. He carries on muttered conversations with himself, and (here's the creepy part) pays way too much attention to me. Looks at me a little too long and hard when I walk up to the bus stop. Listens too closely to conversations I'm having. When I stand there reading a book, I can see him out of the corner of my eye cocking his head sideways to read the spine. The few times I've gotten on the bus ahead of him (instead of staying behind him so I can see him), I have to make sure I sit somewhere there isn't room for him to sit beside me. 'Cause given the opportunity, that's what he does--too close, of course. Bye, Twitch. Won't be seein' ya.
Laundry: I'm not going to miss dragging my dirty clothes across the complex to wash them. But I will miss random conversations had while waiting for a dryer to become available.
Utilities: I will miss having my utilities included in my rent. I won't miss sharing a water heater with three other apartments, however. Nor will I miss substandard electrical wiring. The lights dim for a fraction of a second when I turn on the power strip that I use for my computer equipment.
Neighbors: I have a nice upstairs neighbor. Friendly, polite, considerate, quiet. Gonna miss her. I won't miss hearing her every footstep, though.
Animals: I know more of my neighbors' dogs by name than I do the people who own them. Peanut, the cocker spaniel on the other side of the building. Pebbles, the tiny Yorkie next building over. Tucker, who I first met as an 8-week old puppy, now grey around the muzzle and getting decidedly fat. The beagle next door, however, I will feel no nostalgia for. He bays incessantly when his owner's away too long. (Bowwww! Bowwww! Bowwww! All. Night. Long.) I won't miss that.
The joys of renting: I will not miss this cramped little apartment, with its one window, no airflow, no sunlight (unless it bounces in off the snowy hillside at wintertime), tiny kitchen, and weird electrical set up -- the light switch for the kitchen is in the bedroom. Huh? Nor will I miss the maintenance folks who wander in whenever they feel like it, maybe giving you a day's notice if you're lucky. (Note to self. Stash an extra key in desk at work, to guard against locking self out of nice new home that no one else can get into without permission). One thing I will say for my little mouse-hole: it has a nice built-in bookcase that I'm definitely going to have trouble replacing. Just Cabinets, here I come again!
Tuesday, June 03, 2008
Good news and idiot moves
The mortgage originator at the bank I'm using just called to tell me my loan's been approved. Huzzah!
Good thing, too, considering all the packing and planning I'm doing. Not to mention the lease I broke and the insurance I bought. And the table I bought, too. Where the heck would that go otherwise, huh?
I injured myself slightly on Saturday by being stupid. I went to Dick's (a sporting goods chain in the U.S.) to buy an air mattress so my parents have somewhere to sleep when they come help me paint/move in. The box was rather small, and I wasn't expecting it to be quite as heavy as it was. The first attempt at lifting it is what hurt me, though I didn't feel it right away. The next day, my back and my front hurt in about the same place, and anytime I leaned down and to the left my body informed me quite loudly that I should not do that. It still hurts, but not nearly as much. Bending forward is fun, too. 'Cause, well, gravity drags on the ol' shippetaries (as my grandmom used to call her, um, front), and my back shouts, "Hey! What are you doing?"
So basically, if I drop anything right now it has to stay on the floor unless I can pick it up with my toes. Either that or I drop to the ground, crawl over to it, and hold it in my teeth while I climb, crab-like from the right side, back to a standing or sitting position.
The packing routine has altered a little bit because of this. Instead of building the box, packing it, closing it, and stacking it I now build the box, stack it, fill it, and close it. That'll work. Getting things in low places is a bit tricky. I guess they'll have to wait.
Good thing, too, considering all the packing and planning I'm doing. Not to mention the lease I broke and the insurance I bought. And the table I bought, too. Where the heck would that go otherwise, huh?
I injured myself slightly on Saturday by being stupid. I went to Dick's (a sporting goods chain in the U.S.) to buy an air mattress so my parents have somewhere to sleep when they come help me paint/move in. The box was rather small, and I wasn't expecting it to be quite as heavy as it was. The first attempt at lifting it is what hurt me, though I didn't feel it right away. The next day, my back and my front hurt in about the same place, and anytime I leaned down and to the left my body informed me quite loudly that I should not do that. It still hurts, but not nearly as much. Bending forward is fun, too. 'Cause, well, gravity drags on the ol' shippetaries (as my grandmom used to call her, um, front), and my back shouts, "Hey! What are you doing?"
So basically, if I drop anything right now it has to stay on the floor unless I can pick it up with my toes. Either that or I drop to the ground, crawl over to it, and hold it in my teeth while I climb, crab-like from the right side, back to a standing or sitting position.
The packing routine has altered a little bit because of this. Instead of building the box, packing it, closing it, and stacking it I now build the box, stack it, fill it, and close it. That'll work. Getting things in low places is a bit tricky. I guess they'll have to wait.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
All right, it feels real now
Amazing how one action can snap everything into focus.
I went to another furniture store today. This one's called "Just Cabinets," and maybe when they started that's all they had. They've branched out since. They have all sorts of furniture in there. My bus passes by it every morning and evening, and I just today decided to wander in.
Twenty minutes later I bought a table and four chairs. The price I got 'em for is $200 less than the one listed on the website. They're having a "Grand Opening" sale--not for themselves, though. Apparently they throw a party every time a franchise opens up, and one just opened in Maryland somewhere. The set is on clearance (I got the second to last table, and four of the last eight chairs), so that link may eventually stop working. I copied the image to guard against that eventuality.
It wasn't purchasing the table that put things into focus. It was giving the address of where they were to be delivered, and when. That's the first time I've directed anyone or anything to that address. And I'm buying something that I couldn't possibly fit in my existing space, so it must be going in the new one. And since the table is a real object....I must really be buying a house.
Gaaaah! Where's the tape? Where are the markers? What's getting boxed up next?
I went to another furniture store today. This one's called "Just Cabinets," and maybe when they started that's all they had. They've branched out since. They have all sorts of furniture in there. My bus passes by it every morning and evening, and I just today decided to wander in.
Twenty minutes later I bought a table and four chairs. The price I got 'em for is $200 less than the one listed on the website. They're having a "Grand Opening" sale--not for themselves, though. Apparently they throw a party every time a franchise opens up, and one just opened in Maryland somewhere. The set is on clearance (I got the second to last table, and four of the last eight chairs), so that link may eventually stop working. I copied the image to guard against that eventuality.
It wasn't purchasing the table that put things into focus. It was giving the address of where they were to be delivered, and when. That's the first time I've directed anyone or anything to that address. And I'm buying something that I couldn't possibly fit in my existing space, so it must be going in the new one. And since the table is a real object....I must really be buying a house.
Gaaaah! Where's the tape? Where are the markers? What's getting boxed up next?
T minus 27 days and counting...
Not that I'm excited or anything.
No really, I'm not. I'm still having trouble believing this is real. It's all going far too well to be happening to me. I'm half expecting it to fall through.
That's probably the reason why I'm having so much trouble motivating myself to pack. That, and what am I supposed to do with the boxes afterwards? I asked my Mom that and she said, "Put them where the things were that you just packed up." That doesn't quite work when I'm unloading bookcases, though. And another thing: what happens if I pack something now that I need next week?
What I have been doing is wandering around home improvement centers and sections of stores looking at paint chips. I've decided I'm doing the living room in a sandy color called "honey." It's nice and neutral, and I've been finding it as an accent color in all sorts of drapes, upholstery, rugs, etc. One of the smaller bedrooms (which I've designated "the craft room") I'm leaving alone for now. This is the current owners' daughter's room, and it's cute. They painted a bright blue sky on the ceiling with puffy clouds--looks fairly realistic. Then they put little glow-in-the-dark star decals on it, so at night she's looking up at a starry sky. How sweet is that? They did the rest of the room as blue, and I don't see any need to change it.
The other bedroom ("the guest room") I'm painting lilac or lavender. Gonna get all girly in that room--eyelet and violets and what-not. No doilies, though. I draw the line at doilies. I'm going to (eventually) get a cast iron day bed to put in there.
The kitchen's okay too. I have always wanted a strawberry theme to my kitchen, and for years I've been collected and stashing away little strawberry things for my first house. I've been looking for drawer pulls that are strawberries and I found a few. Of course, the ones I really like are $5-$7 a piece. I have 20 handles in the kitchen (I counted them when we went in for the inspection), so it looks like that's going to have to wait for a while.
The room I really, really need to paint is the master bedroom. And of course, that's the room I'm having the most trouble deciding colors for. At present it's somewhere between peach and orange (I've been calling it Tangerine Dream). I own absolutely nothing in that color, and for a very good reason. I don't like orange. At. All. I keep going back and forth about whether it should be a nice restful color like sage green or aqua, or a bright happy color like yellow. Mom suggested when I move in to buy samples of the colors I like and paint a couple of patches on the wall--test 'em out in the various kinds of light I'll have in the room, see which I think I could live with best. I really want to get the painting out of the way before I move in, but I'm thinking I'm going to take her suggestion here.
I've also been prowling around furniture stores looking for the drop-leaf table I have in my head. I'm not finding it. I think I'm going to have to go with my "Plan B" table. I must say, though, that I didn't know we had so many furniture stores in town.
My real estate agent called me last Thursday to let me know she hadn't forgotten about me. I told her the bank I'm getting the mortgage through had (finally) cashed my check for the appraisal. I asked her if that meant they'd started it or that they'd finished it. She said she thought it probably meant they finished it. Usually, she said, you don't hear anything about the appraisal unless they don't think the property is worth what you want them to lend you. She thinks we're in pretty good shape. It's probably worth more than the asking price.
About a week before settlement I have to get the utilities changed over to my name. I need to give my complex manager a gentle nudge about writing up that release. Other than that, there's really nothing left to do on my end. Except pack, of course. Bleah.
No really, I'm not. I'm still having trouble believing this is real. It's all going far too well to be happening to me. I'm half expecting it to fall through.
That's probably the reason why I'm having so much trouble motivating myself to pack. That, and what am I supposed to do with the boxes afterwards? I asked my Mom that and she said, "Put them where the things were that you just packed up." That doesn't quite work when I'm unloading bookcases, though. And another thing: what happens if I pack something now that I need next week?
What I have been doing is wandering around home improvement centers and sections of stores looking at paint chips. I've decided I'm doing the living room in a sandy color called "honey." It's nice and neutral, and I've been finding it as an accent color in all sorts of drapes, upholstery, rugs, etc. One of the smaller bedrooms (which I've designated "the craft room") I'm leaving alone for now. This is the current owners' daughter's room, and it's cute. They painted a bright blue sky on the ceiling with puffy clouds--looks fairly realistic. Then they put little glow-in-the-dark star decals on it, so at night she's looking up at a starry sky. How sweet is that? They did the rest of the room as blue, and I don't see any need to change it.
The other bedroom ("the guest room") I'm painting lilac or lavender. Gonna get all girly in that room--eyelet and violets and what-not. No doilies, though. I draw the line at doilies. I'm going to (eventually) get a cast iron day bed to put in there.
The kitchen's okay too. I have always wanted a strawberry theme to my kitchen, and for years I've been collected and stashing away little strawberry things for my first house. I've been looking for drawer pulls that are strawberries and I found a few. Of course, the ones I really like are $5-$7 a piece. I have 20 handles in the kitchen (I counted them when we went in for the inspection), so it looks like that's going to have to wait for a while.
The room I really, really need to paint is the master bedroom. And of course, that's the room I'm having the most trouble deciding colors for. At present it's somewhere between peach and orange (I've been calling it Tangerine Dream). I own absolutely nothing in that color, and for a very good reason. I don't like orange. At. All. I keep going back and forth about whether it should be a nice restful color like sage green or aqua, or a bright happy color like yellow. Mom suggested when I move in to buy samples of the colors I like and paint a couple of patches on the wall--test 'em out in the various kinds of light I'll have in the room, see which I think I could live with best. I really want to get the painting out of the way before I move in, but I'm thinking I'm going to take her suggestion here.
I've also been prowling around furniture stores looking for the drop-leaf table I have in my head. I'm not finding it. I think I'm going to have to go with my "Plan B" table. I must say, though, that I didn't know we had so many furniture stores in town.
My real estate agent called me last Thursday to let me know she hadn't forgotten about me. I told her the bank I'm getting the mortgage through had (finally) cashed my check for the appraisal. I asked her if that meant they'd started it or that they'd finished it. She said she thought it probably meant they finished it. Usually, she said, you don't hear anything about the appraisal unless they don't think the property is worth what you want them to lend you. She thinks we're in pretty good shape. It's probably worth more than the asking price.
About a week before settlement I have to get the utilities changed over to my name. I need to give my complex manager a gentle nudge about writing up that release. Other than that, there's really nothing left to do on my end. Except pack, of course. Bleah.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
(Ladies, insert your Dad here.)
Overheard in the café attached to the grocery store where I was last evening:
Man on cell phone: "I'm in a grocery store in [location] Pennsylvania. Yep."
[pause]
"Well, I have to go to all sorts of strange places to earn money for your tuition and rent, and to take you and your Mom to fancy-schmancy meals like the one yesterday. What did you think of that place, huh?"
[pause]
"Yeah, me too. You know, the chef doesn't normally come out and talk to diners like that. Only special guests."
[pause]
"Well, anyway, keep up the good work at school. Your mom and I are proud of you."
[pause]
"Okay, love you too. Um. Honey? One more thing. That dress your wore yesterday? Uhm.... I... think you need to wear leggings with it or something. It... well, it looked more like a blouse than a dress. Nearly gave me a heart attack. Okay?"
Funny how the clothes men stare at in appreciation on strangers will make them uncomfortable when worn by their own daughters.
Man on cell phone: "I'm in a grocery store in [location] Pennsylvania. Yep."
[pause]
"Well, I have to go to all sorts of strange places to earn money for your tuition and rent, and to take you and your Mom to fancy-schmancy meals like the one yesterday. What did you think of that place, huh?"
[pause]
"Yeah, me too. You know, the chef doesn't normally come out and talk to diners like that. Only special guests."
[pause]
"Well, anyway, keep up the good work at school. Your mom and I are proud of you."
[pause]
"Okay, love you too. Um. Honey? One more thing. That dress your wore yesterday? Uhm.... I... think you need to wear leggings with it or something. It... well, it looked more like a blouse than a dress. Nearly gave me a heart attack. Okay?"
Funny how the clothes men stare at in appreciation on strangers will make them uncomfortable when worn by their own daughters.
Wednesday, May 07, 2008
One weekend wasted
Last Wednesday evening while packing and doing laundry I got all sniffly-sneezy. I assumed I'd got a noseful of dust or something. By Thursday night I had that dry, thirsty feeling I have right before I get a beaut of a sore throat. Friday, sore throat, cough, and congestion. Still thinking it's allergies, I went to work. I mentioned my symptoms to a co-worker who gave me a meaningful look and said,
"That sounds exactly like the creeping crud I had last weekend."
Uh-oh.
I'd already arranged to take Friday afternoon off, ostensibly to chase down the complex manager. By the time Friday rolled around, though, I'd already managed to bump into him, explain my situation, and get let out of my lease.* I was going to use the afternoon to pack instead but by noon I was feeling horrible. Glad I decided to take the afternoon off, because I spent most of it asleep. Was completely useless all Saturday--achy, weak, sleepy, and sweating out a fever. Whatever this is was just about done with me by Sunday. I felt good enough that afternoon to go out to a furniture store to look at dining-room tables (it was mainly just to get out of the apartment). Didn't see anything that wowed me, but there were a couple of nice looking ones.
What I really want is a drop-leaf table like my grandparents had. The thing looked tiny when the leaves were down, but once you folded it out you could fit 12 people around it, at least. If I can't find one of those, there's a "farm table" set at this place that would suit me.
So anyway, I did a little bit of packing Sunday night, a little bit Monday, and a very little last night, but for the most part my apartment still looks like a hurricane hit, followed by an explosion at a box factory. I have a lingering cough, though nothing nearly like what I had. I don't think this is going to turn into a sinus infection and bronchitis (knock wood), 'cause I'm not all wheezy. There's that silver lining.
*Still waiting on the paperwork for that one. Must remind myself to send him a little email if I don't get anything by Friday.
"That sounds exactly like the creeping crud I had last weekend."
Uh-oh.
I'd already arranged to take Friday afternoon off, ostensibly to chase down the complex manager. By the time Friday rolled around, though, I'd already managed to bump into him, explain my situation, and get let out of my lease.* I was going to use the afternoon to pack instead but by noon I was feeling horrible. Glad I decided to take the afternoon off, because I spent most of it asleep. Was completely useless all Saturday--achy, weak, sleepy, and sweating out a fever. Whatever this is was just about done with me by Sunday. I felt good enough that afternoon to go out to a furniture store to look at dining-room tables (it was mainly just to get out of the apartment). Didn't see anything that wowed me, but there were a couple of nice looking ones.
What I really want is a drop-leaf table like my grandparents had. The thing looked tiny when the leaves were down, but once you folded it out you could fit 12 people around it, at least. If I can't find one of those, there's a "farm table" set at this place that would suit me.
So anyway, I did a little bit of packing Sunday night, a little bit Monday, and a very little last night, but for the most part my apartment still looks like a hurricane hit, followed by an explosion at a box factory. I have a lingering cough, though nothing nearly like what I had. I don't think this is going to turn into a sinus infection and bronchitis (knock wood), 'cause I'm not all wheezy. There's that silver lining.
*Still waiting on the paperwork for that one. Must remind myself to send him a little email if I don't get anything by Friday.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Mission: Inspection
I have the morning off of work so that I may accompany the inspectors around my prospective new abode. There are two of them: one for pests and one for structure and systems. The pest inspector looks around, points out the wood surrounding the landscaping out front and suggests I get that replaced with brick or stone or pavers or something. Wood, even pressure-treated wood, starts to rot when it's in direct contact with the ground, and then it could become home for termites and other bugs. He also points out the drainpipe and where its dumping-off place is--right against the house. He suggests I get some sort of extension to add to the end of it so that rainwater doesn't compromise the foundation. He checks the inside of the house while I follow in the wake of the other inspector. My real estate agent is behind us both, making notes (as am I, by the way).
The inspector points out the missing doorknob of the storage unit. I'd already made a mental note of this the last time I saw the place. He says to watch the area of the patio around the entrance for the sliding glass door. It's a skim of concrete that looks like it was added after the door was in place -- there to keep the rain from getting in. He said silicone sealer will sort that out. He also shows me how to keep the dryer vent clear of lint (there's a ton of it in there and he removes it. Their dryer is going to work much better this evening than it has for a while. I wonder if they'll notice). Apparently that's a fire hazard. He says his son (a boy scout) uses lint from the dryer to start his campfires. Yikes. Will definitely be on the look-out for that.
On the inside: All clear, pest-wise. One breaker on the electrical panel needs to be replaced. The "test" breaker, the one that's supposed to shut everything off, doesn't work at all. He told me to expect to be replacing the thermostats at some point--the heating system is of indeterminate age and when it has problems it's usually the thermostats that die. He also suggested that I change the smoke detectors. They aren't meant to last forever, and should be replaced more regularly than most people do. As to water, one of the valves on the water heater has a slight leak.
Structurally, things are fine. I ask a few questions about things I'd noticed--mainly cracks in the paint. They're nothing structural, just drywall tape that's pulled away. They can be fixed with some spackle. The attic is dry, ventilated, insulated--all things you want in your attic.
And that's about it. It looks like repairs are going to be under $500, which is the magic number I gave in the contract for what I wouldn't quibble about. It's up to the people giving me the loan whether they want these things fixed before they give me the money or not. I may just have to give them receipts to prove that I had it done within a certain time period of moving in (30-60 days, maybe?).
Now it's time to tell the Invisible Complex Manager that I've bought a house and need to be let out of that addendum I signed last month. I wonder if I'll have to find someone to take over the lease, or if he'll just let me go. I've asked other people who've lived there a while (and some who moved out after buying houses mid-lease), and consensus is that he'll be okay with just letting me go. We'll see. I need to clean a little more before I tell him. I figure once I do tell him there will be people traipsing in and out until it's leased, and I'd feel a little easier in my mind if it's relatively tidy. Though how tidy can you be with a ton of boxes around the place, anyway?
Added later: I forgot the best part! As we're standing outside and he whips out his PDA to start note-taking he says, "Why does this place look familiar?"
He did the inspection on it 3 1/2 years ago when the current owners bought it.
The inspector points out the missing doorknob of the storage unit. I'd already made a mental note of this the last time I saw the place. He says to watch the area of the patio around the entrance for the sliding glass door. It's a skim of concrete that looks like it was added after the door was in place -- there to keep the rain from getting in. He said silicone sealer will sort that out. He also shows me how to keep the dryer vent clear of lint (there's a ton of it in there and he removes it. Their dryer is going to work much better this evening than it has for a while. I wonder if they'll notice). Apparently that's a fire hazard. He says his son (a boy scout) uses lint from the dryer to start his campfires. Yikes. Will definitely be on the look-out for that.
On the inside: All clear, pest-wise. One breaker on the electrical panel needs to be replaced. The "test" breaker, the one that's supposed to shut everything off, doesn't work at all. He told me to expect to be replacing the thermostats at some point--the heating system is of indeterminate age and when it has problems it's usually the thermostats that die. He also suggested that I change the smoke detectors. They aren't meant to last forever, and should be replaced more regularly than most people do. As to water, one of the valves on the water heater has a slight leak.
Structurally, things are fine. I ask a few questions about things I'd noticed--mainly cracks in the paint. They're nothing structural, just drywall tape that's pulled away. They can be fixed with some spackle. The attic is dry, ventilated, insulated--all things you want in your attic.
And that's about it. It looks like repairs are going to be under $500, which is the magic number I gave in the contract for what I wouldn't quibble about. It's up to the people giving me the loan whether they want these things fixed before they give me the money or not. I may just have to give them receipts to prove that I had it done within a certain time period of moving in (30-60 days, maybe?).
Now it's time to tell the Invisible Complex Manager that I've bought a house and need to be let out of that addendum I signed last month. I wonder if I'll have to find someone to take over the lease, or if he'll just let me go. I've asked other people who've lived there a while (and some who moved out after buying houses mid-lease), and consensus is that he'll be okay with just letting me go. We'll see. I need to clean a little more before I tell him. I figure once I do tell him there will be people traipsing in and out until it's leased, and I'd feel a little easier in my mind if it's relatively tidy. Though how tidy can you be with a ton of boxes around the place, anyway?
Added later: I forgot the best part! As we're standing outside and he whips out his PDA to start note-taking he says, "Why does this place look familiar?"
He did the inspection on it 3 1/2 years ago when the current owners bought it.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
My own little rollercoaster ride
I have a new fad diet. It's called the "Homebuyer Diet." Your stomach is in knots, so you definitely don't feel hungry. You get all kinds of energy from nerves and worry. I've lost five pounds in less than a week.
I've also been waking up with a jolt at four o'clock every [bleep]ing morning since Friday. Never the same reason but always the same result.
So here's what's been going on, as reconstructed from the emails I've been bombarding my sister and Mom with for days:
Saturday: My realtor tells me she couldn't get hold of the originator at the credit union, and she's not sure whether the townhouse is going to qualify for the FHA program. Something about its being part of an association and also about not knowing the tenant to live-in owner ratio. If it's mostly tenants I think property values go down. Also the FHA wants to make sure I'm buying this to live in, not to rent out. Fair enough. Anything I can sign to avow that's what I'm doing? She doesn't know, that's why we need the lady at the credit union. Apparently she's their FHA expert. We'll talk to her Monday.
Sunday: Fret, worry, try to put it out of my mind, and go shake my fanny at belly dance class. I'm okay until bedtime, when the same thoughts chase each other around and around in my head as the cat purrs on my chest.
Monday: My agent has received the numbers she needed, and they're not very good: 33 units, 19 tenanted, 14 with owner in residence. That's 58% tenant. I look it up online and find that anything over 10% is considered a risk. More bad news: the originator is going to be out of the office all day. No news 'til Tuesday.
Today: Originator is going to be out of the office until Thursday, for crying out loud. My agent calls the other one and says she can't wait until Thursday, could he please learn a bit more about the FHA today? He does, the FHA won't finance this townhouse. Crap. The PHFA will, though (that's Pennsylvania's version of the same program). My credit union doesn't do PHFA loans, though. Double crap. My realtor is on really good terms with someone at another bank, contacts her (after asking me if it was okay. I said, sure, go for it). She works the numbers out and also finds me a funky little loan from my county designed to help out with down payment and closing costs. It's a second mortgage, interest-free, and I don't have to pay it off until I either sell the house or refinance it. She asks for (and receives) a bunch of financial information from me to see if I qualify. I do, just barely.
After that, things start rocketing forward again. At four o'clock precisely (by the Big Ben chimes from the clock on campus) I have a completely executed contract in my hands, and some time during the next fifteen days I need to get the place inspected. I'm meeting with the mortgage originator at the new bank (just up the street from my credit union) on Friday. I am to bring with me a sheaf of papers, financial documents, and various pieces of proof that I do actually exist, live in this county, work, that the numbers I gave her today were accurate, and that I have good credit.
Good lord this has been an education. So far everyone I've dealt with has been eager to help me get me into a place of my own. My real estate agent has been wonderful, and never for a moment did I think she was working for anything other than my best interests. For example: the "dream" townhouse--the one that I knew was out of my league but was still tantalizingly just inside the range I'd been okayed for by the credit union--I'd looked at it wistfully from the driveway as we were pulling away. J. said, pleadingly, "Vee, I don't want you to be house-poor." That stuck with me. That told me more than anything whose side she was on, and that I could trust her. She'd have made a much better commission on that one than she's making on this one, but this one is a better fit for me and that's what is motivating her. I think she's as excited about this as I am.
My sister has said that first-time home buyers are her favorite clients. The excitement is infectious. I believe it.
Looks like another sleepless night, but for a good reason this time. Definitely time to start packing.
I've also been waking up with a jolt at four o'clock every [bleep]ing morning since Friday. Never the same reason but always the same result.
So here's what's been going on, as reconstructed from the emails I've been bombarding my sister and Mom with for days:
Saturday: My realtor tells me she couldn't get hold of the originator at the credit union, and she's not sure whether the townhouse is going to qualify for the FHA program. Something about its being part of an association and also about not knowing the tenant to live-in owner ratio. If it's mostly tenants I think property values go down. Also the FHA wants to make sure I'm buying this to live in, not to rent out. Fair enough. Anything I can sign to avow that's what I'm doing? She doesn't know, that's why we need the lady at the credit union. Apparently she's their FHA expert. We'll talk to her Monday.
Sunday: Fret, worry, try to put it out of my mind, and go shake my fanny at belly dance class. I'm okay until bedtime, when the same thoughts chase each other around and around in my head as the cat purrs on my chest.
Monday: My agent has received the numbers she needed, and they're not very good: 33 units, 19 tenanted, 14 with owner in residence. That's 58% tenant. I look it up online and find that anything over 10% is considered a risk. More bad news: the originator is going to be out of the office all day. No news 'til Tuesday.
Today: Originator is going to be out of the office until Thursday, for crying out loud. My agent calls the other one and says she can't wait until Thursday, could he please learn a bit more about the FHA today? He does, the FHA won't finance this townhouse. Crap. The PHFA will, though (that's Pennsylvania's version of the same program). My credit union doesn't do PHFA loans, though. Double crap. My realtor is on really good terms with someone at another bank, contacts her (after asking me if it was okay. I said, sure, go for it). She works the numbers out and also finds me a funky little loan from my county designed to help out with down payment and closing costs. It's a second mortgage, interest-free, and I don't have to pay it off until I either sell the house or refinance it. She asks for (and receives) a bunch of financial information from me to see if I qualify. I do, just barely.
After that, things start rocketing forward again. At four o'clock precisely (by the Big Ben chimes from the clock on campus) I have a completely executed contract in my hands, and some time during the next fifteen days I need to get the place inspected. I'm meeting with the mortgage originator at the new bank (just up the street from my credit union) on Friday. I am to bring with me a sheaf of papers, financial documents, and various pieces of proof that I do actually exist, live in this county, work, that the numbers I gave her today were accurate, and that I have good credit.
Good lord this has been an education. So far everyone I've dealt with has been eager to help me get me into a place of my own. My real estate agent has been wonderful, and never for a moment did I think she was working for anything other than my best interests. For example: the "dream" townhouse--the one that I knew was out of my league but was still tantalizingly just inside the range I'd been okayed for by the credit union--I'd looked at it wistfully from the driveway as we were pulling away. J. said, pleadingly, "Vee, I don't want you to be house-poor." That stuck with me. That told me more than anything whose side she was on, and that I could trust her. She'd have made a much better commission on that one than she's making on this one, but this one is a better fit for me and that's what is motivating her. I think she's as excited about this as I am.
My sister has said that first-time home buyers are her favorite clients. The excitement is infectious. I believe it.
Looks like another sleepless night, but for a good reason this time. Definitely time to start packing.
Monkeymonkey!
I thought I'd take a break from the whole "Confessions of a First-Time Homebuyer" thang and tell you all a little story I squirreled away in the back of my mind as blog post fodder. It surfaced this morning as I dropped my breakfast toast and it landed on the floor peanut butter side down. As it hit I shouted, "Monkeymonkey!"
Stretch, my sister's husband, grew up in a duplex in Philadelphia. The other half of the duplex was occupied by people who became fast friends with his family, especially Stretch and the neighbor's son. When they eventually got married they were in each other's wedding parties. Ditter and Friend's Missus have become really good friends as well.
One by one, first the Friends, the Friend's parents, and then Ditter and Stretch and Stretch's parents moved into the same development in Lancaster County, Pa. Ditter lives across the street and two doors down from the Friends, and the Friends Sr. live down the street the other way and around a corner. Stretch jokes that they should petition to get the street renamed to the one they all left.
The Friends had a baby two years ago, a sweet, precocious little girl they named Michaela. One of Michaela's favorite activities is riding on the vacuum cleaner. Friend will push it around on the floor while she stands on the front, hanging on to the handle. Here's the thing: these rides never occur while the machine is actually being used to sweep the floor. It has never been running while she was in the room. In her mind this object is nothing but a toy.
So one day, Friend decides he needs to sweep the floor. He drags the vacuum out of the closet, turns around and plugs it in. Michaela sees her hobbyhorse is out and she clambers onto it. Friend turns the machine on. It roars to life, Michaela leaps off of it and runs across the room. Friend turns the vacuum off to see if she's okay.
She is furious, red-faced, her hands balled up into fists.
"Monkeymonkey!" she shouts at Friend.
Proof that even as early as two the impulse to swear is in there somewhere.
Friend's Missus told Ditter that story, and when we visited them last Christmas, Ditter relayed it to us. "Monkeymonkey" has been adopted by us as a substitute swear word.
Stretch, my sister's husband, grew up in a duplex in Philadelphia. The other half of the duplex was occupied by people who became fast friends with his family, especially Stretch and the neighbor's son. When they eventually got married they were in each other's wedding parties. Ditter and Friend's Missus have become really good friends as well.
One by one, first the Friends, the Friend's parents, and then Ditter and Stretch and Stretch's parents moved into the same development in Lancaster County, Pa. Ditter lives across the street and two doors down from the Friends, and the Friends Sr. live down the street the other way and around a corner. Stretch jokes that they should petition to get the street renamed to the one they all left.
The Friends had a baby two years ago, a sweet, precocious little girl they named Michaela. One of Michaela's favorite activities is riding on the vacuum cleaner. Friend will push it around on the floor while she stands on the front, hanging on to the handle. Here's the thing: these rides never occur while the machine is actually being used to sweep the floor. It has never been running while she was in the room. In her mind this object is nothing but a toy.
So one day, Friend decides he needs to sweep the floor. He drags the vacuum out of the closet, turns around and plugs it in. Michaela sees her hobbyhorse is out and she clambers onto it. Friend turns the machine on. It roars to life, Michaela leaps off of it and runs across the room. Friend turns the vacuum off to see if she's okay.
She is furious, red-faced, her hands balled up into fists.
"Monkeymonkey!" she shouts at Friend.
Proof that even as early as two the impulse to swear is in there somewhere.
Friend's Missus told Ditter that story, and when we visited them last Christmas, Ditter relayed it to us. "Monkeymonkey" has been adopted by us as a substitute swear word.
Friday, April 18, 2008
So I made an offer...
...which was definitely more of a shot across the bow than something I expected they'd take. They're meeting with their agent in about 15 minutes, and they'll probably give me a counter offer.
And I'll probably accept it. I was ready to give them the full asking price with no help on closing costs, so anything they offer as an alternative is great. If they say "Nope, what we listed is what we want," I have no problem with that. It's worth it.
I had a brief freak-out going through the covenants for this townhouse after I came across this rule:
"No animals, livestock, fowl or poultry of any kind shall be raised, bred, or kept in any Unit or in the Common Elements unless otherwise provided by Rules and Regulations promulgated by the Executive Board."
That sounded an awful lot like "No Pets" to me. If this place won't let me bring Lolly with me, they can keep it. Also, even if they just allow cats, my sister and her hubby have a yellow lab that they take on trips with them, and my parents have a little German Spitz that my dad loves beyond all reason. They would never go anywhere for any length of time without her. They already tried a dog-sitter and that experiment failed. She bullied the sitter's dog something awful.
I fired off an email to my realtor about that last night. She called me this morning. Apparently this is a standard rule that they use to keep people from becoming chicken farmers or puppy mills in the units. Pets are fine. I sounded a bit uncertain of that, so she found the phone number for the managing company and called them. Pets are not a problem. She made sure about dogs, too. They need to be kept on a leash when they're outside, and cleaned-up after when they relieve themselves, that's all.
I can't wait to see Dad's face the first time he tells me he's going to take Pip for a walk and I hand him a couple of little plastic baggies.
---
Added later:
The offer they countered with was the one my agent and I had decided would be our third offer. I took it. Now she double-checks with my credit union to make sure of my financing. I go in tomorrow sometime to initial the changes made to the contract.
They didn't say anything about wanting more earnest money either.
Holy cow, I think I'm almost a home-owner!
And I'll probably accept it. I was ready to give them the full asking price with no help on closing costs, so anything they offer as an alternative is great. If they say "Nope, what we listed is what we want," I have no problem with that. It's worth it.
I had a brief freak-out going through the covenants for this townhouse after I came across this rule:
"No animals, livestock, fowl or poultry of any kind shall be raised, bred, or kept in any Unit or in the Common Elements unless otherwise provided by Rules and Regulations promulgated by the Executive Board."
That sounded an awful lot like "No Pets" to me. If this place won't let me bring Lolly with me, they can keep it. Also, even if they just allow cats, my sister and her hubby have a yellow lab that they take on trips with them, and my parents have a little German Spitz that my dad loves beyond all reason. They would never go anywhere for any length of time without her. They already tried a dog-sitter and that experiment failed. She bullied the sitter's dog something awful.
I fired off an email to my realtor about that last night. She called me this morning. Apparently this is a standard rule that they use to keep people from becoming chicken farmers or puppy mills in the units. Pets are fine. I sounded a bit uncertain of that, so she found the phone number for the managing company and called them. Pets are not a problem. She made sure about dogs, too. They need to be kept on a leash when they're outside, and cleaned-up after when they relieve themselves, that's all.
I can't wait to see Dad's face the first time he tells me he's going to take Pip for a walk and I hand him a couple of little plastic baggies.
---
Added later:
The offer they countered with was the one my agent and I had decided would be our third offer. I took it. Now she double-checks with my credit union to make sure of my financing. I go in tomorrow sometime to initial the changes made to the contract.
They didn't say anything about wanting more earnest money either.
Holy cow, I think I'm almost a home-owner!
Thursday, April 17, 2008
And again I say, whoosh!
Saw 10 places this morning. Liked 5 of them. One is way out of my league (sigh...), so I didn't even have my agent look for more information on that one. The other four, though, she has done. We're making second visits this afternoon starting at 3:45, and I think by tonight I may have chosen the one I want to try for.
Squeeeeee!
Am I really doing this? [Pinches self] Ow! Nope, not dreaming. I am really doing this.
Squeeeeee!
Am I really doing this? [Pinches self] Ow! Nope, not dreaming. I am really doing this.
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Whoosh!
Things are moving very quickly right now.
Tuesday I got a Good Faith Estimate.
Wednesday I bought a pretty little 50¢ notebook from Michael's art supply store, walked up the parking lot to the other branch of my credit union, and met with the mortgage originator. She went through the GFE line by line, stopping while I took copious notes (she gets a lot of that, I'm sure). The number that stunned me so much turned out to be a worst-case scenario sort of estimate (highest taxes, highest insurance, 25 days' worth of interest to pay up front...), and included the down payment in it. That made it much more manageable.
After a few moments' hesitation, I flung myself into the gap and said, "All right, let's see if I can get approved."
I did, for exactly the amount she had projected. It seems like an awful lot of money to me, and I'm amazed that someone is willing to trust me with it. Apparently I have excellent credit. I'd assumed it was pretty good. After I finally paid off my student loans, I noticed a steady increase in the number of "You're Pre-Approved!" credit card applications in my mail.
I told my sister to go ahead and refer a realtor for me. I later found out that this means she'll get a piece of the commission. Might as well keep the money in the family, right?
Thursday I got contacted by J., and I told her what I want: a little townhouse on a bus route.
Friday she sent me 18 listings either on or near a bus route, all in my price range. A couple of 'em are more towards the top end...but there you are.
Saturday I did something totally unrelated with the Chief Loon over in Bellefonte. Research and picture-taking for an event the Loons are putting together for this spring or summer.
I've spent this afternoon using mapquest and the area transit authority's web site to see a) where these houses are; b) what routes are nearby; and c) how nearby is "nearby?"
All right, I admit it. I'm a question mark.
Occasionally I catch myself saying things like, "Oooooh, it has a basement!" I don't need a basement. I've looked around my apartment and I realize that once I get myself into a 2- or possibly 3-bedroom townhouse with all my stuff, I'm going to rattle around the place like a seed in a gourd.
To answer some of the comments to the previous post: G., sorry, but I think I'm going to do exactly what your daughter did. I've been in the area for approximately 20 years. I think it's safe to say I'm staying. If I want to move, I'll sell the house. I know there's a lot of maintenance involved with owning a home (been watching my parents for years), but I think I can handle it. I figured it out yesterday and my conservative estimate is that over the past 15 1/2 years I've spent a little over $75,000 on rent, and I have nothing to show for it but a dingy little apartment and a growing sense of irritation at the way the place is managed. I've hit the point in my life where I want to have something after I've paid for it.
JustMe, Sunny is a blast. It's not her real name (no one mentioned on this blog has their real name used) but it should be. I'm pretty sure that little blue place has been snapped up. It's not in my list from the realtor. There are a bunch of places over on that end of town though, so we could still be doing the YMCA/bingo thing. Most of these places look like I'll still be right smack up against my neighbors, but that doesn't bother me. Hearing people overhead bothers me. Place I'm in now, the floorboards squeak something awful. You can hear every step, all the time. Ugh. I didn't care about that when I moved in. I just wanted somewhere to live.
Hey Ditter! Does the hubby know you just enlisted him as mover/painter? 'Cause I may just take you up on that.
This coming Thursday I have the day off from work. I'm using that time to meet with J., talk about these listings she sent me, and probably go see some of 'em.
I'm beginning to feel like I should start packing...time to hoard boxes from work.
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
I've officially stuck a toe into the water
Eeeeee!
I just called my credit union and left a message with one of their mortgage originators (must be her lunch hour) about what I want to do. I left my cubicle's phone number instead of my cell, 'cause reception is bad in here. Well, what do I expect? Middle of the room under four floors' worth of books, do I think I'm gonna be able to call out? The Verizon "can-you-hear-me-now" dude needs to come scout around in here.
Reactions to what I'm trying to do have been mixed: my mother is so excited I can hear her bouncing up and down in her seat right now. I had to let a teensy bit of the air out her balloon by reminding her that sometimes I can be all talk.
"Look how long it took me to learn how to drive," I pointed out, via email.
"Drive?" She wrote back. "When did you learn how to drive? Have you been holding out on me?"
"No, Mom. That was my point."
Bess (at work) thinks it's great. Nothing like owning your own place, she says.
Jane (another friend of mine, making her first appearance in my blog. Under an assumed name, of course) on the other hand was a total wet blanket. Went to dinner with her last week and the very first words out of her mouth when I mentioned my plans were negative. She was all about how expensive housing is around here, and how much money home ownership costs in general. Didn't have one word of encouragement. I had to bite back my initial response (I tend to do that a lot with her. Maybe someday I should just let her have it), which was something along the lines of "You're just jealous because I'm taking steps to change my situation, and you're scared that I might succeed." She seems happiest when someone nearby fails. I don't know why that is. I don't know why I continue to hang out with her, actually.
At the other end of the spectrum, we have Sunny. I bumped into her in the grocery store yesterday evening. We used to work in the same department, but her tolerance for BS is much, much, much lower than mine, so Sunny found work elsewhere years ago. I haven't seen her in ages.
I told her what was up with me lately and she got all excited.
"There is the cutest little townhouse for sale near me. It looks out over a cornfield. It's near a bus route...and the YMCA...you have to see it!"
She started to describe where it was, and then said,
"Are you busy right now? I'll take you over!"
-We interrupt this blog entry for an important (to me) bulletin-
Just heard back from the woman I called. She took some info over the phone (I thought we'd have to meet or something), is going to run some numbers and email me a "good faith" estimate later on today. Oooohhh! My little heart is going pitty-pat.
-We now return you to your regularly scheduled entry-
So we get into Sunny's car, which she's apologizing for and making excuses about:
"It's filthy. I'm sorry." (Looked fine to me) "That mark on the inside of the door is from where my son spilled hot chocolate yesterday." (Hadn't noticed it 'til she pointed it out). "The smell of death in here is from my stinky feet." (Oh, Sunny, honestly. What are you talking about?). All the way over she's telling me about the horrible job she just left, one that made her look back fondly to the one in my old department. Good lord, she must be joking.
"No, seriously, Vee. These women were Evil." Then she goes into detail and by the time she's done, I have to say that I agree with her. Now she's working for another organization that she likes much better, where they actually praise her for doing good work and don't hold past mistakes against her.
Then suddenly we're in her neighborhood. She drives around a bit. I see a lot of townhouses for sale in the area, but none of them are the one she means. Sunny's pointing out all sorts of things to me:
"See, there's a bus stop...okay, it's not right on the route, but it's close. And there's the YMCA, within walking distance...we could go work out together! And down there..." she points. I can't see anything. "...is the Knights of Columbus, where they have bingo every Friday night."
Then we find it. It is cute. Little. Blue. It's on the end of the row, which means there's a really nice window and no neighbors on the left. Perfect little starter home. And yep, there's a corn field across the street. Or at least, there is right now. Give it a few years and some developer will probably turn it into student housing or single-family dwellings packed in so tightly that when the resident of one house sneezes someone from next door will be able to hand in a tissue from the open window without leaving his own living room.
She decides we need to stop and take a look--and confesses (but I knew this) that she's doing a little living vicariously through me, because she doesn't think she'll ever be able to live in anything but a rental. We pull up in the parking lot outside, and she gets out of the car -- I don't 'cause I'm bit more shy. What if the owner's home? What do we say? "Hi, we saw your for sale sign, thought we'd peek through your windows"?
She comes skipping happily back to the car.
"I think I know your neighbors. That is, unless those two pug dogs in the window aren't who I think they are."
"Sunny! Sweetie, you've got me all moved in and I don't even have a mortgage approved yet."
"Ah, psh!" She waves this way. "Details!"
Then she drives me home. On the way I tell her about Jane's discouragement, and she says one word: "Frenemy."
"Pardon?"
"Frenemy. Acts like she's your friend but is really an enemy. All she does is chip away at your joy. Happy when you fail, though she does her best not to show it. Happier still when she can keep you from trying to succeed. Frenemy."
Frenemy.
I have a new word.
--Added later: Got the Good Faith Estimate. Need to talk to the mortgage originator about it, as I have no idea whatsoever what any of it means. Right now it looks like closing costs are twice as much as what I'd need for a down payment. In a fret, I emailed my sister asking her to talk sense to me and bring me in off the ledge. She has done that, but I need to speak to this woman. In the meantime I'm playing around online looking at houses. Can't find a listing for the one I saw yesterday, though I am pretty sure I was on the website of the right agency.
I just called my credit union and left a message with one of their mortgage originators (must be her lunch hour) about what I want to do. I left my cubicle's phone number instead of my cell, 'cause reception is bad in here. Well, what do I expect? Middle of the room under four floors' worth of books, do I think I'm gonna be able to call out? The Verizon "can-you-hear-me-now" dude needs to come scout around in here.
Reactions to what I'm trying to do have been mixed: my mother is so excited I can hear her bouncing up and down in her seat right now. I had to let a teensy bit of the air out her balloon by reminding her that sometimes I can be all talk.
"Look how long it took me to learn how to drive," I pointed out, via email.
"Drive?" She wrote back. "When did you learn how to drive? Have you been holding out on me?"
"No, Mom. That was my point."
Bess (at work) thinks it's great. Nothing like owning your own place, she says.
Jane (another friend of mine, making her first appearance in my blog. Under an assumed name, of course) on the other hand was a total wet blanket. Went to dinner with her last week and the very first words out of her mouth when I mentioned my plans were negative. She was all about how expensive housing is around here, and how much money home ownership costs in general. Didn't have one word of encouragement. I had to bite back my initial response (I tend to do that a lot with her. Maybe someday I should just let her have it), which was something along the lines of "You're just jealous because I'm taking steps to change my situation, and you're scared that I might succeed." She seems happiest when someone nearby fails. I don't know why that is. I don't know why I continue to hang out with her, actually.
At the other end of the spectrum, we have Sunny. I bumped into her in the grocery store yesterday evening. We used to work in the same department, but her tolerance for BS is much, much, much lower than mine, so Sunny found work elsewhere years ago. I haven't seen her in ages.
I told her what was up with me lately and she got all excited.
"There is the cutest little townhouse for sale near me. It looks out over a cornfield. It's near a bus route...and the YMCA...you have to see it!"
She started to describe where it was, and then said,
"Are you busy right now? I'll take you over!"
-We interrupt this blog entry for an important (to me) bulletin-
Just heard back from the woman I called. She took some info over the phone (I thought we'd have to meet or something), is going to run some numbers and email me a "good faith" estimate later on today. Oooohhh! My little heart is going pitty-pat.
-We now return you to your regularly scheduled entry-
So we get into Sunny's car, which she's apologizing for and making excuses about:
"It's filthy. I'm sorry." (Looked fine to me) "That mark on the inside of the door is from where my son spilled hot chocolate yesterday." (Hadn't noticed it 'til she pointed it out). "The smell of death in here is from my stinky feet." (Oh, Sunny, honestly. What are you talking about?). All the way over she's telling me about the horrible job she just left, one that made her look back fondly to the one in my old department. Good lord, she must be joking.
"No, seriously, Vee. These women were Evil." Then she goes into detail and by the time she's done, I have to say that I agree with her. Now she's working for another organization that she likes much better, where they actually praise her for doing good work and don't hold past mistakes against her.
Then suddenly we're in her neighborhood. She drives around a bit. I see a lot of townhouses for sale in the area, but none of them are the one she means. Sunny's pointing out all sorts of things to me:
"See, there's a bus stop...okay, it's not right on the route, but it's close. And there's the YMCA, within walking distance...we could go work out together! And down there..." she points. I can't see anything. "...is the Knights of Columbus, where they have bingo every Friday night."
Then we find it. It is cute. Little. Blue. It's on the end of the row, which means there's a really nice window and no neighbors on the left. Perfect little starter home. And yep, there's a corn field across the street. Or at least, there is right now. Give it a few years and some developer will probably turn it into student housing or single-family dwellings packed in so tightly that when the resident of one house sneezes someone from next door will be able to hand in a tissue from the open window without leaving his own living room.
She decides we need to stop and take a look--and confesses (but I knew this) that she's doing a little living vicariously through me, because she doesn't think she'll ever be able to live in anything but a rental. We pull up in the parking lot outside, and she gets out of the car -- I don't 'cause I'm bit more shy. What if the owner's home? What do we say? "Hi, we saw your for sale sign, thought we'd peek through your windows"?
She comes skipping happily back to the car.
"I think I know your neighbors. That is, unless those two pug dogs in the window aren't who I think they are."
"Sunny! Sweetie, you've got me all moved in and I don't even have a mortgage approved yet."
"Ah, psh!" She waves this way. "Details!"
Then she drives me home. On the way I tell her about Jane's discouragement, and she says one word: "Frenemy."
"Pardon?"
"Frenemy. Acts like she's your friend but is really an enemy. All she does is chip away at your joy. Happy when you fail, though she does her best not to show it. Happier still when she can keep you from trying to succeed. Frenemy."
Frenemy.
I have a new word.
--Added later: Got the Good Faith Estimate. Need to talk to the mortgage originator about it, as I have no idea whatsoever what any of it means. Right now it looks like closing costs are twice as much as what I'd need for a down payment. In a fret, I emailed my sister asking her to talk sense to me and bring me in off the ledge. She has done that, but I need to speak to this woman. In the meantime I'm playing around online looking at houses. Can't find a listing for the one I saw yesterday, though I am pretty sure I was on the website of the right agency.
More on the "Punctuation Mark" assessment test from yesterday
I suppose the quibble I have with the way they described me is that while I do research the heck out of stuff, it isn't usually for myself. If someone else has a question, I go after the answer like a terrier after a rat. But me? I don't have many questions these days.
I love learning but I can't stand School. The thing I disliked most about college was that most of the professors in my major weren't trying to help me find my own way. They were looking for immortality. The way to do this is by creating a bunch of people who think just like you. By my senior year I was so tired of my professors in fiction-writing trying to replace my perspective with theirs that I actually snarled at one man, "If that's the sort of story you want to see, then write your own and leave mine alone!"
He gave me an A. I've often wondered if it was because of that comment or in spite of it.
He did give me an excellent piece of advice once, though he did it by accident. He said that "actors would love to get their teeth into this dialogue, but it just doesn't work for fiction." What he meant was, "Be more descriptive." What I heard was, "Try writing a play." I took playwriting the next semester and had a blast.
I love learning but I can't stand School. The thing I disliked most about college was that most of the professors in my major weren't trying to help me find my own way. They were looking for immortality. The way to do this is by creating a bunch of people who think just like you. By my senior year I was so tired of my professors in fiction-writing trying to replace my perspective with theirs that I actually snarled at one man, "If that's the sort of story you want to see, then write your own and leave mine alone!"
He gave me an A. I've often wondered if it was because of that comment or in spite of it.
He did give me an excellent piece of advice once, though he did it by accident. He said that "actors would love to get their teeth into this dialogue, but it just doesn't work for fiction." What he meant was, "Be more descriptive." What I heard was, "Try writing a play." I took playwriting the next semester and had a blast.
Monday, April 07, 2008
I'm a question mark?
You Are a Question Mark |
 You seek knowledge and insight in every form possible. You love learning. And while you know a lot, you don't act like a know it all. You're open to learning you're wrong. You ask a lot of questions, collect a lot of data, and always dig deep to find out more. You're naturally curious and inquisitive. You jump to ask a question when the opportunity arises. Your friends see you as interesting, insightful, and thought provoking. (But they're not always up for the intense inquisitions that you love!) You excel in: Higher education You get along best with: The Comma |
I don't know that I quite agree with this. I don't know that I give intense inquisitions (Do I? Do I? Huh? Do I?), and if by excelling in higher education they mean formal education they are way, way off. I have a bachelor's degree, and that's all I want.
Wednesday, April 02, 2008
Bumper stickers, family, and politics
My aunt's a charismatic Christian and a very, very conservative Republican. Lately I've been seeing bumper stickers around that make me think of her, but not 'cause she'd agree with the sentiments. The one that would really make her twitch?
"The Rapture is not an exit strategy!"
I try not to talk politics or religion with her. I don't know whether it occurs to her that I don't agree with her about much because I never argue. I just let her talk and talk, and keep my own counsel. The closest she's ever come to realizing I'm not on her team was a conversation we had almost sixteen years ago, right after Bill Clinton won his first term in office. The Virginia Contingent of the family came up for Thanksgiving vacation that year. We were seated at the supper table, and she was all doom and gloom about how horrible the next four years were going to be. Then she pounced on me with:
"Who did you vote for?"
"Clinton."
"Vee!" Shocked, appalled. My cousin D actually made a move as if to smack me (he was ten, if that's any excuse) but stopped when he saw my "go on, try it" expression.
"And I'm going to do it again. Then I'm voting for Gore. Please pass the turnips."
I refused to be drawn into an argument with her, though she did try. I told her I was not interested in a political debate. My voting choices were none of her business ("secret ballot," and all that), my reasons were my own, and I didn't care whether she agreed with me or not.
Silence. And then my sister changed the subject to something less likely to cause a food fight.
We've never had a political discussion since. She has a son in the Air Force (Cousin D, as a matter of fact) who's about to be deployed to Iraq for the second time, and though she's frightened, worried, and generally upset she still stubbornly backs the Guy in Charge. Shrug. Oh well. I guess someone has to, though I just don't get it.
I don't know why I'm talking politics today. I never do. Maybe it's because Bill Clinton was here last Friday, Obama was here Sunday, Ann Coulter is in town this evening, and the primary elections are a little under three weeks away. I wish Edwards had stayed in the race. That's the one I really wanted to vote for.
"The Rapture is not an exit strategy!"
I try not to talk politics or religion with her. I don't know whether it occurs to her that I don't agree with her about much because I never argue. I just let her talk and talk, and keep my own counsel. The closest she's ever come to realizing I'm not on her team was a conversation we had almost sixteen years ago, right after Bill Clinton won his first term in office. The Virginia Contingent of the family came up for Thanksgiving vacation that year. We were seated at the supper table, and she was all doom and gloom about how horrible the next four years were going to be. Then she pounced on me with:
"Who did you vote for?"
"Clinton."
"Vee!" Shocked, appalled. My cousin D actually made a move as if to smack me (he was ten, if that's any excuse) but stopped when he saw my "go on, try it" expression.
"And I'm going to do it again. Then I'm voting for Gore. Please pass the turnips."
I refused to be drawn into an argument with her, though she did try. I told her I was not interested in a political debate. My voting choices were none of her business ("secret ballot," and all that), my reasons were my own, and I didn't care whether she agreed with me or not.
Silence. And then my sister changed the subject to something less likely to cause a food fight.
We've never had a political discussion since. She has a son in the Air Force (Cousin D, as a matter of fact) who's about to be deployed to Iraq for the second time, and though she's frightened, worried, and generally upset she still stubbornly backs the Guy in Charge. Shrug. Oh well. I guess someone has to, though I just don't get it.
I don't know why I'm talking politics today. I never do. Maybe it's because Bill Clinton was here last Friday, Obama was here Sunday, Ann Coulter is in town this evening, and the primary elections are a little under three weeks away. I wish Edwards had stayed in the race. That's the one I really wanted to vote for.
Monday, March 31, 2008
Icing on the cake
I get paid on the last business day of the month. I give myself a monthly allowance in my checking account, and on payday I log into my account online to move over anything that might be leftover in checking from last month's budget into the savings account. While I'm there, I take a look at whether/when the checks I've written so far have cleared. The one from the Embroiderer's Guild for my yearly dues hasn't cleared yet, but I'm not surprised. The treasurer must only go to the bank once a month or something. But another check cleared awfully late. I am surprised by it and a little bit angry.
My rent check is due to the office by the fifth business day of the month. Normally it clears by the seventh or eighth, right after it gets deposited. Both banks are local, and all this stuff is done by computer now, so it goes much quicker than it did when I was in high school--it's almost instantaneous, particularly if the check was deposited in the morning.
This month my rent check didn't clear until March 28. That's last Friday.
Good grief! Twenty-three days after I gave it to them they finally decide to do something with it? I click on the link from my bank to see a scanned-in PDF file of the check. Date stamp from the landlord's bank was indeed dated 3/28/2008, so it wasn't some computer screw up. Our guy never made it to the bank until the end of the month. Either that, or he misplaced my check for three weeks. He must have listed it in his records as received, because I didn't get any letters about late rent.
I guess this just emphasizes that the current management is slowly slipping downhill, and I really, really need to get out of here.
My rent check is due to the office by the fifth business day of the month. Normally it clears by the seventh or eighth, right after it gets deposited. Both banks are local, and all this stuff is done by computer now, so it goes much quicker than it did when I was in high school--it's almost instantaneous, particularly if the check was deposited in the morning.
This month my rent check didn't clear until March 28. That's last Friday.
Good grief! Twenty-three days after I gave it to them they finally decide to do something with it? I click on the link from my bank to see a scanned-in PDF file of the check. Date stamp from the landlord's bank was indeed dated 3/28/2008, so it wasn't some computer screw up. Our guy never made it to the bank until the end of the month. Either that, or he misplaced my check for three weeks. He must have listed it in his records as received, because I didn't get any letters about late rent.
I guess this just emphasizes that the current management is slowly slipping downhill, and I really, really need to get out of here.
Monday, March 24, 2008
How to lose a long-time tentant
1. Hire an incompetent who, even though he lives in the complex, can't make it to the office by the time it's supposed to open. Make sure he can't keep driveways and sidewalks ice-free, even though that means cars will have to take a headlong run all the way from the bottom of the sloping driveway in order to make it to the top and out onto the street. Stopping for anything (like pedestrians, say, or oncoming traffic) should result in the driver having to slither back to the bottom of the hill and try again.
2. Let said incompetent miss the deadline for writing lease addenda (they're usually on our doors by mid-February. It's now almost April).
3. This manager will then write addenda, back-dating them in such a way as to imply lessees were given a week to decide whether they were renewing or not. The addenda will be distributed the Friday morning of a holiday weekend in March, with a deadline of 12 PM the following Monday (not even two full business days). The manager will not be in the office that day to answer questions or field complaints, of course.
4. Then have the manager write threatening, frightening follow-up letters like this:
I just spoke to my upstairs neighbor. I was right. The [bleep] [bleep] [bleep]ing manager put the addenda, dated 3/17/08, on doors Friday morning (3/21/08). I was already gone for the weekend, and just got back at 9 this evening. My neighbor said she wondered why I'd left the thing on my door all weekend. I've been looking for the blasted thing to show up since the beginning of February, and the one week I go out of town it finally gets here.
I've called the office and left a message, signed and returned the addendum, emailed him (he left an email address on a sign at the office door), and will call again tomorrow morning to make sure he got the stupid thing. And then I am going to be shopping in earnest for an apartment or a little bitty house to rent starting August 2009. I have officially Had It With This Place.
Snarl. Now I'm going to fuss over a cat who's been trying to get my attention since I walked through the front door.
2. Let said incompetent miss the deadline for writing lease addenda (they're usually on our doors by mid-February. It's now almost April).
3. This manager will then write addenda, back-dating them in such a way as to imply lessees were given a week to decide whether they were renewing or not. The addenda will be distributed the Friday morning of a holiday weekend in March, with a deadline of 12 PM the following Monday (not even two full business days). The manager will not be in the office that day to answer questions or field complaints, of course.
4. Then have the manager write threatening, frightening follow-up letters like this:
Dear Resident:
As per your lease renewal, I have not received it as of today 12:00 pm Monday 3/24/08.
If you want to renew but have questions please e-mail or call and leave your name, apt number, and phone number. [No phone number or email address included in the letter]
I will return your call ASAP.
We are receiving 200 to 300 calls and or e-mails a day on people that want an apt at [complex name].
Please contact me no later than 9:00 AM tomorrow 3/25/08.
If I do not hear back from you I will have to assume that you are not renewing and will need to start showing your apt and leasing it for the date your lease ends.
Please note that it could be rented as early as the end of the day tomorrow.
I have closed the office tomorrow at 12:00 noon only waiting in case you for got to turn your renewal in.
I am in the office today and tomorrow but working on preparing to start showing apts. All calls are being screened but if you call or e-mail I will get back to you.
Thank You
[name deleted]
Manager.
I just spoke to my upstairs neighbor. I was right. The [bleep] [bleep] [bleep]ing manager put the addenda, dated 3/17/08, on doors Friday morning (3/21/08). I was already gone for the weekend, and just got back at 9 this evening. My neighbor said she wondered why I'd left the thing on my door all weekend. I've been looking for the blasted thing to show up since the beginning of February, and the one week I go out of town it finally gets here.
I've called the office and left a message, signed and returned the addendum, emailed him (he left an email address on a sign at the office door), and will call again tomorrow morning to make sure he got the stupid thing. And then I am going to be shopping in earnest for an apartment or a little bitty house to rent starting August 2009. I have officially Had It With This Place.
Snarl. Now I'm going to fuss over a cat who's been trying to get my attention since I walked through the front door.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Internal clocks and Easter weekend
I heard on the radio recently that the next time Easter will be this early will be in the year 2285. I wonder if humanity will still be around then.
Going to my parents' place for Easter. Will be returning Monday night. I might try to post while I'm home, I'll have to see. I don't think I'm taking the laptop, but who knows, I might change my mind in the next couple of hours. Depends on how unwieldy my other bag is, I guess.
It's quarter to three, and I'm amazed I'm awake. The time change has been wreaking havoc with my sleep cycle. I've turned off my alarm clock in my sleep at least three times in the past two weeks, and I was really worried I wasn't going to wake up in time for my bus. I think that worry is what got me up so blasted early today. I even did a back-up alarm--the TV has a timer feature, and I set that to turn on about 3:30. Don't need it. Didn't need the alarm, either. I just lay there in the dark waiting for it to go off. I'm gonna be a real live wire come two this afternoon.
Lolly is sitting right next to me with her back to me, tail twitching. She's been shouting at me for fifteen minutes, trying to get me to go back to bed I think. That didn't work, so now she's giving me the Cold Shoulder to show her displeasure. Wait until I start to pack, little girl. Then you'll really get miffed.
Happy Easter/Happy Passover/Have a good weekend.
Going to my parents' place for Easter. Will be returning Monday night. I might try to post while I'm home, I'll have to see. I don't think I'm taking the laptop, but who knows, I might change my mind in the next couple of hours. Depends on how unwieldy my other bag is, I guess.
It's quarter to three, and I'm amazed I'm awake. The time change has been wreaking havoc with my sleep cycle. I've turned off my alarm clock in my sleep at least three times in the past two weeks, and I was really worried I wasn't going to wake up in time for my bus. I think that worry is what got me up so blasted early today. I even did a back-up alarm--the TV has a timer feature, and I set that to turn on about 3:30. Don't need it. Didn't need the alarm, either. I just lay there in the dark waiting for it to go off. I'm gonna be a real live wire come two this afternoon.
Lolly is sitting right next to me with her back to me, tail twitching. She's been shouting at me for fifteen minutes, trying to get me to go back to bed I think. That didn't work, so now she's giving me the Cold Shoulder to show her displeasure. Wait until I start to pack, little girl. Then you'll really get miffed.
Happy Easter/Happy Passover/Have a good weekend.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Baggy britches
How's this for a reason to go clothes-shopping: my too-big-around-the-waist jeans are throwing off the count on my pedometer. I used to be able to hang it on the little coin pocket on the right-hand side of my jeans and get an accurate reading. Then I had to suspend it from the waist band somewhere between my hip and the button on the fly. As the weeks progressed, the counter has gotten closer to the button. Now I can't get an accurate reading anywhere. I take twenty steps, it counts maybe fourteen. It's telling me that today I've only taken 713 steps so far, and I know that's not true. It about 380 from my front door to the bus stop, and another 250 both to and from the place where I bought my lunch. That's 880, and it doesn't even take into account the walking around I've been doing today (from the bus to the coffee place, from the coffee place to my desk, back and forth around the office, to and from a meeting, rummaging around in the stacks the next floor up, etc.). I should be closing in on around 2000 by now.
Grrr.
Grrr.
Sunday, March 09, 2008
Miss me?
My friend over at Peanut Butter and Bacon Sandwiches just gave me an e-mail style poke with a stick to see if I was still alive. I am. I haven't had much to write about lately, that's all. Just trudging along, doin' ma thang.
I've lost eleven pounds (broke into double digits. Woo-hoo!), am progressing nicely on the 10,000 steps program--I have to find some way to get in 9,000 steps a day this week. That's a lot easier during the work week than it is on the weekends, especially on the snowy weekends like this one. It usually involves a lot of walking in place in front of the TV. I'm not really one for taking long walks outside in the muck or during snow squalls like we had yesterday. Crossing a parking lot to get to the bus stop with snow blowing directly in my face is not how I like spending my Saturdays. The hood on my coat was no help. I can't figure out those elastic thingies with the metal clips on them. How exactly are they supposed to keep your hood up? What happened to good old-fashioned cord you could tie under your chin?
I've gotten a bit done on my cross-stitch project, but then I got tired of making small X's and went back to knitting for a while. First project I did was using a pattern from knitty.com for a head scarf. It uses entrelac and variegated yarn to make it look like you've knitted all kinds of squares with different yarns. Pretty pleased with the way it turned out. Will post pictures when my camera battery finishes charging.
Now I'm working on a pair of pedicure socks with another knitty.com pattern. I wanted to make a pair for my sister 'cause she gets her nails done year round -- hands and feet -- and I've often wondered about how she gets from the shop to the car in cold weather while keeping her toenails from getting ruined. This is my first attempt at socks of any sort, so I'm making a test pair. I have one done and am in the middle of doing the heel on the other one. First one looks all right and fits my foot. Let's see if I can get the second one to look just like it. I will have to remember when I do the actual socks that Ditter's feet are a little smaller than mine and adjust accordingly.
I had an impromptu private lesson with my bellydance instructor last Sunday. I was the only person to show up to class. That might happen again this week, I think, because it's Spring Break right now. It was a little unnerving to have her full attention, but I liked it. Learned a lot, and increased my confidence a tad.
Speaking of bellydance, I need to go finish sewing the elastic on my zills. I finally got tired of holding them together with safety pins (after almost two years) and sewed the thumb zills on Monday. Got to get the ones done for the middle fingers before class today.
And that's it from over here. How are you?
I've lost eleven pounds (broke into double digits. Woo-hoo!), am progressing nicely on the 10,000 steps program--I have to find some way to get in 9,000 steps a day this week. That's a lot easier during the work week than it is on the weekends, especially on the snowy weekends like this one. It usually involves a lot of walking in place in front of the TV. I'm not really one for taking long walks outside in the muck or during snow squalls like we had yesterday. Crossing a parking lot to get to the bus stop with snow blowing directly in my face is not how I like spending my Saturdays. The hood on my coat was no help. I can't figure out those elastic thingies with the metal clips on them. How exactly are they supposed to keep your hood up? What happened to good old-fashioned cord you could tie under your chin?
I've gotten a bit done on my cross-stitch project, but then I got tired of making small X's and went back to knitting for a while. First project I did was using a pattern from knitty.com for a head scarf. It uses entrelac and variegated yarn to make it look like you've knitted all kinds of squares with different yarns. Pretty pleased with the way it turned out. Will post pictures when my camera battery finishes charging.
Now I'm working on a pair of pedicure socks with another knitty.com pattern. I wanted to make a pair for my sister 'cause she gets her nails done year round -- hands and feet -- and I've often wondered about how she gets from the shop to the car in cold weather while keeping her toenails from getting ruined. This is my first attempt at socks of any sort, so I'm making a test pair. I have one done and am in the middle of doing the heel on the other one. First one looks all right and fits my foot. Let's see if I can get the second one to look just like it. I will have to remember when I do the actual socks that Ditter's feet are a little smaller than mine and adjust accordingly.
I had an impromptu private lesson with my bellydance instructor last Sunday. I was the only person to show up to class. That might happen again this week, I think, because it's Spring Break right now. It was a little unnerving to have her full attention, but I liked it. Learned a lot, and increased my confidence a tad.
Speaking of bellydance, I need to go finish sewing the elastic on my zills. I finally got tired of holding them together with safety pins (after almost two years) and sewed the thumb zills on Monday. Got to get the ones done for the middle fingers before class today.
And that's it from over here. How are you?
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
Attack of the killer pastries
It's Mardi Gras. Someone brought in New Orleans style king cakes and scattered them about the room. There's one on the counter top about 6 feet away. It's been calling my name all morning.
Then there was the meeting my department had this morning with the Dean. The head of the department brought pastry and doughnut holes. They joined in with the king cake, making it a chorus.
Dear oh dear. What's a Weight Watcher to do? Drink my water, eat my little 90-calorie-per-packet rice cake treats (which are surprisingly good. Chocolate mint), and pretend I can't hear the Pastry Chorus:
"Vee! Vee? We love you! We miss you! Veeeeeeee?!?"
Gum! A piece of gum will help. I'll chew that, and while that's in my mouth I won't want anything else. I hope.
Added later:
Well, I had a teeny tiny piece of the cake, thinking that it was better to indulge a little then sit here and be resentful all day. It worked -- for a while. Then it started talking to me again.
What worked better was somebody coming by and wrapping the thing in aluminum foil, bless 'em. I'm not gonna break into that, making all kinds of noise.
About half an hour ago, someone spotted the baby in the cake. She pointed it out to me--you could see his feet. I started encouraging to the cake: "Push! Puuuuuush! Almost there. One more big one!" Cracked my co-worker up.
Then there was the meeting my department had this morning with the Dean. The head of the department brought pastry and doughnut holes. They joined in with the king cake, making it a chorus.
Dear oh dear. What's a Weight Watcher to do? Drink my water, eat my little 90-calorie-per-packet rice cake treats (which are surprisingly good. Chocolate mint), and pretend I can't hear the Pastry Chorus:
"Vee! Vee? We love you! We miss you! Veeeeeeee?!?"
Gum! A piece of gum will help. I'll chew that, and while that's in my mouth I won't want anything else. I hope.
Added later:
Well, I had a teeny tiny piece of the cake, thinking that it was better to indulge a little then sit here and be resentful all day. It worked -- for a while. Then it started talking to me again.
What worked better was somebody coming by and wrapping the thing in aluminum foil, bless 'em. I'm not gonna break into that, making all kinds of noise.
About half an hour ago, someone spotted the baby in the cake. She pointed it out to me--you could see his feet. I started encouraging to the cake: "Push! Puuuuuush! Almost there. One more big one!" Cracked my co-worker up.
Friday, February 01, 2008
Today's little snicker
I'm working on reclassifying some of the microfilm from arbitrarily made-up call numbers to Library of Congress call numbers. Apparently when we first started to collect these titles they just numbered them sequentially as they arrived. Microfilm F1, F2, F3, and so on. Nothing is grouped by subject, at least not on purpose. That's why they're getting reclassed.
It makes for some pretty funny shelf-reading. Here's what I ran across today:
Microfilm F1760-F1760b -- National Underwriter (Property and Casualty Insurance Edition), and its two title changes (numbered F1760a and F1760b, so they'd sit together).
Microfilm F1761 -- Skiing.
Teehee.
It makes for some pretty funny shelf-reading. Here's what I ran across today:
Microfilm F1760-F1760b -- National Underwriter (Property and Casualty Insurance Edition), and its two title changes (numbered F1760a and F1760b, so they'd sit together).
Microfilm F1761 -- Skiing.
Teehee.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
So much for "if time permits"
It's been a busy week. Been a busy month, come to think of it. So far this month I have:
1) Gone back on the wagon. I saw a picture taken of myself with baby Austin and I swear, it looked like I was the one who'd just been pregnant. Back to Weight Watchers I go. I'm doing it online this time around, because the leader of the meeting I used to go to stopped leading a while back -- her life got far too difficult, and she decided she needed to step down and pay more attention to her own weight loss issues. I applaud that, it was a lesson in itself: know your limits. I usually recognize mine only when I whiz past them. I didn't really get much out of the meeting after she left, so I started going to the storefront downtown (the sessions I attended were through the university's wellness program). The woman running the only session that fit my schedule was irritatingly perky ("Tee-hee!" Squeak. Hairflip). I'm thinking that wanting to slap her is probably not a good reaction, and will do horrible things to my attitude. So I've decided to join up online. So far I've lost two pounds (only started in earnest about a week and a half ago).
2) Joined another program (again, through the university wellness thingie) called "10,000 Steps." Apparently the average person is supposed to take about 10,000 steps a day. This is a program that challenges you to do that. You get a pedometer, a log book, and directions for their use. You spend three days counting your steps and logging the numbers, then you take the average step count. Using this as a baseline, you go to a chart which tells you how many steps to take each day that week. My number right now is 4500. You aim for slightly higher step counts every week until eventually you wind up at 10,000. I'm doing this partly in conjunction with #1 on my list, and partly for training. Training for what, you ask? See #3.
3) I have decided to be part of the team my sister wants to form for the Breast Cancer Walk next October. 60 miles in three days. This is a nation-wide event,with walks happening in major cities like San Francisco, Boston, Minneapolis/St. Paul...the one we're walking in is the one in Philadelphia. I figure if I start training now, I'll be ready by October. My Ditter has been busy selling houses (yay!) so she hasn't gotten the team registered yet. But I keep prodding her, sure in the knowledge that she'll do it eventually. Either that or she'll bite my head off.
4) I've finished two embroidery projects that I started a very long time ago and felt ambitious enough to start a new one. I had the time to do this because the laptop was at the shop and I found myself with l-o-o-o-o-n-g stretches of time and nothing to do. Hey, what did I do before the laptop? Oh, that's right. I made stuff!
5) And speaking of the laptop, it's home. I'm typing on it right now. The nice man at Firedog managed to make a recovery disc (though from the sound of things, Laptop threw fits before it settled down and did what he wanted), and then he ran some diagnostic tests. Problem was most definitely the hard drive. He called me Sunday afternoon to tell me that, and said that there was one thing he'd like to try before he gave up and ordered me a new hard drive. He wanted to use his shiny new recovery disc to restore the system and see if maybe that fixed the hard drive problem. He said he thought that maybe Windows "was just getting confused about where it had stored things." Kind of like someone who's put his glasses on top of his head and is looking all over his desk for them. I'd love to take credit for that simile but I can't. That's the Chief Loon's. She also called The Walk for the Cure "Save the Tahtahs."
So anyway, I told Firedog Man (hey, why did they name their group of techies after fireplace equipment? I don't get that) to go ahead and try it. He called me an hour later, triumphant. I fetched Laptop home Monday evening after work, and have been trying to get it back to the way I had it before it left. It's been a slow process. It came back to me only knowing my name. Other than that, it was the same laptop I bought two years ago--completely devoid of any personality. I've taken the opportunity to evaluate all the crap--er, um, software I had on it before its little nervous break-down. There are a number of things I'm just not going to reinstall. Mostly games, really. If I want games, I'll go to Pogo.
6) Oh! One more thing. I went back to dance class after about a six month absence. My hip flexors really hated me the following Monday, but I was back to normal by Tuesday. Remembering back to my very first class, my rear end and thigh muscles were killing me for days afterward. I guess I'm not as out of shape as I thought.
1) Gone back on the wagon. I saw a picture taken of myself with baby Austin and I swear, it looked like I was the one who'd just been pregnant. Back to Weight Watchers I go. I'm doing it online this time around, because the leader of the meeting I used to go to stopped leading a while back -- her life got far too difficult, and she decided she needed to step down and pay more attention to her own weight loss issues. I applaud that, it was a lesson in itself: know your limits. I usually recognize mine only when I whiz past them. I didn't really get much out of the meeting after she left, so I started going to the storefront downtown (the sessions I attended were through the university's wellness program). The woman running the only session that fit my schedule was irritatingly perky ("Tee-hee!" Squeak. Hairflip). I'm thinking that wanting to slap her is probably not a good reaction, and will do horrible things to my attitude. So I've decided to join up online. So far I've lost two pounds (only started in earnest about a week and a half ago).
2) Joined another program (again, through the university wellness thingie) called "10,000 Steps." Apparently the average person is supposed to take about 10,000 steps a day. This is a program that challenges you to do that. You get a pedometer, a log book, and directions for their use. You spend three days counting your steps and logging the numbers, then you take the average step count. Using this as a baseline, you go to a chart which tells you how many steps to take each day that week. My number right now is 4500. You aim for slightly higher step counts every week until eventually you wind up at 10,000. I'm doing this partly in conjunction with #1 on my list, and partly for training. Training for what, you ask? See #3.
3) I have decided to be part of the team my sister wants to form for the Breast Cancer Walk next October. 60 miles in three days. This is a nation-wide event,with walks happening in major cities like San Francisco, Boston, Minneapolis/St. Paul...the one we're walking in is the one in Philadelphia. I figure if I start training now, I'll be ready by October. My Ditter has been busy selling houses (yay!) so she hasn't gotten the team registered yet. But I keep prodding her, sure in the knowledge that she'll do it eventually. Either that or she'll bite my head off.
4) I've finished two embroidery projects that I started a very long time ago and felt ambitious enough to start a new one. I had the time to do this because the laptop was at the shop and I found myself with l-o-o-o-o-n-g stretches of time and nothing to do. Hey, what did I do before the laptop? Oh, that's right. I made stuff!
5) And speaking of the laptop, it's home. I'm typing on it right now. The nice man at Firedog managed to make a recovery disc (though from the sound of things, Laptop threw fits before it settled down and did what he wanted), and then he ran some diagnostic tests. Problem was most definitely the hard drive. He called me Sunday afternoon to tell me that, and said that there was one thing he'd like to try before he gave up and ordered me a new hard drive. He wanted to use his shiny new recovery disc to restore the system and see if maybe that fixed the hard drive problem. He said he thought that maybe Windows "was just getting confused about where it had stored things." Kind of like someone who's put his glasses on top of his head and is looking all over his desk for them. I'd love to take credit for that simile but I can't. That's the Chief Loon's. She also called The Walk for the Cure "Save the Tahtahs."
So anyway, I told Firedog Man (hey, why did they name their group of techies after fireplace equipment? I don't get that) to go ahead and try it. He called me an hour later, triumphant. I fetched Laptop home Monday evening after work, and have been trying to get it back to the way I had it before it left. It's been a slow process. It came back to me only knowing my name. Other than that, it was the same laptop I bought two years ago--completely devoid of any personality. I've taken the opportunity to evaluate all the crap--er, um, software I had on it before its little nervous break-down. There are a number of things I'm just not going to reinstall. Mostly games, really. If I want games, I'll go to Pogo.
6) Oh! One more thing. I went back to dance class after about a six month absence. My hip flexors really hated me the following Monday, but I was back to normal by Tuesday. Remembering back to my very first class, my rear end and thigh muscles were killing me for days afterward. I guess I'm not as out of shape as I thought.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Two!
Juggling Scarves is two years old. Does this mean it's going to have temper tantrums and start telling me "no" all the time?
I hope not.
More later, if time permits
Friday, January 18, 2008
Ain't that the truth
I've just spent two and a half hours struggling to find some way to catalog a particularly obscure title from the International Society for Education through Art. I dragged one of my teammates into this mess with me, and when she gave up after about 45 minutes I went to the cataloging librarian. After finally figuring out what to do, he introduced me to Charbonneau's Law of Cataloging: the difficulty of cataloging an item will be inversely proportional to either the size or the intrinsic worth of said item. In other words, it's the unimportant or tiny buggers that give you the most grief.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Drive-by thinking...
...that's what I call it when a random thought pops in from nowhere. Here's today's:
I just thought of a really good name for an organic dairy--Wholly Cow.
[Sound cue: Rim shot]
I just thought of a really good name for an organic dairy--Wholly Cow.
[Sound cue: Rim shot]
Monday, January 14, 2008
Laptopless
Backing up the hard drive is a lot harder than I thought it would be. I assume that I can just back the system up on a series of DVDs, but that turns out to be wrong. It won't write to the DVD-ROM drive. I don't know why. I don't get an explanation. It just folds its little arms and says, "Nope."
Allrightythen. So I try backing the C: drive up onto the D: drive (my hard drive is partitioned), and that seems to work until we are about halfway through. Then my computer says, "Uh-oh! File's too big. I won't write anything more than 4 gigs." Fanfreakingtastic. You could have told me that 4 hours ago. And why not, anyway? There's plenty of room!
Saturday, I go out to Circuit City and buy myself an external hard drive (let's hear it for credit cards!) with 200 gigs of space on it (anybody else remember when one gigabyte seemed like a ridiculous amount of memory?). Included in the package is a program designed to backup your hard drive. Yay!
Once I'm back home I install that, get about 75% through the back-up procedure when the program experiences some unexplained error and can't continue.
Aaaargh!
In frustration, I open up the C: drive and the F: drive (the extension for the external hard drive), and do a file-by-file comparison of what is in them. I move over everything I can. Some things won't go because the machine is using them right now, and one file has a name that is too long -- the system wants me to rename it. What? I didn't name it in the first place, I don't know what it does or what's attached to it. I'm not renaming anything. I wonder if that was what made the back-up software choke. I decide to skip that and hope it isn't important. I am not done the compare/copy process (which I also apply to the D: drive) until 2:30 Sunday morning.
Around noon, I take my poor sick laptop to the Firedog people, reintroduce myself to the guy at the desk (it is the same fellow who was there last week. He vaguely remembers me but not my problem), give him my laptop, the cables and adaptor, my name, address, phone numbers, password for the laptop. He says he'll run some diagnostic tests on it, but he is pretty sure it's the hard drive. He wants to know whether I have some system restore discs (I don't) -- sometimes they give you that with your laptop, sometimes they put the files right on the computer in a partitioned drive. Which is fine, unless the hard drive goes kaflooey, then you have nothing. He says not to worry, he can probably make them, and I tell him that in case he can't I authorize him to buy some for me from the company that made my laptop.
Walking into the apartment with an empty computer bag, I feel rather like the I did when I had to leave my first cat with the vet overnight. That situation did not end well. I hope this one goes better.
On a completely unrelated note, I went back to bellydance class yesterday after a six-month absence. I have one word to describe how I feel today: "Ow."
Allrightythen. So I try backing the C: drive up onto the D: drive (my hard drive is partitioned), and that seems to work until we are about halfway through. Then my computer says, "Uh-oh! File's too big. I won't write anything more than 4 gigs." Fanfreakingtastic. You could have told me that 4 hours ago. And why not, anyway? There's plenty of room!
Saturday, I go out to Circuit City and buy myself an external hard drive (let's hear it for credit cards!) with 200 gigs of space on it (anybody else remember when one gigabyte seemed like a ridiculous amount of memory?). Included in the package is a program designed to backup your hard drive. Yay!
Once I'm back home I install that, get about 75% through the back-up procedure when the program experiences some unexplained error and can't continue.
Aaaargh!
In frustration, I open up the C: drive and the F: drive (the extension for the external hard drive), and do a file-by-file comparison of what is in them. I move over everything I can. Some things won't go because the machine is using them right now, and one file has a name that is too long -- the system wants me to rename it. What? I didn't name it in the first place, I don't know what it does or what's attached to it. I'm not renaming anything. I wonder if that was what made the back-up software choke. I decide to skip that and hope it isn't important. I am not done the compare/copy process (which I also apply to the D: drive) until 2:30 Sunday morning.
Around noon, I take my poor sick laptop to the Firedog people, reintroduce myself to the guy at the desk (it is the same fellow who was there last week. He vaguely remembers me but not my problem), give him my laptop, the cables and adaptor, my name, address, phone numbers, password for the laptop. He says he'll run some diagnostic tests on it, but he is pretty sure it's the hard drive. He wants to know whether I have some system restore discs (I don't) -- sometimes they give you that with your laptop, sometimes they put the files right on the computer in a partitioned drive. Which is fine, unless the hard drive goes kaflooey, then you have nothing. He says not to worry, he can probably make them, and I tell him that in case he can't I authorize him to buy some for me from the company that made my laptop.
Walking into the apartment with an empty computer bag, I feel rather like the I did when I had to leave my first cat with the vet overnight. That situation did not end well. I hope this one goes better.
On a completely unrelated note, I went back to bellydance class yesterday after a six-month absence. I have one word to describe how I feel today: "Ow."
Thursday, January 10, 2008
Dad's eye
I called him Tuesday evening to see how he was. He sounded fine. He said it wasn't hurting him at all. It just felt like he had a piece of grit or something in there. He had a patch over the eye, but the doctor was going to take that off the next day. He thought he was going to have to put drops in, but the doctor said he'd put enough medication in the eye to last until his visit the next morning.
He was awake for all of the operation, and went on to describe it (with me on the other end of the phone squealing and squirming). They sedated him, strapped him down, did something to numb the eye, covered the other one (why? To keep from doing the wrong one?), took out the lens in the uncovered eye and replaced it with a new one. He thinks there are prongs holding it to the eye, but that's just an educated guess. He's not sure what's holding it in place. He said it looked like a light show.
All I have to say is if I ever need to have this done to me, they'd better do more than sedate me. Put. Me. Out. Seriously. I'd started screaming when I saw the knife coming at me, I'm sure.
He's going to have to wear sunglasses for a while, and he's put off the operation on the other eye until there's no chance of a snowstorm. Mom doesn't do well driving down the mountain in the snow -- which is to say that she refuses to do it. So he's going to wait until spring. I asked him when he could start driving again, and he said Thursday (today).
He was awake for all of the operation, and went on to describe it (with me on the other end of the phone squealing and squirming). They sedated him, strapped him down, did something to numb the eye, covered the other one (why? To keep from doing the wrong one?), took out the lens in the uncovered eye and replaced it with a new one. He thinks there are prongs holding it to the eye, but that's just an educated guess. He's not sure what's holding it in place. He said it looked like a light show.
All I have to say is if I ever need to have this done to me, they'd better do more than sedate me. Put. Me. Out. Seriously. I'd started screaming when I saw the knife coming at me, I'm sure.
He's going to have to wear sunglasses for a while, and he's put off the operation on the other eye until there's no chance of a snowstorm. Mom doesn't do well driving down the mountain in the snow -- which is to say that she refuses to do it. So he's going to wait until spring. I asked him when he could start driving again, and he said Thursday (today).
Tuesday, January 08, 2008
One in the eye
Called my Mom last night on a whim, just to say howdy.
"I can't stay on long," she said. "I have to get up at 4:30 tomorrow morning, you know."
Did I know? No I did not.
"How come?" I asked.
"Dad's eye surgery. You knew he was getting a cataract removed, didn't you?"
Not being a psychic, I did not know that either. I knew he had cataracts. He told me that in the truck when he came to pick me up for Thanksgiving vacation. Very casual about it too. Hope he didn't notice that I double-checked my seatbelt and clung to my door's Hail-Mary handle until we came to a stop outside the house.
So anyway. Dad was already in bed when I called (and probably already asleep), so I didn't get to wish him luck. Mom said she'd give him the message today. He had outpatient surgery this morning to get one cataract removed, and they're going to do the other eye next month. I've been wanting to call all day to see how he is, but my cell's battery just ran out of juice. Guess I'll wait 'til I get home.
Glad I decided to call.
"I can't stay on long," she said. "I have to get up at 4:30 tomorrow morning, you know."
Did I know? No I did not.
"How come?" I asked.
"Dad's eye surgery. You knew he was getting a cataract removed, didn't you?"
Not being a psychic, I did not know that either. I knew he had cataracts. He told me that in the truck when he came to pick me up for Thanksgiving vacation. Very casual about it too. Hope he didn't notice that I double-checked my seatbelt and clung to my door's Hail-Mary handle until we came to a stop outside the house.
So anyway. Dad was already in bed when I called (and probably already asleep), so I didn't get to wish him luck. Mom said she'd give him the message today. He had outpatient surgery this morning to get one cataract removed, and they're going to do the other eye next month. I've been wanting to call all day to see how he is, but my cell's battery just ran out of juice. Guess I'll wait 'til I get home.
Glad I decided to call.
Saturday, January 05, 2008
iPod off-switch
The iPod didn't come with a manual. All there was a little folded piece of paper giving me the basics: how to charge it, where to get the iTunes software, how to download stuff to the iPod, and where to go online for the full manual. And since the dial-up modem is being tetchy, I never got to the manual until just now. There is a way to turn the blasted thing off. I have to press and hold the "Play/Pause" button.
Hey, Mr. Jobs? Steve? That'd be a nice piece of info to put on the little leaflet. Been losing battery charge for days 'cause I couldn't find an off-switch.
Hey, Mr. Jobs? Steve? That'd be a nice piece of info to put on the little leaflet. Been losing battery charge for days 'cause I couldn't find an off-switch.
Technical difficulties
Happy 2008!
It's been an eventful week. On the second of January, I bought myself the present I really wanted but wouldn't ever have asked anyone to give me: an iPod. More specifically, I bought a black iPod Classic, with 80 gigs of memory. Rather amusing, really, since the laptop has 120 gigs, divided into two hard drives. This means I can hold more in my hand than I can on my C: drive.
I spent most of Wednesday downloading the iTunes software and then converting my music into the Apple format. Not all of my music would convert, though. The "protected" stuff wouldn't go, which means I had to dig out the CDs and have the program import them straight off of the discs. That's what I did the first half of Thursday. The second half of Thursday, as well as Friday, was spent trying to figure out what's the matter with the laptop. Things were going fine, then suddenly I lost my internet connection. It wouldn't reconnect. Nor would it stop redialing, even after I told it to. Wunderbar.
My first thought was to blame the software I downloaded, but upon reflection I don't think iTunes is to blame. This stuff was designed specifically to work with Windows, and it's from Apple, not some fly-by-night company. And if it was going to cause problems, it would have done it right away, right? It wouldn't have waited a day and a half to give me grief. Or it would have slowed things down incrementally, eventually grinding to a halt. That's not what happened. One moment things were fine, the next moment they weren't.
Next thing I thought was that I needed to defragment the hard drive. I'd been doing a lot of downloading, importing, and deleting, maybe the machine was starting to have trouble finding things quickly. So I defragged it.
Friday morning, when the defrag was finally done, booting up and logging in still took a lot longer than usual. The modem was still having trouble staying connected, and would stubbornly keep trying to reconnect after I'd hit the "cancel" button. Next up: scanning the C:drive for errors and bad sectors. I started that at approximately 11 in the morning. Fast forward to 11 pm (yes, twelve hours later) when scandisk was finally finished, and told me everything was fine. Liar. For one thing, scandisk has never taken that long to get through everything.
So I'm still trying to sort out what's wrong. Right now I'm in Wegman's grocery store, which also has an Internet café with WiFi. The laptop has passed the next test, which was to see whether my wireless modem still works. I've downloaded the most recent set of virus definitions from Symantec AntiVirus, and once I go home I'll run that. I'm hoping I didn't get a virus. I'm also hoping the antivirus program doesn't take another 12 hours to run.
I know that sooner or later I'm going to have to call the Protection Plan people. (I still get the mental image of computer techs in sharkskin suits and mirrored sunglasses. "Nice laptop. Be shame is something happened to it."). I wonder if I'll have to send this machine away, or whether someone is going to show up at my doorstep to work on it. It'd be nice if I had the option to take this over to Circuit City to get fixed, but I don't think I do. Even though I'm pretty sure it's going to be one of those guys who comes over to fix my poor sick machine.
The iPod works just fine, by the way. One little annoying thing, and I think it's something I'm just going to have to get used to: there is no "off" switch. You can stop the music, and eventually the readout fades to black, but the thing is always on. What's that all about? I can't be the first person who ever wanted to turn the thing off to save the batteries. Or can I?
You know, I always assumed that as I got older, I'd turn into my mother. It seems that I'm turning into my father, too. The battery-life thing is just one symptom. Here's another one, and it made me both laugh and shudder when I recognized what I was doing:
I spent about a week at my sister's house for Christmas. I spent a lot of time going around the place turning off lights, TVs, radios, etc. in rooms devoid of people. Muttering the whole time, of course. Things like, "trying to light the whole neighborhood," and "so much for shrinking one's carbon footprint." Good lord! Daddy? Was that you? How did you throw your voice like that?
I sure hope this little wrestling match with my gadgets isn't a sign about how the rest of the year is going to go.
It's been an eventful week. On the second of January, I bought myself the present I really wanted but wouldn't ever have asked anyone to give me: an iPod. More specifically, I bought a black iPod Classic, with 80 gigs of memory. Rather amusing, really, since the laptop has 120 gigs, divided into two hard drives. This means I can hold more in my hand than I can on my C: drive.
I spent most of Wednesday downloading the iTunes software and then converting my music into the Apple format. Not all of my music would convert, though. The "protected" stuff wouldn't go, which means I had to dig out the CDs and have the program import them straight off of the discs. That's what I did the first half of Thursday. The second half of Thursday, as well as Friday, was spent trying to figure out what's the matter with the laptop. Things were going fine, then suddenly I lost my internet connection. It wouldn't reconnect. Nor would it stop redialing, even after I told it to. Wunderbar.
My first thought was to blame the software I downloaded, but upon reflection I don't think iTunes is to blame. This stuff was designed specifically to work with Windows, and it's from Apple, not some fly-by-night company. And if it was going to cause problems, it would have done it right away, right? It wouldn't have waited a day and a half to give me grief. Or it would have slowed things down incrementally, eventually grinding to a halt. That's not what happened. One moment things were fine, the next moment they weren't.
Next thing I thought was that I needed to defragment the hard drive. I'd been doing a lot of downloading, importing, and deleting, maybe the machine was starting to have trouble finding things quickly. So I defragged it.
Friday morning, when the defrag was finally done, booting up and logging in still took a lot longer than usual. The modem was still having trouble staying connected, and would stubbornly keep trying to reconnect after I'd hit the "cancel" button. Next up: scanning the C:drive for errors and bad sectors. I started that at approximately 11 in the morning. Fast forward to 11 pm (yes, twelve hours later) when scandisk was finally finished, and told me everything was fine. Liar. For one thing, scandisk has never taken that long to get through everything.
So I'm still trying to sort out what's wrong. Right now I'm in Wegman's grocery store, which also has an Internet café with WiFi. The laptop has passed the next test, which was to see whether my wireless modem still works. I've downloaded the most recent set of virus definitions from Symantec AntiVirus, and once I go home I'll run that. I'm hoping I didn't get a virus. I'm also hoping the antivirus program doesn't take another 12 hours to run.
I know that sooner or later I'm going to have to call the Protection Plan people. (I still get the mental image of computer techs in sharkskin suits and mirrored sunglasses. "Nice laptop. Be shame is something happened to it."). I wonder if I'll have to send this machine away, or whether someone is going to show up at my doorstep to work on it. It'd be nice if I had the option to take this over to Circuit City to get fixed, but I don't think I do. Even though I'm pretty sure it's going to be one of those guys who comes over to fix my poor sick machine.
The iPod works just fine, by the way. One little annoying thing, and I think it's something I'm just going to have to get used to: there is no "off" switch. You can stop the music, and eventually the readout fades to black, but the thing is always on. What's that all about? I can't be the first person who ever wanted to turn the thing off to save the batteries. Or can I?
You know, I always assumed that as I got older, I'd turn into my mother. It seems that I'm turning into my father, too. The battery-life thing is just one symptom. Here's another one, and it made me both laugh and shudder when I recognized what I was doing:
I spent about a week at my sister's house for Christmas. I spent a lot of time going around the place turning off lights, TVs, radios, etc. in rooms devoid of people. Muttering the whole time, of course. Things like, "trying to light the whole neighborhood," and "so much for shrinking one's carbon footprint." Good lord! Daddy? Was that you? How did you throw your voice like that?
I sure hope this little wrestling match with my gadgets isn't a sign about how the rest of the year is going to go.
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