Homeowner’s first post

What is one supposed to feel after just signing for their first home? I don’t really feel anything. Not different, not some how more mature, just… the same. I’m excited, don’t get me wrong, but the actual signing of the papers was very anticlimactic for me. Joe and I each signed and dated about 50 sheets, shook some hands, and went on our merry way. Our realtor was more excited than me I think… but he is just generally a happy guy anyway.

So, obviously my first thought it that I’m a total weirdo for not being psyched. Friends and family have more enthusism for it than I do. It’s almost as if it just felt like the next step. Like, I’ve always known I would live downtown in an awesome condo, and now I’m just making my dreams a reality. Which… should make me feel ecstatic, but just feels underwhelming. Like, BAM, something I’ve been working towards and saving for is finally here and okay, now what? 

Joe just went to class, and I got a ride back to the hotel (the one we we are staying in because of the apartment flood) from our realtor. Now I’m at the bar eating a Caesar Salad because I have no kitchen.

Funny story: when we were getting our cashiers check at the bank yesterday, I happily looked at the teller and told him “we are going to buy a lot of drugs with this money!” After a few seconds of an awkward stare, I got a laugh. Joe was outraged. He is a little more tense in situations like that… and I guess I was too, which is why I had to make light of the situation  No worries, I set him straight that we were actually buying a condo instead of drugs.

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Wetness

My Saturday: finished BSG (Battlestar Galactica for you newbs) after putting if off for weeks after weeks because I knew it would pain me so, proceeded to cry, took a shot of Effen Cucumber vodka at 11am [SPOILER!] in memory of Kara, and then cried some more. Let’s just say that in conjunction with my PMS, it was really a terrible day.

Flash to Sunday/Monday. 2:30am rolls around, and I find myself awoken by a noise. Granted, the windows were open and a fan was going… but this felt different. I woke Joe up “what is that?!” He came to instantly, looking around to identify the noise. Quickly he jumped out of bed to investigate.

Once I got a better ear to the noise, I thought the sink was on, maybe the shower. I thought back to Fringe, which Joe got me hooked on and thought about who could be in our apartment, or what. “Oh lord, it’s coming from upstairs. The ceiling is leaking” he said. I jumped out of bed, threw some clothes on, and told him to call the 24 hour maintenance line. He had to go online to look up the number. In the mean time,  I went in the bathroom to see what the damage was. It was coming out from the sprinkler hole, but not the sprinkler itself. I  ran back to the bedroom and grabbed a few trash cans to collect what was falling.

Joe got ahold of the pager number and left a message for our maintenance guy. While we waited to get a call back, we surveyed the damage. Turns out I missed a line; it was streaming out from the vent above the toilet too. We arranged a couple of those large moving buckets underneath, which helped catch some of the splash. We also cleared out the closet and other areas adjacent to the bathroom.

An hour later, we heard sirens and made jokes about the police coming to help with how much water was flowing. Then we looked outside and realized they actually did stop in front of our building. We hypothesized about dead bodies until the fire truck left 20 minutes later. No ambulance? Probably everyone is alive.

At about 4:30, after two hours of constant flow, we heard a knock at the door. He had already checked in upstairs and, after finding the door chained shut, had to call the fire truck. Makes sense when you think about it… but pretty scary too to think about the truth that there really could be a dead guy above us. Natural causes, Joe assured me.

I wish I had one of those awesome CSI reenactment videos because that would totally add to my story here. But, this is how I see it happening. Drunk guy upstairs, realllllllly has to use the bathroom. He runs, not wanting to wet himself, into the bathroom. Slipping on contact with the tile (he forgot he was wearing socks!), he slides into the toilet, breaking it in half, and lands in the bathtub. Because he is in the tub, he is guarded from the water erupting form the toilet, and soundly passes out.

Flash to eight hours later and our place has been ripped apart. Baseboards pulled off, carpet in disarray. Doors  taken off hinges, and about 20 commercial sized fans blew in each room. This is because not only did the water come through the ceiling, it found its way into the floors and began coming through every crevice it could.

Now we are sitting on a lovely hotel rooftop bar (where we will be staying for the next couple nights) overlooking downtown Minneapolis (Le Meridian – Chambers) and Joe just stole a drink of my martini because I said, in response to him telling me about his fake baseball league players stealing second in a playoff game “oh please tell me more I am so interested.”

KT write home.

Last week, I was sitting at the Dallas Fort-Worth airport on my way home from a business trip. Two co-workers and I were sitting at a restaurant, grabbing a drink and bite to eat before boarding. I was finally able to find some postcards at the airport – there weren’t any at the hotel or gas station. Sitting with my cocktail, I finally began to write.

Joe likes it when I send him post cards. Even though I was only gone for a night, and I was writing it on the way home so I would most defintiely beat it back, I think it mades him know I’m thinking of him too. Especially on trips where I’m so busy we don’t even talk on the phone. Well, we also aren’t good at talking on the phone with each other, so that plays into it.

Anyway, I was sitting there writing when I began to feel a little silly. Am I the only one that writes a postcard home on every trip? Was I trying to hold onto a shred of childhood that no longer existed? What is work/life balance and am I a fool for shooting for it?

Not an uplifting post…

Nothing interests me anymore. I don’t want to do anything but sleep and maybe watch TV. I try to make myself read, but can barely get one page into anything I attempt. I haven’t written anything in ages and I feel like a total worthless slacker. I find it hard to convince myself to do anything once I get home from work, unless I can guarantee I’m going to be “productive.” Right now, that is what I feel is standing in my way. The constant urge to feel like I am accomplishing something and actually making progress towards a goal. Anything that doesn’t do that isn’t worth my time.

And then again… what am I working towards? What would make me feel productive and are any of my goals even reasonable? Not “reasonable” as in “can I achieve them” but as in “do I want to achieve them.” It feels like we are all just chugging away in a deep hole and I’m having trouble figuring out what the point of it is.