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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Before I shut up about it once and for all, I would like to tell you a little bit about my birthday. First of all, if you can swing it, I highly recommend taking the day off work for your birthday, particularly if your birthday is on a Monday. This way you can stay in bed until 11am, reading your new library book (Lorrie Moore's A Gate at the Stairs, very enjoyable so far), periodically cackling to yourself with self-important glee because NO MORNING MEETING FOR YOU HAHAHA.

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We never actually planned to have a party to celebrate my birthday, but then walking home from work last week, Sean convinced me that we should. "Eh," I said. "Well, maybe just something laid-back."

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I have decided that I cannot possibly go to the cinema anymore. When you go to the cinema, you see, you are entirely too dependent on the people around you to be reasonable and sane. Most people in the cinema are reasonable and sane, of course, but every now and then you get one bird-brained knucklehead who breaks the social contract---the social contract of, you know public sanity and reasonableness---and ends up ruining it for the rest of us.

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I may have mentioned this before but my apartment is tiny. We have a bedroom, a bathroom, a living room, and a kitchen, and basically that's it. Please don't tell me that there are people who have rooms in their house that exist solely for the purpose of containing a washing machine and dryer, because frankly I don't think I could take it. First I'd faint with jealousy---the space! imagine the space!

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