Holy baby Jesus at a hot dog stand. We get the keys to our new house tomorrow!

Well, that's if the lawyer decides to hand them over. When we were there signing papers on friday, I might have made an inappropriate joke or twelve when he was going over the bank's mortgage rules. Nothing major; just stuff about drug smuggling and using residential property as a brothel and a few other frowned upon activities.

"Quiet, Maven," Geekster warned awkwardly next to me.

"It's okay," I whispered. " He knows."

The lawyer chuckled. I think politely, but possibly nervously.

"She's joking. This is what happens when you marry a comedian," explained my husband, sighing.

Whatever. Moving is stressful. Buying a house is stressful. Saying goodbye to a community you've lived in most of your life is stressful. The whole thing is really fucking stressful. So forgive me, everybody, for cracking a few funnies about grow-ops and insurance scams* (Mortgage company of choice, please see note below.)

Besides which, our lawyer wears a tracksuit, which makes him infinitely cooler than I expected lawyers could ever be. I figure he must recognize humour and quite possibly appreciate it. I guess I'll find out tomorrow when I swing by his office to either find some keys or some police officers waiting for me.

I'd love to say we're ready to move, but we are not. I mean, there's a storage container in the driveway of our current home that is 3/4 filled with our worldly possessions, but we still have an array of crap spread about the house I have no idea what to do with. We're in that awkward stage in which we have four days left in this place but will be able to start moving boxes and such over to the new place all week. What do you keep out? What do you put away? What do you bring over right away? What do you keep here until the last minute?

Those are actual questions, not the rhetorical type I find myself asking during a tear-filled PMS week. Feel free to answer them, because I can't. Right now I don't know my own ass from a pickle, and my ass doesn't even resemble a pickle unless there are pickles that are very large and pasty-white flesh-coloured.

And then I'd recommend not eating them because they probably taste like ass.

Anyway, all this to say that I'm overwhelmed, eating bad takeout and microwaveable food, living out of boxes and looking forward to next week when life will have settled down into our regular chaos and not the moving type. Until then, I bid you adieu. I'll update on the Facebook and the Tweeter as we go along, and promise many stupid future blog posts about our new life in Kanata.


*Dear Mortgage Company: Clearly, we just want to move in and live a perfectly legal existence. I can't even find time to put out these days, let alone manage an entire house full of people putting out. And pot would make my house smell even worse than it already will with three boys in it. Talk about counterproductive. We're just going to move in and be normal.**

** Okay, I lied. We're not normal. But we're not the illegal type of abnormal, just the weird type. And you can't refuse to finance us because we're weird. That's against some charter of rules or some such, and I have a tracksuit-wearing lawyer who might get all up on your bidnis about it.***

***I'm not threatening you, Giant Money Corporation. I would never do that to the entity that decides whether or not to lend us large sums of cash. I think you're rather wonderful, actually.****

****I am not hitting on you.*****

*****Unless you want me to be. *Wink wink*