Ultramundane.com -- It's Just Not Natural.

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United States, California, San Francisco, The Mission, English, Spanish, Casey, Male, 31-35.

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Saturday, May 29, 2004

Democracy, Sausages, And Mortgages.

Nobody told me that buying a house would literally give me nightmares. This morning was the second of two since we signed paperwork where I've had very clear anxiety dreams. Yesterday's was quite literal: the building was falling apart before my eyes. I don't think you need Swoon to interpret that. At least today's nightmare was a traditional "being chased by bad guys" dream, set on a sketchy and dark strip of Divisidero Street. I also dreamed that the police came to chase the bad guys away (who weren't so bad) and that I was running away from the cops too. Come to think of it, I was playing Grand Theft Auto for quite a while last night, wasn't I?

But of course I'm anxious about the process. There are so many moving parts in this. It seems like every time we say something is the last step before we're done, we discover another document that we're missing, or another issue to be addressed. And we're doing it while trying to beat the clock of rising interest rates. When does the lock expire? Tick, Tick, Tick...

Then we hear things like: "Those are just estimated documents. They have to send that to you. You can even throw it away." Or, "The numbers will all work out in the end; just trust us." I have to start to wonder about the process at that point. Is all this needlessly complicated, or is it just me? Do I really want to be a part of something this complicated? Of course, by the time one gets to this point, it's far too late to run away.

It's been interesting buying property together as a "non-married" couple. (The process itself has really highlighted our natural strengths in the relationship: The Boyfriend deals with whatever comes up in a professional manner, and I escape into fantasy games whenever the numbness starts to wear off.) Several times throughout the course of the process I've thought how much easier this would have been if we'd been legal spouses. And that thought alone is frightening enough for someone with commitment issues. I've also read that it's easier to get a divorce than it is to stop owning property together. I somehow doubt that advice is meant to be comforting, but it makes the Boyfriend grin with glee.

I seem to be diving off of the commitment issues high board.

But I laughed a lot when the Boyfriend had to sign a form asserting in part that he was "an natural person." I'm glad that they didn't ask me That would have been an inconvenient time to question whether or not I was a replicant.

11:33 AM PST (link)

Wednesday, May 26, 2004

Granola Bars For The Spooky.

The vending machine in my workplace has a big banner across the top: "Free vend to every 60th customer!" However, the typeface they use is jagged and hand-drawn, so I can't help but read "...every Goth customer!" Sometimes I stand in front of it and demand my free candy, to no avail. It knows I'm not hardcore enough.

The other day I went to get a healthy snack out of it: A Granola Bar. OK, not so healthy, necessarily, but at least a little better than a Three Musketeers. I had exact change and pressed the letter and number and watched the Archimedes' Screw spin and spin...and stop. Fuck.

(Side note: I think "An Archimedes' Screw" would be a great name for a cocktail. I hope they'll be made available in vending machines somewhere.)

I did my best to shake and rattle the rack, acutely aware that the machine fully intended to fall over on me, flattening me, thus stopping the uncomfortable mid-afternoon staring contests we'd been having as well as decisively concluding this argument. I leveraged myself against the wall next to it and give it a good wallop with my backside. At least it moved a little, I thought. Hey, I've finally found a benefit to my rapidly expanding derriere.

That's when I noticed I had an audience.

Sheepishly I pointed out my granola bar, clinging for dear life. "No, don't let the fat goth guy eat me! No!" He smiled that smile at me...you know, the one reserved for the insane and the hopeless, and I let him purchase his packet of cookies. I suggested, still trying to cover up my earlier vending machine booty bumping, that it would be funny if I got the free vend right now. He smiled that smile at me again, and walked back to his desk.

I gave up on the idea of shaking my granola bar loose, put another dollar in and pressed the button for a second pack. The rack spun, the packets dropped. Then I heard an odd beep and the sound of four quarters dropping into the coin return.

I looked up at the ceiling and said, "I really wish I had a bajilion gold pieces!"

I had to take the quarters and find this random co-worker, just to prove to somebody that it had happened. Triumphantly I showed him two granola bars in one hand and four quarters in the other.

He smiled that smile at me and said nothing.

That's OK. He just doesn't understand the bond the machine and I now share. Sure, maybe it was just dumb luck; but maybe it really does want to give me free candy. Maybe I need to wear eyeliner and a silver Ankh pendant next time. Or maybe it just liked that thing I did with my butt.

01:47 AM PST (link)

Tuesday, May 25, 2004

Close Excel, Open Photoshop.

sadspreadsheet (13k image) I sent them a spreadsheet, asking for some information. They responded, asking for the very information I had just sent them on the spreadsheet. I sent them back the information and yet another spreadsheet, asking them to finish filling in the spreadsheet. They send back the information I last updated in the spreadsheet and tell me that the information that I need is still coming. They do not attach a spreadsheet.

I have a very lonely spreadsheet. You understand, I'm sure.

Thank Odd this project is nearly finished.

12:18 AM PST (link)