Well the measurements of the new place are a little daunting. Hit a sudden realization of just how small the bedroom is. I’ll have a three foot path around one side and the bottom of the bed. That’s it. No room for shelves or anything else and I’ll lose the use of the drawers on the one side. Not a tragedy, but will take some adjustment. On the plus side there’s a reasonable amount of closet space.
I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do with my trunks, though. I think it’s time to retire them, along with most of the contents. When you look at a box and think hard about it for five minutes but still can’t remember what you put in there because you haven’t opened it in over a year… chances are the contents aren’t important enough to keep.
But that’s a hard decision, still. I have a lot of my mother’s old work stuffed away in my shelves and boxes and while none of it is terribly relevant to me directly (wedding / family / event photos of people I don’t know and have never met) it’s still a connection to my mother and hard to just… throw away.
But I must trim down my pile of stuff and reduce the amount of debris I currently walk around.
Today, once I finally convince myself to head back home, I’ll begin sifting through my books, packing some and recycling others.
Went to see the latest Michael Bay mechanical ‘splody flick last night. If you like expensive cars and sexy-yet-vapid women, and if you have a fetish hard-on for military hoo-rah, it’s definitely the film for you. All sorts of soldery posturing and gun-toting along with complex explosions and death defying leaps, with a single point of feminine uselessness, who’s hair is always tousled yet who’s makeup is never mussed, managing to turn the tide of battle by belittling the masculinity of one sidelined villain and manipulating him into fighting his former ally just to prove his balls haven’t rusted.
Yeah, a very North American film.
Although the use of Leonard Nemoy as the turncoat villain, and his utterance of his once heroic idealist Star Trek line (“The needs of the many…”) to justify his now villainous reign is a funny and ironic little jab. Textbook example of how any idealistic view can be twisted to justify pretty much anything.
Got my bike back from Universal Cycle today. I had finally taken her in for her annual tune/check-up, something I really should have done a couple of months ago. Now she seems to rev higher with less effort and yet sounds even more bad ass and obnoxious. I just know I’m going to have to change her pipes out at some point or risk the wrath of the upcoming noise level bylaw. For now, though, I’ll use her throaty roar to intimidate willfully ignorant drivers who change lanes without looking. Making them wet their drawers is little retribution for them nearly swiping me off the road, but it still feels good.
I’ve been making holiday plans lately. I had tentative plans to ride down into the southern states with the badger and his friend, but in the absence of any detailed feedback on said trip, and given that I had to set my vacation days down on the calendar well in advance, I’ve accepted a better offer.
But since plans aren’t firmly nailed down yet I’ll hold off on actually saying what they are for now. The only thing that’s certain is that I’ll be out of town for the last week of August and the first week of September and I’ll need to find someone to take care of Carmen while I’m gone.
I signed the papers for my Condo on Wednesday. Honestly, I wish I had recognized the lawyer’s name when my mortgage brokers recommended him. Turns out he’s the same guy handling our divorce. Not that there’s any conflict between him handling our divorce and him handling my Condo purchase, it’s just that I don’t have a lot of faith in him getting things done on time. For one thing… he’s still handling our divorce. We had the paperwork finished and handed over to him last year. Last. Year.
When I was in his office on Wednesday he still had our paperwork off to one side of his desk. On the floor. I know because he went and checked through it. He told me the rules for divorce filing had changed (last year) and that he needed a photo of me.
“While you’re here,” he said, “I can get a photo of you and we can finish off your paperwork.”
Pathetic excuse. Why? Because he had used that excuse back in April when Ronya had called him up to ask why our paperwork wasn’t processed yet. He claimed it was because he needed a photo of me to finalize the paperwork and that I was proving difficult to get ahold of.
“Oh really? Do you have his number?”
“Only his home phone,” he complained, “and he’s never home.”
“What’s the number you have?” Ronya asked.
He rattled my number off to her.
“Yeah, that’s his cell phone. He keeps that with him 24/7 and it has a message service. Even if you somehow missed him you still could have left a message and I’m pretty sure he would get back to you. In fact, I bet if you called him RIGHT NOW he’d answer.”
Which he did, and I did, and I laughed when I heard him. There’s a particular sheepish tone to man’s voice when he’s been utterly imasculated by Ronya, and it’s pretty universal. The moment he introduced himself as the lawyer handling our divorce I actually laughed out loud. His voice echoed the hollow, withered, and defeated tone of a man who’s balls are firmly in Ronya’s grasp several miles away from where he’s currently sitting.
So I sent him my photo, back in April, and here we are in mid-July with our paperwork still stacked on the floor next to his desk. When I assured him that I had already sent my photo to him he looked doubtful.
“Are you sure?” he said, as he shifted over to the teetering pile and began flipping through it. I suppose I should be thankful we’re at least on top of the pile. My photo was only a few pages down, clearly printed on a letter sized peice of paper. Not only had he received my photo, he had printed off a copy and included it in the file.
He then went on some lengthy excuse about some rules changing down at the courthouse and how he couldn’t approach his usual judge to get it processed and would have to go through longer channels, yadda yadda yadda.
I didn’t care. I wasn’t there to argue about whether or not he was handling our divorce properly, I was there to get the papers signed for my Condo before the possession date, which was in less than two days. I was entirely unconvinced that I would actually be in possession of my Condo before the year was out. I started to wonder if it was too late to tell my apartment managers I wouldn’t be moving out just yet.
Then it turned out I would need two pieces of ID to finalize the whole thing, and I didn’t have anything more than my driver’s license. This annoyed me a great deal. If he had told me in advance I would need two pieces of ID I would have made sure I had my passport with me. As it was he told me to go home and scan in my passport and e-mail it to him.
I had visions of my mortgage documents being piled beside his desk, complete with a printout of my scanned passport, being gradually buried in his pervasive apathy.
But apparently I needn’t have worried. I signed my papers, rode home, scanned my passport, and e-mailed it to him.
Half an hour later my phone was ringing. It was the Royal Bank calling me up to offer me a line of credit. Seems they got wind that I was now a homeowner again. I made an appointment down at the branch to talk it over with them towards the end of the month, after I’ve moved in.
Friday I picked up my keys. Today I finish packing and disassembling my shelves. Also a trip to the Good Will is in order.