We haven't really made a whole lot of progress on the house. In fact, I'm just going to copy and paste that last sentence right now and keep it somewhere handy because I fear it's exactly how I'm going to be starting most of my blog posts between now and, I don't know, Christmas?

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My new commute, until now, has been pretty innocuous. We get on the train, we sit there and read for thirty minutes---I have rediscovered reading! I now have a time and a place to read!---and then we get off at the other end. We do this twice a day and it's fine. Sometimes I get my phone out and Yelp all the restaurants and bars we're passing because we move through entirely different neighborhoods now and it's always nice to know where you can get a decent falafel. Sometimes Sean and I chat, sometimes we don't.

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Picture yourself at the beach in July. What are you wearing? A bathing suit, right? Maybe a t-shirt and shorts if you're there in the evening. What you're not wearing at the beach in July, I'd expect, is a long-sleeved t-shirt under a hoodie under a jacket with a fur-lined hood, wrapped in a pashmina, and topped off with a hat.

Welcome to summer in San Francisco.

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Today marked the very first time Sean and I made the commute on public transport from our new house to work. Don't get me wrong: we lived in it for three days last week before heading off to Barbados on vacation, and they were all days we could have tried to figure out the bus or the train, but we drove to work instead: mostly because our heads were packed and spinning at that point and one more new thing to understand would've driven us, I think, to the brink.

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There are many things for which I strongly believe I have now become too old. Those really short tiered skirts, for instance, or overnight music festivals where you have to camp in a field. I am also, at thirty, too old for standing in bars. I’d like to sit, please, if that’s okay. Could you move your beer for me, young whippersnapper? I need a place to put my Metamucil-laced glass of sherry. And my false teeth.

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Internet, I have loved living in this apartment, I really have. I've loved the hardwood floors and the big, breezy rooms and the original crown molding and the checkered tile in the bathroom, and I have really, really, really loved the dishwasher, but today someone put a bag of cocaine into the panel of our intercom system and Internet, I think that's the universe's way of saying "you've booked your movers for June 24th, you say? Not a moment too soon!"

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Buying a house is so weird. It's not like buying a car, which is the second-largest thing I've ever bought in my life. It's not like buying anything. It's basically like signing a bunch of paper and then waiting and then signing some more paper and then waiting and then signing some more paper and then waiting. Right now, we are on round seventeen of the waiting, but I'm pretty sure there's going to be some more paper-signing coming up soon if past patterns are anything to go by. Meanwhile, my signature is getting awesome. Super curly and fancy. You should see it.

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I apologize for the indelicate nature of what I am about to say next---and in particular to any parents or in-laws who do not have time to stick their fingers in their ears before reading it---but holy shitballs, I think we just bought a house.

WE JUST BOUGHT A HOUSE.

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Well, despite all your kind wishing and hoping---seriously, I think I felt the axis of the earth shift as you all crossed your fingers at the same time---we didn't get the Dream House in the end. I pretty much knew we wouldn't get the Dream House, it must be said. What I didn't know, however, was how badly we wouldn't get the Dream House.

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I wasn't going to write about this---it seemed not so much tempting fate as jumping around with my arms in the air, shouting HEY FATE! OVER HERE!---but I find that I can't actually think about anything else at the moment, so consumed am I with the fact that we put in an offer on a house today. The house is wonderful and perfect. The house is everything we've been looking for and more.

Don't get too excited, though: we're not going to get it.

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