oh yeah. you're jealous.

Those are wine racks. I will be attempting to fill the holes with Diet Coke. Stay tuned for progress updates.

IKEA is mean.

For as long as I’ve enjoyed the act of eating dinner, I’ve rued the fact that I don’t have a dining room table. We eat at our desks or on the couch, which is just terribly uncouth – TV trays are useful, but they definitely don’t lend an air of elegance to a room.

I’ve had my eye on a certain IKEA table for *years* – it would fit in with our décor (Baby’s First Post-College Apartment), it had storage, and most importantly, it would FIT. I’ve drooled over this table for a long time, but the time was never right to buy it and Ed didn’t think we needed it, being just fine with eating tuna casserole* off his knees.

Earlier this week, I got an e-newsletter from IKEA. As with every retailer, they’re practically flooding my inbox with sales and specials (evidently they did not get the notice that Christmas is Canceled this year) on a near-daily basis. This one, however, caught my eye: MY TABLE, on sale, for $99.99! HOORAY! Christmas may be canceled, but I might be able to EAT AT A REAL TABLE! I was beside myself with glee (it doesn’t take much) – not only would I get my long-coveted table, I could get some meatballs to eat with it!

I scanned through the email, mentally planning a trip to IKEA. There’re a few things I want for our new house, so this would be a fruitful (and expensive) trip – but my table was $150 off, so that would help. Plus, meatballs. There is no bad there at all.

I read through the fine print: 2 tables per customer, in store only, not valid with any other offer, for three days only (December 3rd to the 6th).

.. I received the email at 7:25pm on Tuesday, December 8th.

You suck, IKEA. You broke my heart. Even worse, you broke my heart and ignored my pain – I tried to let you know my angst via your website, but the “Contact Us” form ends in a 404. This is utterly unfair, made worse by another misdated email I got from IKEA not a day before: we’re extending our sale on that thing you need! To .. yesterday, when it ended! Haha on you! Haha all OVER you!

IKEA: Swedish for FAIL.

This time next week we’ll be 26 hours away from getting the keys to our very own new home!

Today would have been my dad’s 95th birthday. Normally I celebrate by making his favourite dish and having a little party in my head, but my apartment is too much of a disaster area to think about cooking. Instead, I’ll toast his honour with some fish n’ chips and try to be happy knowing that he would have been really proud of me.

Still love you, dad.

In a Herculean effort to get rid of as many unnecessary things as possible before our move, I had to make some hard decisions.

Contrary to what Ed thinks, I’m not a packrat – I’m a sentimentalist. I keep things because of the memories attached to them; of what they represent in my life: a milestone, an important building block in the cornerstone of my development, something very hilarious from my past. Every single thing I own has a memory attached to it, and what may appear to be random junk to baked potatoes is actually a big pile of importance.

That being said, there were a lot of things I didn’t NEED to keep. I went through a large file cabinet worth of memories, and tossed out almost all of it:

• Paystubs from my job at McDonald’s ($4.50/h is nostalgic)
• Notes from my best friend in high school (we had an unfortunate habit of writing in pencil; most of the words are unintelligible)
• A huge folder of Marvel Universe-esq entries my friend and I created when we were obsessed with comic books and super heroes
• All my report cards with the only exception being my 7th grade report in which my teacher wrote that I needed to write about something other than Transformers for a change
• Awards given in junior high – I was a little keener
• A Sunday School attendance certificate – lols
• The certificate announcing my successful completion of Charm School
• Copies of my high school newspaper (I did keep one copy of the suicide paper, just to keep me humble)
• The Penthouse magazine from 1981 that taught me about sex
• A very nice letter of reference from my boss at the Government of Fish in Victoria
• My first level Lotus Notes certification

I kept a few things, though:

• School pictures – I was adorable in kindergarten, although that baseball mullet I had is regrettable
• Notes from my dad
• The STS-07 User Guide
• Tax returns
• The letter from the government explaining why I failed to graduate high school

I do have a conundrum, though. In the spare room is a wooden trunk that is overfilled with stories my dad wrote. There must be hundreds in there; dad loved to write and he faithfully sent me copies of every new story he had. What am I going to do with these? They take up a lot of room, but I can’t bear to throw them away. Dad was old school in more ways than one; a lot of these are written out long hand. He did eventually start using a typewriter, which really increased the amount of writing he was able to do. I’m frankly surprised that the comma button didn’t just break off the typewriter in protest – as much as I abuse my good friend the dash, my dad LOVED the comma.

I think I’ll check the box when I get home. If the paper is still in good shape, maybe I’ll try to scan each story into a PDF and email them to my estranged siblings. It’ll still break my heart to have to get rid of the stories, and I’ll probably keep the ones in longhand – but having an electronic copy is better than not having them at all, and will take up a great deal less room.

Today is Walkthrough Day. Pictures and measurements coming shortly!

i love floorplans.

I am cutting edge and full disclosure so I’m trying out this new thing called FormSpring. It’s a tool that allows people to ask you questions (anonymously or otherwise), which you then answer at your leisure. It’s kind of neat. Go on, submit a question. There may actually be a secret or two I haven’t shared with the universe yet.

Both Ed and the Sexy Mortgage Broker were drunk, so it seemed only logical that I join them. After all, these were the most terrifying papers I would ever sign in my life – the only way I could look at that enormous number and not run screaming into the night was if I was otherwise occupied with keeping my balance. The fact that we were at a party and our combined blood alcohol level hovered around 7 was of no consequence; there were papers to sign!

That night, I became a man in more ways than one. I knew I had to time it perfectly – drink too early and I’d sober up before we began; drink too late and I’d be sober during the deed and incoherent for the rest of the evening. I almost missed my cue – Chris pulled out the papers and stumbled into a quiet corner with Ed while I was busy making the random baby cry (not on purpose; I just don’t know how to hold small children), so I pawned him off on Miranda and told the guys to wait: I had drinking to do.

I needed alcohol in my system, and I didn’t have time to mess around. I raced downstairs and surveyed my options: beer, vodka-based fruit punch, wine .. tequila! I can do tequila! There was no time to fuss with mixers, so I did what any sensible person would do in that situation: I drank it straight out of the bottle.

I AM A MAN!

I drank the entire (50ml; mini-bar sized) bottle in three quick swigs, refusing to let the taste register. A few deep breaths later, I was ready for action: let me at those mortgage papers! Just try and stop me from signing my name in 5” letters across the top of each page! The room was spinning, I barely remember what Chris was explaining to me, and I’m pretty sure I spelled my name wrong at least once – but, my friends, we are *done*. The papers are signed, the lawyers have been notified, the truck is booked. All that’s left to do is get the keys (December 18th) and move our collective asses in.

Madness?

THIS IS SPARTA!

Technically, the papers we signed aren’t legally binding – something about all three of us being highly intoxicated – but that just adds a whole new level of awesome to the entire thing.

YAY!

MY BOOBS WERE ON PURPOSE, OKAY?!

Last night was Miranda and Reilly’s housewarming party, and it was one of the best evenings I’ve had. So much fun! Their new place is perfect for parties, and there were many awesome people and a random baby and the bubble chair and a photo booth and and and. It was such a great time!

And I’m only a little embarrassed for myself!

Although we had specifically designated this party as NOT A SWINGER PARTY, the innuendo was flying fast and furious from the moment the invitations went out. Comments were made about my boobs, and I replied saying I was going to wear a corset to prove .. well, I don’t remember what it was I was going to prove, but the corset would have done it. Unfortunately, the night before the party, I tried my corset on at home – and promptly had a mini panic attack. Both my corsets are a little tighter than they were several years ago, which isn’t the problem – but actually maneuvering myself into one did claustrophobic things to my shoulders, and I didn’t think I would be able to get into the corset without freaking out that I’d never get OUT. It’s a fairly easy fix – relace the corsets with longer strings – but one that couldn’t be done before the party started, so I did the next best thing.

I wore that One Shirt – the one that everyone has in the back of their closet; the one you can’t bear to get rid of even though it’s inappropriate or doesn’t fit or is falling apart. My One Shirt is a t-shirt I got from The Gap years ago, that features a very deep V-wrap neckline. It’s very flattering, if I ignore the fact that my boobs are almost entirely exposed. I can only remember one time that I actually wore it out in public, and it was to the Potato Farm so I wouldn’t look out of place – so immoral is this shirt. Since I couldn’t rock a corset like I wanted, this would be an excellent substitute.

I honestly can’t remember what point I was trying to make, but I feel that I got it across. My boobs were shamelessly on display and meant to be manhandled by many people. Shan suggested glitter, so there was that too. The photo booth took many pictures of people groping me or nestling in my cleavage – as with the bubble chair, my boobs were there to be enjoyed. Go for it. They won’t be quite this naked in the future.

I admit, I was also drunk on purpose – for a reason I shall divulge later – but I almost wish I hadn’t found the whipped cream in the fridge.

Almost.

I am never going to be able to go into politics, but at least I have an awesome rack.

the mountain, the loft, and sparta

This is gonna be SO AWESOME.

My friends, I’ve been handed a challenge.

I need to get a document to my mother for her signature, and have it send back to me.

This is the year 2009. I should be able to email it to her, have her print it out, sign it, then scan it into a PDF and email it back to me, right?

As if it’s going to be that easy!

My mother doesn’t have a computer. I am not exaggerating when I say that I do not think she has ever touched a computer in her entire life. What would be a quick 10-minute task for most people has suddenly turned into a conundrum: how did we get documents back and forth before the internet?

I could fax it, I suppose – but to where would I fax it? My mom works in a bakery; one that does not fax cookies and cakes to hungry people. They don’t do catering or large orders, and I don’t think they have a fax machine. My mom’s lawyer retired – can’t send it there. She doesn’t go to any libraries or coffee shops or any place I can think of that might be useful for this. Short of mailing the thing to her, I don’t know how I can make this happen.

Maybe I could try forgery?

Nah, I’ll just mail it. This is a pain in the ass. I should be allowed to sign something on her behalf – after all, I have POWER OF ATTORNEY. Surely I can use it for something like this – or is it one of those things that sound totally awesome but are really kind of useless, like winning the lima bean lottery or a doctorate in ancient Klingon? Too bad. It sounds really cool, but what good is it when it comes to minor annoyances?

Things that completely and totally break my brain:

• Being denied a pug
• Evidence that Sasha was not getting better
• Spending 4 days in close quarters with my mother
• Financing issues

There’s a (supposedly small) hiccup with the bank, and our mortgage is not yet approved for financing. Our conditions expire tomorrow, and apparently the bank wants to do an appraisal of the building before they decide. I’ve been told by Ed, our realtor AND our mortgage guy that this isn’t anything worrisome or a repeat of last time, but that does little to assail my fears: I’m convinced they’re going to find a reason to deny our request again, and that we’re fucked. The thought of this broke my brain last night, and on the way home from work I had a full-on crying freak out. It was awesome. Ed had pull over for some reason, and I just sat in the car and cried and cried and cried.

I’m getting used to limbo. Perhaps I should set up a cot.

If the banks decide to pass, I don’t know what we’re going to do. We’ve already given notice at our apartment building, not to mention the packing we’ve already done.

Everything is sucks.