What a week. What a motherfucking week.

On Sunday, we slept for the first time in what I now have several reasons to think of and will continue to refer to Mayberry, RFD. We’ve time warped into a 1950s sitcom village. It just ain’t right. But, anyway, we slept here.

And we woke up here. Apparently, we’re now living here.

And, on Tuesday, we watched some serious history being made. I pretty much had given up on ever voting for a winner after eight years of hating my country for it’s almost majority choices. In 2000, I sat up all night and into the next 17 days, thinking who are the fuckers who voted for this man and knowing and believing that not as many folks, in fact, had. In 2004, I was distraught, disheartened and incredulous that anyone could see the prior four years and the quickly devolving war and go for more.

This election, though, holy shit, I really do feel “hope.” That’s a change.

There is nothing else I can really add that hasn’t been said better by others. So, onto the mundane.

If you want to see the destruction and reconstruction of moving day on Sunday, it’s here. Unbelievably, we got it done. I even eventually got caught up at the paying job after taking a couple of days off and stressing out. It took me until late today, but I’m actually feeling mildly less jangled. God, I fucking hate moving.

We’re ass deep in boxes and will have to stay that way, because we have to fly out to a trip to Vegas we started booking (and paying for) well before the house-buying notion became an idea, let alone a reality. We’ll also need plenty of time to be able to remember where the light switches are, figure out the doors and locks, and generally navigate around not as visitors but as owners.

We’re just not yet suburban homeowners to our cores. For example, there was the Halloween raccoon incident — When we foolishly left out candy for possible trick or treaters, and I showed up the next day to find a porch full of tooth-mark-studded Milk Duds. Experienced suburbanites know about the critters.

Tonight, we got a little lost wandering the streets of identical tract houses. We knew we had gone too far when we hit the creek and saw a pasture with horses.

On Tuesday, it was my leaving the garage door wide open all damn day, because I forgot to press the little clicker button as I drove away. From up the street as I was coming home, I smacked myself on the forehead realizing about nine hours too late the error of my ways. Within seconds of pulling into the driveway, our new neighbor just the other side of the garage I had neglected came rushing up to introduce herself and let me know that her husband had been home a chunk of the day and kept an eye out.

I’m living in a neighborhood where our two, not inexpensive bikes, in plain view, unlocked, in a wide-open garage, stayed there all the damn day and into the dark of night unmolested. Who are these people?

Topping that off on the way to work the next day, I stopped for fossil fuels to fire up my vehicle and make the new commute. As I pumped my gas and thought about nothing but the smell of the large, iced coffee on my passenger seat, up popped John. I call him “John,” because that was the name on the patch on his clean uniform shirt. John proceeded to wash all my windows, my windshield and my mirrors. He then wished me a good morning. I returned the sentiment and drove away.

Who knew there was any gas station left in the country pumping service with a smile? I only wish his name had been Gomer.

I’m becoming pretty suspicious. If things keep up this way, I’m certain an alien abduction or streets of cannibals can’t be far behind. Somewhere there is an ugly dark Steven King heart.

Technorati Tags: Barack_Obama, California, campaign, Campaign 2008, elections, moving, suburbia, United_States

What a long day, a long weekend and a long week of prep. Closing the door on the old place, it was looking like it would need more than the Maid Brigade M. had already called. Although the remnants were merely paper and trash and detritus from living daily.

We’re here now. Hard by the Pacific Ocean. We’re in the suburban dream that I fled, a fast and decades long flight. The kind of neighborhood with kids playing football in the street and seriously hardcore Halloween decorations. Actually the hardness and coreness of the decorations gives me hope. You got to be a bit of a step from Stepford to climb on the roof and line up giant spiders crawling from the foundation, up the exterior walls to chimney.

The moving truck out front was the sad beacon that alerted the ‘hood to our new presence. John next door was carrying a pizza with toy boys trailing. As I drove up like maybe 10-15 minutes after M., he’d already heard that John was divorced and his ex lived a couple streets away with the boys and shared custody. Holy shit, it couldn’t have been 90 seconds of instant suburb intimacy.

Later that same day, Eileen the neighborhood watcher, who the prior owners had told us about introduced herself. She’s been here 54 years and knows the dope on all the houses. Our update was only two other couples had lived in this place, a young couple who left long enough ago for the next couple to live here 30 years. Followed by the non-dwelling flippers, who she let us know worked morning and night on the place.

It’s like I moved into a fake sitcom America. Only thing keeping this world from being Sarah Palin’s America is the distinctive left tilt — Obama signs and “No on Prop 8.” Thank fucking christ.

We have one room stacked high with boxes. I saw deep in the box that says “Dee’s clothes inc. underwear.” It worries me to have to dig deep for clean panties.

The HD cable is seemingly well-connected and the intertubes, hence this weblogging thang. The sofa, though, has apparently fallen prey to appendicitis. At least that ultimately was the story when we both tag-team called Macy’s and finally got an answer as to when/if the couch would be delivered. Salesperson James apparently didn’t get through placing our order into some delivery system before being stricken. Alas.

Hope James is alright.

It will be a long slog getting stuff out of boxes and into normal. It will likely be a longer slog to feel “home,” mortgage payment or no. But, home it is and will be.

Technorati Tags: Bay_Area, beach, mortgage, moving, real_estate

God, really, I cannot find any statement too hyberbolic for how much I freaking hate moving. I’d take the McCain POW tour over it, I think. Maybe that’s only because I really like pho ga and Vietnamese spring roles.

This morning’s fun was rushing up the Peninsula from our old apartment in order to greet the cable guy. Despite getting up at 7:30 a.m. or so (and tossing and turning in anticipation of getting up at 7:30 a.m. or so), I rolled in about 15 minutes after the guy with the truck and the coax cable got there. As of about 9 a.m. we had HD, high-speed internet and landline. At least I think we had two of them, I forgot to bring a phone and the HD television at about 49 inches huge is going in the big old moving truck with the professionals.

If all goes well, we’ll be in our new den whilst I gnaw at my cuticles and nails and we both watch the Super Bowl of event for news junkies. After we vote down here, our last vital act in the old neighborhood.

After lining a few shelves and vacuuming everywhere furniture will be showing up tomorrow, I came back to the apartment in the pouring, driving rain. Just the kind of storm to get the weather folks of Northern California jumping on threats and exaggeration laughable to the rest of the country. RAIN, THUNDER AND LIGHTENING, OH MY.

We walked around in the rain and grabbed some lunch. I was wearing new sandals that are supposedly custom-fitted to my feet, which took me far, far, far, far longer to receive than the promised two weeks when I decided to give them a shot during the SF Marathon (M. ran, I slept in our hotel room).

Maybe it was the dirty puddle I accidentally stepped in or maybe it was something in the custom orthotics. Either way, I looked down as M. laughed at me to some kind of mystery sudsing.

With dreams of the foot-based mystery I’m off to retire to worried, fitful, neurotic rest. The only good I can say that I am currently feeling — thank god the clocks are rolling back an hour.

Technorati Tags: California, moving, Pacifica, real_estate, Daylight Saving Time, suffering