On Saturday we made an offer on a house in Grand Prairie, TX, which we both really loved.

On Monday we were told they’d accepted another offer on Friday, but it was contingent. We agreed to give it 24 hours.

On Tuesday – today – we made an offer on a different house in Grand Prairie, TX.

You can see it here.

This entry was written longhand in a notebook at 1:20 AM on Sunday Morning, 12 September 2004.

I’m sitting in bed, this horribly small double-instead-of-queen with conventional-instead-of-pillow-top mattresses rented bed, a towel beneath me (cheery, yellow, cotton, MINE) because it’s THAT time of the month, and the (also rented) sheets are white (very soft cotton, but still, white)and I’m terrified of staining them since the dogs have already left their messages on the carpet. I’m sleepy and crampy and craving peanut butter, which we have, but I’m not in the mood to actually walk to the kitchen. It is, after all, two whole rooms away, and I’ve finally gotten comfortable.

I spent all afternoon, with Fuzzy’s help, de-spyware-izing my laptop, which is serving as my primary – my ONLY – computer while we’re in housing limbo. (Anyone who doesn’t consider an apartment to be housing limbo has never owned real estate.)

Fuzzy, typically, is still computing while I sit here finding comfort in the flow of liquid ink (deep blue) over faintly blue college-ruled paper (I prefer green, but, paper is paper at this point). We have a tv in here, but expanded basic is worse than nothing at all, as there are no movies and no Bravo, and we have nothing to put the damned thing on top of anyway, so we watch the same basic channels on the rental tv in the living room, which is weird and black, and I still haven’ figured out any channels except O and the weather channel and scifi. Where the hell is NBC? Anyway, I’m kept company by the sound of NPR’s overnight BBC service issuing tinnily from the speaker in the rented and extremely cheap clock radio, with a counterpoint of Cleo snoring. Every so often she turns on her back and sticks her paws in the air, and I reach over and rub her warm pink and black belly. My dog is a total hussy, even when she’s asleep.

I need to sleep but my mind is racing, my imagination flirting with outlines for this year’s NaNoWriMo project, as well as with things about my new home state that I want to learn, discover, experience, remember, research. (About Nano, you’re allowed to do prep before the MONTH starts, just no actual writing.)

Fuzzy is concerned about me. Cleo wrapped her leash around my foot and I fell and banged my head on the stairs and the timing coincides with me being spacey, distracted, and muzzy, but I don’t think I blacked out really, and there’s no lump, and as I told the man, all my instincts are SCREAMING at me to make this place into a home, but it’s not home, it’s temporary, and 90% of our stuff is in storage.

I’m babbling and losing my train of thought, and becoming more interested in the BBC interviewing Toni Morrison than in writing any more tonight. I want to rest and float on the sound of distant voices.

And so I shall.