It's Mine!

Christmas was nice--most people were very pleased with their gifts, and most everyone got at least one hand-knit. The Boy received his knitted items before Christmas, but he was so over the moon about his new phone that nothing else really mattered to him. I've seem him hug it a little, and I wouldn't be surprised to see his engagement announcement in the paper.

The most important gift came today, though, after an hour of signing my name and putting my initials all over everything. I am a homeowner. I'm pretty sure we'll be living in the house for our annual New Year's Eve Goodness, if I can manage to pull it off.

Let the new set of worries commence!

Hooray! Boo!

Hooray! I'm closing on the house on Monday!

Boo! My landlord just informed me that my lease runs through the end of March; I was positive it ended at the end of February, as I moved in at the beginning of February six years ago. So unless I can find someone to sublet, I am going to be paying rent AND a mortgage for longer than I'd expected! Isn't that effing SUPER?

Someday--SOMEDAY--I will not feel the need to utter the Charlie Brown-like phrase, "I can't win."

The Dude Abides

I had no idea there was a new Jeff Bridges movie coming out until I saw a review of it on Salon this morning. I love him so much! And he looks sort of like Kris Kristofferson in this movie, which means I’m going to love him even more. Dreamy! Because this is my taste in men: Hairy Jeff Bridges, Kris Kristofferson, Sam Elliott. Sigh. Don’t get me wrong—Cary Grant is dashing and debonair and dreamy, as is his modern-day counterpart George Clooney—but the men I’ve been attracted to since I was a little girl are the ones who are scruffy and a little dirty. I like facial hair, long hair, hairy chests, soft jeans, worn boots, beat-up hands, and the smells of tobacco and whisky or beer.

The Grant/Clooney men are gorgeous and charming, but seem like they’d need women who regularly wear heels and make-up; they seem like being with them would be so much work. The scruffy men, though, are the ones who want women that don’t mind having messy hair or broken nails. The scruffy men are the ones you can relax with, and I’m all about being relaxed.





You know what I'd like for Christmas? I'd like one of these guys to pick me up in an enormous old pick-up with faded paint and the Allman Brothers on the stereo, and then drive me off to his cabin in the mountains to spend a weekend in front of the fire.

Lost Weekend

No, I didn’t get tanked and wake up wearing snow shoes in Tahiti with no idea how or why. That’d make for a pretty good blog entry though, wouldn’t it? Instead, I found myself lost without the constant, comforting voice of Davina Porter reading to me on my iPod. I’ve grown so used to listening to her read the Outlander books that I found I honestly couldn’t settle into a task without her. I tried listening to music, and then to Mike Birbiglia’s first comedy album, but nothing worked. I ended up reading while I walked on my treadmill (Margaret Drabble’s The Millstone, which is interesting but not quite as engrossing as I’d like it to be), and then it got so bad that I nearly downloaded the book I’m waiting for—the 4th one in the series, which I’d ordered ahead of time from the library but had to REORDER because I’d accidentally requested the ABRIDGED version, and WHY DO THEY EVEM MAKE THOSE? Anyway, I didn’t buy the audio book because it’s like $70. Granted, it’s 900 CDs, but still.

So! I was lost this weekend. Knitting was all wrong. I couldn’t clean or bake properly. Trips in the car were silent, because I WANTED MY STORY, and nothing else would do. The library is telling me it’s in transit, and I’m so glad! I have WORK to do!

In a positive development, though, the library’s lag time gave me another opportunity to recognize that my son is awesome. He was playing Assassin's Creed 2 last night, and the main character had to take part in a series of contests to win a golden mask (the game takes place in Renaissance Italy, and is essentially just like the early games in the Harry Potter series—tasks, puzzles, quests, and achievements all serving the narrative arc of the game’s story—only this story involves a character who travels back in time to try and kill various bad guys in an attempt to end a war that’s going on in the present). The Boy was playing and I was trying to knit while getting sucked into his story, since I couldn’t have my own, when he realized that women weren't taking part in the competition for the mask. He said, "What? Women aren't allowed to play?" I said, "OF COURSE NOT! THE WIMMINZ CAN'T DO ANYTHING," and without missing a beat he said, "Except look pretty and have babies." I high-fived him. He understands sarcasm and sexism, and . . . I've obviously done my job. Motherhood Mission accomplished.

Remember Me?

I have no excuse for not posting, other than not wanting to bore myself with my own musings. I do have a few updates, though:

You may have noticed that it’s December. December! The Boy will be turning 13 in two weeks, a fact which I find somewhat confusing: How can he be aging when I most certainly am not? I don’t quite get it. However this crazy Space/Time Continuum thing works, The Boy will be celebrating his birthday by joining seven other boys, his uncle, and his godfather for three rousing hours of shooting each other with small balls of paint. C and I will watch and take pictures, but we’re not playing. He doesn’t like to get dirty, and I don’t want to A.) be the only girl and B.) be the only MOM LADY involved.

We don’t usually have a real party for the kid’s birthday, usually opting for some kind of fun outing with a friend or two and then a sleep over, but we thought 13 was a big deal. It’s no bar mitzvah, but it’s a way to let him know that we appreciate that he’s growing up. Or something like that.

What else? Christmas is coming, and I am neither baking nor decorating because I don’t know where I’ll be living come December 25. Because I STILL don’t have a closing date for the stupid house. I am dealing with a large bank, one that has existed in this community for a very long time, and I cannot figure out for the LIFE of me why they are so inept. I mean, they seem to keep forgetting about things they need me to sign or fill out, and are sending things to me in dribs and drabs. The woman I’m working with JUST TODAY sent me the form asking me to list the addresses I’ve lived at for the past three years. Um, shouldn’t they have taken care of that one right off the bat? And don’t they already KNOW that, since they know every other freaking thing about me, including my shoe size, my mother’s maiden name, the name of my high school mascot, my favorite smells, and the name of the first album I purchased on CD?

I am so tired of this whole stupid process. I wish I could go to sleep and have the house elves wake me when they’ve finished packing and moving.

I’ve been having all of the Christmas gifts I’ve bought online mailed to my office, because who knows when I’ll move and when they’ll actually show up? At least I have that part of the situation under control. The shopping, that is. I think I pretty much have everyone taken care of, from The Boy down to the family grab bag—I’ve been shopping since August or so, and I’m very, very glad about it. Obnoxiously so, even. I just have to make sure I stay away from stores now, so I don’t end up buying anything else, thus spending more money than I had planned to and wrecking my whole carefully constructed Christmas budget. Thanks to C’s OCD, I keep a spreadsheet of Christmas expenditures, complete with pie charts—I’d be ashamed of myself if I wantonly spent too much and screwed up my precious charts!

Besides, I have to save the money I have left for things like movers. Not that I can arrange for movers without a closing date.

See why I haven’t written? I’m stuck in this loop . . .