Random stuff floatin around in my head:
A reader asked if what I wrote in The Spoiled Rotten Adult is an “original analysis,” i.e., my own ideas. They are. I’m sure some Brainy Psych Types somewhere have done plenty o’ writing about the people whom in that post I called “Shruggers,” but I don’t know of that work. I don’t read the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders, or anything. I would—it’s a fascinating book. But it must be said there aren’t nearly enough pictures in it.
In my dream world, “Shruggers” becomes the word for describing the type of personality disorder for which I used it.
In my dream world—the actual one, where I’m asleep—I can also, at will, hover in midair.
This morning my wife Cat and I are going out to see, for the first time, the interior of the home we’re buying when it’s empty. Up until two days ago, it was occupied by a renter. The walk-through is one of the final steps in the home buying process, which is so phenomenally complex I’m stunned everyone in America doesn’t live in a box on the side of the road, since they can’t figure out how to buy a house. In a year the United States Justice Department doesn’t generate as much paperwork. Lenders, loan agencies, Realtors, escrow people, title companies, home owner’s association folk … it’s like one huge administrative train wreck.
Only, you know: No one got hurt, and we’re buying our first house. Final papers should be ready for us Monday. Signing those that will kick in a rapid series of processes I can’t even begin to understand, all of which should result in our taking ownership of the house on Wednesday the 13th. Then, in short order, we have come in the air conditioning installer man, the painter man, the carpet cleaning people, and the housecleaning people—and, finally, to where we are now, the movers.
Catherine (Cat) is Officially Insane. Turns out she (and certainly I) had no idea how deeply and passionately she wanted to own her own home. It’s been a revelation. By nature Cat tends toward intensity. But yikes, man. Basically, I’ve been staying out of the way and trying not to wreck or (God forbid) lose any Vital Documents. She has spent about three months being one major, sustained manifestation of sheer Desire and Focus. Cat now knows more about real estate in San Diego—about real estate, period—than Donald Trump knows about … hair care products.
I, too, of course, look forward to no longer renting. I was reminded of why I hate to rent when I told our current landlady that, two months into our year lease (!), we were leaving. Despite my assurances that we would happily pay every month of our lease payments until we found someone suitable to replace us as tenants—not to mention that our leaving will net her $1,300 ($500 flat fee for breaking the lease; $800 security deposit)—she still called me a “lease breaker” about eight times, in the same tone she might have said “child molester.” (We worked it out, though. I’m actually very fond of this woman. She was just mad because I think she’s had too many experiences with, like, miscreant lease breakers, which I believe she was relieved to understand we’re not.)
Wow. This post of Random Thoughts grew obnoxiously long. Sorry about that. So. Later, my friends. (Oh, one more thing: I found the whole deal with A Broken Soul Cries Out For Our Love extremely touching and inspiring. But you knew that.)