dazzleberry

Apparently the house I just bought is owned jointly by a middle aged woman in the Houston area and an eighty-something in rural New Mexico (not sure which part of that is supposedly relevant).

Apparently, being an eighty-something woman in rural New Mexico means that it is difficult to FedEx important things, like closing papers.

Thus, Jen is on her second day of having a mortgage, but no key.

I was patient on Monday (sure. I was also the queen of sheba for the day). I was impatient today. Tonight I'm annoyed.

I want my effing house.

Now.

So I can start moving and get out of the effing house I'm living in.

To make matters worse, everyone wants to help me move tomorrow. I can't move tomorrow. I don't have the damn key, and even after I have the key, I want to rip up carpet and paint first. So everyone wants to help me paint.

*whine*

I don't want anyone in my house until I'm done with it. I don't want anyone in my messy, not-moved-out-of-yet house because it's... well... a mess. I want everyone to leave me alone for the next ten days, and then one person to magically reappear to help me move my couch and futon.

That isn't going to happen though. Part of borrowing Dad's pickup for the move is letting him help me move, which means doing it at his pace instead of mine. Once, just once in my life, I would like to have a nice, orderly move where I don't feel obligated to create a mountain of junk in the dining room to be sorted through at a later time.

I really hate this.