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Well, tomorrow, C and I will be closing on a house in West Orange, New Jersey. A lot has happened in the past month, so let me briefly get us up to speed. Since this post, we wound up putting an offer down on the above-mentioned place. Then we went through some negotiations in price, followed by inspections and contingencies, and settled on something pretty darned good, both for us and (I think) the seller. It's nice when everybody comes out happy on these things. At the exact same time, we wound up receiving an offer on our place in Baltimore, and that had it's own set of negotiations, inspections, and contingencies. I think everybody is happy on this one as well. But it was dicey for a bit, and all this made for an interesting holiday filled with back-and-forths between us and various agents and attorneys.

I haven't written much about the new house until now partly out of a superstition that once I type the words, the whole deal will suddenly fall apart. And I'd really hate for that to happen because it's a great house and we're even more excited than we were last time we bought one of these domestic abode type doo-dads which — wow — I can remember it like it was yesterday, or — oh, I don't know — seven months ago. But there, I've had these words on my screen for a couple of minutes now and . . . nope, no phone calls. Looks like we're still good. But just in case, why don't we all find a little wood and knock on it.

Nice. Thanks.

And so begins another frenzy of disruption and change. Utilities canceled at the old place and re-ordered at the new one. Addresses swapped out again, one by one, for a long list of magazines, credit cards, insurance companies, and other subscription services. And as this whole process did the last time, it once again alarms me how much my name and address is tied to. And, while I'm happy and grateful for all of the things I have, I've lately found myself longing for . . . nothing. Or rather, I do long for something and that something is nothing. Maybe nothingness would be a better word. Whatever. What it boils down to is this: I long to be off The Grid. Floating anonymously, far from the the dock of obligation or identity. In fact, this now holds the number one slot for "wildest fantasy" in my mind, which when you think about it, is a pretty sad commentary on the state of my imagination and, let's be honest, my libido.

But I can fantasize all I like. I'm firmly rooted in The Grid now. There's no getting around it. My name is already on multiple loan documents, and while it will be released from one of those at the end of the month, it will be added to another tomorrow. So it's a wash from that standpoint. Then, there are the legal identifications. I just renewed my passport (which is totally unrelated to the move, but still relevant to the theme here) for another ten years so that I can travel to Mexico in March without being detained on the way back in (my current passport is set to expire during the trip). And when we move to Jersey, one of my first stops will be at the DMV, where I will register with the state so that my identity can be firmly emblazoned on a piece of plastic, along with my photo. And maybe I'll receive another combination of numbers that people can use to identify me, in addition to the nine I already have. And I will tell the state — and by extension the federal — government where they can find me at all times, you know, just in case they need me. And I'll also let them know which cars they can find me in, in case I ever decide to skip town, because I'm helpful like that. And that reminds me: on Saturday, while I'm still punchy from signing a ream of papers and writing checks to people, I'm going to acquire a second four-wheeled A-to-B device. I'll do formal introductions later. For now, I'll just mention that it is a truck and I can't wait. At the same time, though, it's yet another thing to register. So while it symbolizes a certain amount of flexibility and freedom, it also chains me even tighter to The Grid. Damned irony.

And that's the central tension I feel in my life these days. That split feeling of excitement and dread at each turn. The excitement of new digs, new wheels, new jobs, new adventures. And the simultaneous anxiety these things create. And the way each of these things serves to "root" me . . . in place, in time, in a role. And I guess that's what life boils down to: a never-ending series of trade-offs between having the personal freedom to do what we wish and the compounding responsibility and obligation we assume as a result of those pursuits . . . our "rootedness." The more "independent" we become by acquiring the things and assuming the roles that make our lives easier and more "comfortable," — the more dependent we become on the network of utilities, services, and social constructs that keep those things going and the more fixed we become in those roles. Which makes things like moving, however exciting, a huge pain in the ass.

And now that I've ventured down into this murky, moderately depressing territory, let me step right back out of it and say, I can't wait to get on with it, already!

The next couple of weeks will be spotty with the Internet access. There will be the move, of course, and then once we get to the other side, it looks like it's going to be a week or so before our FiOS gets installed. (Speaking of being tied to The Grid, I'm totally psyched to finally be able to get FiOS!) Maybe not having Internet at home for those first couple of weeks will be good for me. It'll force me to get the new digs organized. It'll also no doubt force me out to a nearby Wi-Fi spot so I can occasionally do that pesky thing called "work." But hopefully there won't be anything terribly urgent to attend to, and I'll be able to just stay offline a bit. Off The Grid. Untied. Whatever. I have no doubt I'll gravitate back to it the first chance I get. Because I guess, when it's all said and done, I kinda like being tied up. Crap, how did this come back to fantasies?

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The happiest part of my day is picking up coffee from Common Ground on the Avenue. The saddest, most tragic part of my day is taking my last sip. Man, I really need more excitement in my life.

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When I drove by Camden Yards late last night on my way back from DC I thought I could sense something bloody had just occurred. 30 runs. Wow.

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Wednesday was our big move to Baltimore. As the moving van and I were driving out of DC, there was a sudden downpour of rain mixed with frequent thunder and lightning. Some might view a thunderstorm on the day of your move as a bad omen. But I'm trying to think more positively these days. That's why now, two days later, I'm still asserting it was a great move. Damnit.

Great.

Except for a few, itsy-bitsy details:

1) As we hit the 50-295 split, I noticed the moving truck wasn't getting on the parkway to Baltimore with me. This was surprising to me since I had just gone over the directions to Baltimore with him before we left. I called him to ask what was up. He said he couldn't get on the BW Parkway with his truck because he'd get a huge fine. "But I told you we were going 295," I said. "Yeah, I didn't realize that was the same thing." In other words, he knew enough to know he could get a ticket on the BW Parkway, but not that the BW Parkway was 295. A little frustrating, but I didn't let it get to me. I had to go a little out of my way to pick up C from work so this would give me extra time to get up there before them. See? This is how we look on the bright side.

2) About 45 minutes later, I got a call from the driver. The truck, which - and this might be stating the obvious, but I want to bring the point home - was carrying all of our worldly possessions, including our bed, our spare air mattress, photos, music, memories, and a cooler full of frozen food - had broken down. According to the driver, who was speaking to me from somewhere off of 495, it probably just needed oil.

3) As it turns out, the truck needed more than oil. In fact, it was so debilitated that it had to be taken back to the mover's warehouse in Sterling, VA. No passing go. No collecting $200. Directly to Sterling. And all of those possessions I mentioned earlier? They had to be transferred to another truck. A newer truck. Now I might say (if I were somebody who was prone to sarcasm) that it was a dang good idea to have taken out the 'old' truck on our DC-Baltimore move. You know, instead of the newer, more reliable one. Luckily, I never use sarcasm if I can help it. (Such a vulgar word, sarcasm, the root meaning of which is tearing of flesh.) Here's how we shed this one in a positive light: the move was so good, it had to be done twice. And besides, they promised to deliver our stuff that night in the new truck. How could we possibly be upset?

4) The crew arrived at our (empty) house around 9pm. It feels weird to move into a house under the cover of darkness. Not that it was a very 'covert' operation. I think the truck knocked most of the branches off the trees on our block. And nothing beats the sound of a growling diesel engine right outside your window on a week night. The only thing that could have possibly made us any more loud and imposing is if we set off a few fireworks to mark our arrival on the block. Naked. I think we must be off to a great start with the neighbors.

5) Two of the guys who loaded the truck in the morning did not accompany the team leader on his late-night delivery to our house. So two new guys came instead. The good thing about this was that these new guys were actually much better than the two guys from the morning. The bad thing is that the new guys knew nothing about what the two guys from the morning had done with the hardware to our furniture. (You know, all those pesky screws and bolts without which assembling something like a bed frame becomes a remarkably complicated task.) But again, let's put this in a positive light: resting the mattress directly on the floor put us closer to our new house, both in body and in spirit. Again, how could we complain about that?

6) There was no financial compensation for all the inconvenience. And we were really too tired to argue much about it. But they totally deserved the money. You know, for a job well done. We've tried calling the company a couple of times since then to express our undying love and gratitude, but they must be really busy. They're not returning our calls.

So, you see, there were just a few minor glitches. But otherwise, it was a perfect move. So if you want the kind of experience we had next time you move in the Balitmore-DC area, be sure to contact Relocation Systems in Sterling, Virginia. Ask for Wayne or Cathy. Oh, and make sure "D" is the team lead on the move. He's a true multi-tasker. He's really good at taking personal calls while he 'supervises' his crew.

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I don't really know the best way to say this. I've tried about twenty different sentences. Which is ridiculous. Because it's pretty simple, really. So I'm just going to say it: We just bought a house in Baltimore. Or to put it more accurately: we just reached an agreement on a house in Baltimore. There's still a few things to attend to. There are a few more initials we need to put on the offer we made yesterday. Then there are the inspections. And details on loans to work out. But that part's easy. The hard part, the negotiations, are over.

And so 'excitement' is one word you could use to describe my frame of mind right now. 'Elation' might be another. 'Relief.' There are several words, actually. And I'm plagued by a condition where I can't really decide what to do next. I tried pouring a scotch. I took a sip and then, inexplicably, I dumped it out. It didn't seem like the right occasion. Which is strange because I didn't know there could be a wrong occasion for scotch. It's amazing the things you learn in life. Sure enough, there could be. And this was it. What this called for was not scotch, but a cup of green tea. Because I wanted a bit of the mellowness to wash over me, but with just a touch of the alertness. Let me repeat that. Because it seems like a good thing to do. A bit of the mellowness. A touch of the alertness. Got it? Good.

And so, I'm sitting here, trying to remember simple things, like how to construct a sentence without using the clever turn of phrase, "Holy mother of God I can't believe it!", or how to sip from a mug without laughing and dribbling green tea - with a bit of the mellowness and an intsy bitsy touch of the alertness - all over my chest. Or how to stop bobbing my head to the music blaring dangerously loud in my headphones. Or how to stop smiling like the Cheshire Cat. Or how to pass in front of the full-length mirror on our closet door without dancing (just a little) to Aqueduct: Hardcore Days and Softcore Nights as it shuffles onto my iPod.

And right now it's 11:56 pm Thursday night and I'm waiting for C to freakin' land in Los Angeles, already, where she has gone to watch her sister graduate college. Because this is some exciting fucking news, you dig? Like big stuff. And I need to tell people, damnit. I need to tell her most of all. Or I may just explode - with a bit of the mellowness and a touch of the alertness - all over my recently-painted bedroom walls.

Which would be bad. Because this past Tuesday we signed the perfect couple to rent our apartment. And they probably wouldn't care for exploded landlord on their walls. And I really am just jazzed as hell about these people because they really love the apartment. And we really love them. Really. They are incredible. If there was a 'tenant construction kit' and somebody plopped it in front of C and me and said, "Here you go. This is all you need. All you have to do is read the instructions and you can construct the perfect tenants" - even if there was this kit. And we read the instructions from cover to cover - and then re-read them in Spanish and French, just to understand the finer meaning - and then put all the right pieces in all the right places, just like the instructions said to do. Even then. You hear me? Even then. We could not have come up with two better people to live in our apartment. They're like C and me, minus about seven years, several thousand strands of gray hair, and chronic joint pain. I like that they both develop web. And they both play music. And they just got married. Eloped, actually. And this will be their first place of their own together. Which is awesome. Because I think they're going to love it here. Because C and I loved it here. And so I'm really really happy for them. And I'm happy for our apartment - because they fit one-another.

I've been wanting to mention the tenant thing for a while, to talk about how fortuitous and incredible it was that they happened to find us right at the same time we happened to be looking. I wanted to talk about how things sometimes just seemed to work out that way. But there was still the other piece of the pie, which was the house thing. And it was sort of lingering out there. An unknown. And I didn't want to jump to conclusions about our lucky momentum. Even using the word 'lucky' right now makes me cringe a little bit, because I feel like the luck gods will smite me with a whopping load of lard on my car or something.

But it's hard to contain it now. After several volleys of offers and counter-offers throughout the day, after some good natured splitting of hairs over prices and closing dates, we seem to have reached an agreement with the owner. And all I can say is: Three big, full-throated cheers for a balanced real-estate market! Where the buyer actually has some control over the negotiations. Where the asking price is the highest price you're going to encounter along the way, not the lowest. Where nobody mentions things like 'escalation clauses.' Or waiving an inspection. As a buyer, I like this market. I could swim in these waters for a while.

And so, barring any weird things with the inspection, we're on our way to Mobtown. Where we will live in an actual house for the first time since we got married, seven years ago this month. A house. With two freakin' floors. And a basement. And a back yard, with a deck. And a stoop, Hon!

It's exciting. But also a little bit sad. Because opening a new chapter always means closing another. And the last one was pretty damn good. I will miss DC. A lot. I will miss our apartment. A lot. I'm also dreading the actual move. But I'm not thinking of that right now.

Right now, I'm just going to groove to Aqueduct one more time. And answer the phone. I think that's C calling now. I'll post this in the morning.

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When our contractor said he was sending out a 'cleaner' to detail the bathroom, the first image to come to my mind was Harvey Keitel, as "The Wolf" in Pulp Fiction. Which is weird. Because we don't actually have a dead body or bits of brain to remove from our bathroom. Just a lot of dust. But there was something strangely appealing about having a man show up in a tuxedo, possibly swilling a cocktail, a cigarette dangling from his lips, maybe a girl under his arm, and directing my contractor on how he can clean up his own damn mess. And I'd be in my bathrobe and more than happy to make them some coffee, and not that freeze-dried Taster's Choice crap, either, but the serious gourmet shit.

But let's be real, I would never serve Taster's Choice. To anyone. Come on. I mean, what sort of man do you take me for? Oh, and The Wolf would definitely be overkill for this job. Clearly. Besides, I was hoping for something in more of a 'French maid' flavor.

Sadly, when I opened the door this morning, neither of these mental images stood before me. Instead it was a bespectacled and entirely bald-headed man by the name of "JB" dressed in dark jeans, a camouflage sweater, and carrying a bucket of cleaning supplies. He wore a cheerful demeanor that screamed, I know how to get tough stains out and I'm not afraid to do it. Indeed, he appeared to be competent enough, but this was no Wolf. And certainly no French maid.

Overall, JB did a pretty decent job. He's coming back Monday to touch up the tub and the floor. But most of the dust is gone from the fixtures and the sink. Now C will feel more comfortable brushing her teeth in there and we can finally move our bathroom stuff out of the kitchen.

So now we have several DIY things to do around the apartment this weekend. Like sanding. And painting. I also plan to take at least ten showers, you know, to wear the new bathroom in a bit. So I'll be busy, to say the least.

And I suppose I might as well announce it. It's probably time to come out of denial about the whole thing, after all. Act like a grown-up. Alright, so here it is: After we get everything cleaned this weekend, we're putting the apartment up for rent. So if you're in DC and have interest in leasing a large, classic, one-bedroom apartment, brand spanking new bathroom, hardwoods, light-filled, the ultimate in convenience - I'm practicing my ad lingo here - near the Convention Center, a quick walk to every metro line, CVS, Starbucks, Whole Foods, etc, well, let me know. We should be ready to show the place by next weekend. As for C and I, our plan is to move to nearby Baltimore, Hon, where we can still enjoy some semblance of city-living with more space and at a greatly reduced rate. I'm sad, sad, sad because I really don't want to leave the District. But I think B-More will grow on me. It already has, actually, thanks to E&M. And for the first time since moving east we'll have a guest room. So we will be expecting visitors! Of course, there are a few minor details to deal with. We need to get our place rented. And find a place of our own. And move. And a whole host of other extremely stressful minutia related to these things. It looks like this was a terrible time to try and quit morphine. (Just kidding - I would never go off morphine.)

Anyway, that's the plan. There I've said it. I've committed myself. Which I really hate doing.

So, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go have a Nervous Breakdown. And wait for The Wolf, who should be coming directly.

Have a good weekend.

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