A Girl...

Best Laid Plans

Every time we've driven by the house in the last three weeks, we've been disappointed to see that there's no "sale pending" attachment to the realtor's sign posted in our (awesome! glorious!) future front yard. There probably won't be a SOLD sticker either, slashing across the poster like a beauty queen's sash in triumphant all-caps, and although I know it doesn't really make a difference--SOLD sticker or not, the house will still be ours at the end of the day (I use "day" figuratively because right now it looks like we'll be lucky to get in by the end of the month)--there's still a measure of disappointment in not having the opportunity to mark this rite of passage with a photograph of us embracing next to a four-letter sign whose subtext says so much more: We made this happen together. Look what we can do!

Of course, these Life Events seem never to happen for me the way they do on TLC. I did not marry my college sweetheart, the man I was engaged to; I will not have a fantasy wedding with a dozen bridesmaids; I will not endure a heft across the threshold of my first home by a husband-type man-person; we will not spend the first night in the house together, no furniture, no food, just us, on an air mattress on the floor, camping out in the shell of our new life, all our romantic fantasies echoing off the bare walls. Instead, when we fiiiiiinally get the keys (high noon on Friday barring another display of impressive bureaucractic incompetence), I will pass through the jamb on my own two feet and the arm of my beloved boyfriend, and we will clink tiny glasses of champagne in our new kitchen and swirl a finger in our new the hot tub, and then he will get in his car and drive away and I won't see him until Monday, during which time I will schlep boxes and do laundry and sit on the deck and watch the sun set all by my lonesome.

Starting tomorrow, Simon has a reunion with a group of childhood friends that was planned months and months ago, and although he'll still be in the vicinity, he'll effectively be on vacation from real life. We were supposed to get the keys before he left, and so we've planned and packed expecting to have the keys before he left, and now it's looking like he'll either be pulled away from his reunion for a huge chunk of time to sign (crappy) or we won't get the keys until TUESDAY (crappier still). Add to that the fact that starting Friday we'll be paying for utilities we can't even use, and we'll lose a whole weekend of moving time, which is going to make next week exponentially more exhausting. Plus, starting July 1, we're paying rent on the old place per day, so Time Is Money in the most literal sense. And, roll your eyes if you must, but I'm running out of Perfect Grown-Up Homo(wner) Signing Outfits. I only have so many shirts without skulls or punk bands silk-screened across the chest. If this goes on much longer, I'll be in a barrell and suspenders at the escrow office.

But what can we do? Brokers' assistants go on vacation, banks close at five, and relocation companies (acting as agents for the sellers) just plain suck. Into the chasm I scream, "This isn't how it was supposed to happen!" and all that echoes back is, "It never is, though, is it?"

That said, although it's probably not anyone's idea of perfection, this is a pretty sweet reality to be living. No picket fences or Parisian proposals, but I'm still buying a bitchin' house with the man I adore, and that's an awful long way from shabby, especially considering the many points at which everything--the house, the relationship, the girl--could have veered onto another path. As of now, even the worst-case scenario is a dream come true: we'll be in the house--both of us--by next Wedneday, July 4, and rumor has it we can see San Francisco's firework show from our treehouse.