We’re closing on the purchase of our house tomorrow. I should be nervous but I’m not, not the least bit. I’m relieved. You see, after nine years of on and off looking we found the house in the neighborhood in the city we hunted all over the New York Metropolitan area for. It happens to be 140 miles away. A detail. Unless our lawyer, their lawyer or the bank’s representative experiences spontaneous combustion, UFO abduction, untimely demise or otherwise is a no-show (in the last case someone will experience their untimely demise- maybe the creative use of one of those soft-rubber-handled stainless-steel melon ballers. Mmmmmmm, clean, perfect scoops), the deal should be done in time for the start of happy hour. If anyone screws this up, it’s probably going to be the bank. They neglected to give us the figures for our bank checks and to get the title sorted out with the reasoning that, “It’s not until Monday afternoon.” Maybe I’ll use a grapefruit spoon.

Did I mention we’re moving Friday? Oh, a detail. Two-thirds of our stuff is boxed or ready for the movers. There are a lot of small things left, like packing overnight bags and emptying the dressers, and not so small things that have to wait for the next to the last day, like my office. We’re turning up the gas and electric tomorrow- emailed the request, faxed in documentation, they called us back to confirm. If Verizon and Time Warner can do it we’ll have phone, cable and internet by the weekend but I’m betting not. I’m irritated that these bright-futured communication companies can’t or won’t do more in the scheduling of residential service than they did in the 1950’s. They could learn a bit about customer service from, of all places, the power company here.

You wouldn’t know it from the sedimentation on my home office desk but I am organized. I like organization and moving disrupts that, I’m depending on a lot of other people, it makes me anxious. Nathan is not taking this move well either and it’s easy to see why: he’s teething- miserable in it’s own right- and the apartment is a maze of boxes stacked taller than him; it’s hot and muggy (ah, summer in Brooklyn…) and the daily routine is not being followed; both Mom and Dad are tense and not paying him the 100% attention he expects (where do babies get this insistent idea that the world does, in fact, revolve around them?); to top it off, Mom and Dad keep pulling these squeaking reels of tape around the boxes.