I finished reading This Boy’s Life this morning, which I liked, and immediately started in on I Could Tell You Stories, by Patricia Hampl, which, so far, I kind-of loathe. I can’t quite put my finger on the source of my distaste for Hampl’s work, but I think it might have something do with the fact that I’ve lately been consumed by thoughts of my new place and how much I want to get moving and that today Stephanie started packing and I wanted to be packing with her.
The dark thoughts were waiting when I thought about packing too hard, though. In looking forward, it seems to me that it may be another month before we get to close on our house and move in. A fucking month! How do I figure? Well, the bank is dragging its feet and won’t have us approved by the end of this week. The week after, I’ll be at the residency. The week after that, which follows the Fourth of July holiday, it so happens that the sellers will be on vacation. Finally, the week after that may work, but we still have to wait for the bank to approve us to even try and schedule something.
I’m so pissed off about this right now that concentrating on a collection of snobby essays that is providing me no joy whatsover has been rather difficult.
I want this whole house-buying process to be concluded. I don’t want to have to worry about losing my job on the day before the bank finally approves us. I don’t want to have to worry about more of my mail getting stolen out of the front lobby of this atrocious place I now call home. I don’t want to worry about the two men who’ve been seen pulling on the handles of cars in the parking lot at night. I don’t want to worry about people stealing laundry out of the washing machines downstairs. I want out. I want out now.
I suppose that the reading should distract me, but it’s really just pissing me off more. I want to be done with this book very badly. I want to be on to the next step in so many things and I keep being held back.