Slippin', slippin', slippin'...into the future

Alas, lovely house in the trees, will you truly ever be OURS?

Dang VA loan. I *knew* the government would somehow give me the shaft while simultaneously appearing to help me. Governmental passive-aggressivity at it's best. Looks like the loan probably won't fund in time for the May 15 close, so we've let that date slip to the 21st. The sellers should be happy, their new home won't be quite ready on the 15th. So that's just one more week I'll have to live here, in chaos. Total, utter, chaos.

My very motivated other half began painting the apartment white while I was fending off the cheese knives in Montreal. Which I suppose is a great thing. Except, it makes my nest not my nest anymore, and I've had to retreat into the bedroom as my only recognizable 'safe' space. Working from one's bed is NOT conducive to productivity. The overwhelming urge to lay back and pass out almost overcame me about a dozen times today. As opposed to the half-dozen times a day I usually experience it when not working in my bed. Only the shooting pains in my back kept me from drifting off - pains caused by working in said bed.

Thanks to the same motivated spouse, we are also about half-packed. [Which somehow sounds like an insult. "Those two? They're half-packed".] So that is also a good thing, but we're still a MONTH away from moving, and every day I catch him in the midst of surreptitiously putting things I might need in boxes. Like, all of our flatware. He left about 5 forks and spoons and the odd butterknife in the drawer. Now, you're probably asking yourself, "hmmm, how many spoons and forks does she think she needs at once?" The answer is: more than 5, dammit. I don't want to feel obligated to do the dishes (by hand, the Flintstone way) the minute I finish my meal. Or the day after. Or whenever. Like underwear, I want a never-ending supply of flatware *just in case* I don't manage to get around to washing them. Hey, I'm a busy girl.

When (if) we get into the elusive new house, I will make an offer to the Dishwasher Gods. This, like the hallowed GPS in my car, will be a relationship-saving device. I will pray to them and make sacrifies to them often (but don't let that stop you from visiting). If you get into my car and smell Nag Champa, now you know why. But just listen to how calm my GPS's voice is when she instructs me to "make a right at the end of the road". Virtually blissful, she is. I would be too if people were worshiping me.

ALTHOUGH. There is a caveat to her blissfulness. She's an interrupter. One (of many) of my pet peeves. My good friend C and I discovered this as we navigated our way to Key West with her assistance. We'd be on a roll, in deep conversation, a nanosecond away from a punchline or startling revelation, and BAM! She butts in with some non-essential navigational advice, like, "bear 1/8th of a degree to the right over the next 35 miles". Wha??? I think she just wanted to participate, really. Two girls, longtime friends, in a car, catching up together on a tropical mini-vacation, of course she's going to want to participate! Who wouldn't? Although, if it were a male navigator voice, he probably would have interrupted to tell us, defensively, precisely how to fix all of the relationship issues we may or may not have been kvetching about by purchasing new lingerie and "keeping it fresh". Just a guess.