Delay

Delay. That little word that strikes annoyance and trepidation into the hearts of holiday travelers at airports nationwide (will I make the connecting flight?) has now traipsed, unwelcomed, into our affairs in the H-- household.

As of Wednesday, we are not moving until further notice; at this point, it may be after Christmas ~ or even later.

Due to falling market prices, and rising interest rates, our mortgage bank that had all our paperwork and pre-approved us, appraised and inspected the house, etc, decided not to sign that all-important final piece of paper "at this time". I didn't realize I had such a visceral reaction to those simple words "at this time", delivered in a lofty, breezy manner. Kind of the same way most people deliver information about the weather in Cancun when they aren't going there and no one they know is there. It's mildly interesting, but doesn't really affect you, so it doesn't matter much to the speaker.

Bottom line is, it's their money, so they can do whatever they want with it. My first impulse was to suggest a place they could store it (*ahem*) but figured it's better not to burn bridges. Our adjustor has us on file, and when things settle down in the area, we may very well be fine in just a few months.

We're just waiting on the right timing; apparently this isn't it after all. The owner is still holding our contract and holding the house for us, because she said she knows that we're supposed to get it.

So, we wait. (Quit praying for patience, whoever is doing it!)