Failure of the Day: Escrow: The 30-Day Christmas Eve—Welcome to Day 35

The appraisal guy, hereafter known as the Fucking Fuckity Fucker, just sat on the appraisal for a full seven calendar days, making it impossible to get everything done even for a June 30 closing. So, so much for moving on July 2. We re-booked the movers, and rescheduled the furniture delivery and the HOA move-in appointment for a week later. Which worked out fine for all those people; they all had the spots available in their schedules, but we still didn’t even know if the Fucking Fuckity Fucker would hold us up even longer to make even THAT moving date unworkable. Oh, and did I mention we were also waiting for biopsy results? So yeah, a nice stress-free week.

But finally, the Fucking Fuckity Fucker delivered the report, and the Best Mortgage Broker in the World hauled ass and got the loan approved and finalized the very same day. And she got a mobile notary to come to our house last night at 8 PM, and we signed every piece of paper in the universe, essentially sealing the deal, if not closing escrow quite yet. Which yes, means all this happened on the exact same day we got the biopsy result. So you think YOU had a big day? Ha Ha. It is to laugh.

We wired the money for closing this morning and now we wait for the process to play itself out. We should be owners on Tuesday. And NOW it feels close. And NOW it feels real.

Failure of the Day: Not Even About Escrow

The surgery went well and easy: no pain and less memory—I recall maybe a total of four minutes of all of Friday. That Ativan is serious business.

The doctor was good to his word and showed me the mass he removed—that part I remember. It was the size and shape of a button on a very fancy little girl’s winter coat. More importantly, it is not malignant; the doc called the following Wednesday to tell me about PASH (pseudoangiomatous stromal hyperplasia), which is a lot of syllables to say fibrous lump that grows for reason we don’t understand. So yay! Another weird and rare disease that is NOT cancer, and 2 more inches of surgical scar to add to my collection. That’s 31 inches total on my torso, for those of you playing at home.

It was an interesting intellectual exercise for me, though. I would not have been sad to see my breasts ectomied clean off, and that’s a complicated thought process: is wishing for breastlessness the same as wishing for a cancer diagnosis? It took me several long days to sift out my serious desire to NOT have cancer from how tired I am of having boobs. But once I had found the distinction, I was surprised by how strong my desire for it not to be cancer was, and then I was surprised by my surprise. So I suppose we’re right back where we started: a weird girl, a weird body, and way too much thinking about both. But a happy ending, at least.