It's been a legit rollercoaster of emotion since we decided to look for a place to buy last March, complete with falling in love with places that we got immediately outbid on, swearing revenge on useless estate agents, despairing over banks acting like it's a total disaster that my job is contract-based rather than permanent and briefly overreacting to rejection for life cover from two insurance companies in one day (i.e. welling up at my desk and wailing "they think I'm going to DIE!" before pulling myself together).
Then there was the STRESS of the run-up to getting the keys, where two days before the appointed Key Day we were informed that the bank had issues with our application even though they'd already given us approval and basically dicked us around for a week and a half filled with intensely stomach-churning anxiety, checking my inbox for updates that never arrived when they said they would, and three days of waiting for someone in their head office to email a fucking form. It was the sort of antsy stress that led to Wednesday pints in an attempt to blow off some steam, which resulted in a hangover the next morning where my lack of co-ordination had me drop the last tablet in my pack of Ovranette so I ended up on my knees in the kitchen, Googling "missed last pill in pack" while holding a fork covered in cobwebs from unsuccessfully trying to fish it out from the gap between the floorboards and the wall behind a large wine rack. I've had better weeks.
|Slagging off estate agents in Stellar magazine.|
In any case, we got there eventually and it all worked out and now our evening and weekends and any free time in general has either been spent carrying boxes around in a house-wide game of moving Tetris, patching up and painting damp bits on walls, wandering around B&Q without a fucking notion of where anything is and having four hours slide by in Ikea in the blink of a Swedish meatball. We've had a week and a half of no heating because the ancient boiler had long given up on life, where we kept warm by lighting the fire in the sitting room and carrying an electric heater around from room to room as needed. You could see your breath in the hallway, bathroom and kitchen, but as I've been told, it's all part of the "moving into your first place experience", which is nice and all and works as a charming anecdote in that vein, but mostly I fucking hate being cold so YAY NEW BOILER. Then the shower broke, so there was a week of dropping over to the Bear's sister's house for showers in her lovely bathroom that had a Max Benjamin candle burning in it and Kerastase shampoo for me to be delighted by. (I'm so unfamiliar with Kerastase that it took me three attempts to spell it and I had to look it up in the end.)
Also, conversations with me have become incredibly boring, as now when I'm asked if I got up to anything for the weekend, the reply is something along the lines of me being overly excited that our washing machine and dishwasher have finally been plumbed in. I found myself watching The Walking Dead a few weeks ago and admiring kitchen cabinets in the background of a gory stabbing frenzy. I joined Pinterest and have a board filled with bookcases and subway tiles. I swear, I'm >this close< to tweeting a photo of our new Ikea doormat.
So, what I'm saying is that life has become a never ending string of house-stuff that's really exciting for us, but probably not huge fun to listen to and I PROMISE I'll have a Sweet Valley post up soon. After all, Regina Morrow isn't going to kidnap herself, now is she?
*Kinda. And it turns out they were pretty fucking sweet.