08.05.04 - 5:44 p.m.

I haven't spent any time at the new house after dark, because there isn't any furniture, I don't have any lamps there; because it gets dark so very late at night, and by then I want to be spending my time on other things. Last night, though, I was there after dark. I had to feed the cat, and needed to check the mail to see if my new checks came (I ordered them two weeks ago; the bank charged me for them a week ago, I still haven't received them) because I need to pay bills, and, well. After dark: I love it. It rained yesterday, torrents and torrents of rain, and the driveway was rutted between the houses, filled with mud. And, for that matter, the driveway is too steep and sharp for my little car, the undercarriage scraps on something if you try to pull it up between the houses. The only option is to leave it on the steep part of the slant, or park the car on the street. I think I'll park the car on the street, even though it would be oh-so-convenient if I could pull it up between the houses. Easier to unload groceries, and the like, no need to worry about how close you can park to your own house.

I wonder how much it would cost of have someone come along and pour a new driveway? More than I have now, but it might be a worthwhile investment. I don't believe, though, that anything can be done about the angle, that would always be a problem, it's just too steep a rise between the street and the house to accommodate a small car.

Neither here nor there: I was at the house last night, and I love it at night. I love being able to walk out onto my porch or my deck and listen to the storm, I love being able to sit on my porch - cross-legged on the floor, because I don't have any porch furniture - and have the quiet street around me. I love the privacy. I love the deck, I love the darkness, I love the brilliant opacity, the large windows, the space, the damn wood trim that I am going to have to strip b/c it has been painted one too many times, the big picture window onto the front porch, the phone in the kitchen stuck onto the wall, and -

[note: HOURS LATER!]

- hell, yeah. I got the escrow thing fixed, and the mortgage company is sending me a check for the overage: aka, the amount I overpaid at closing for future property taxes. It's like Christmas, except, you know, better.