(This closet looks like the inside of my mind right now, minus the calm Jesus statue)
This is going to be the kind of post that should probably just be an email to my sister or mom (you know, the people who will feign sympathy for me), but I'm making the executive decision to share it with you, too. Lucky you!
So. Last Sunday we went to the house to clean the floors, put down some rugs, and start cleaning things out. Peter hooked up our washing machine (which blissfully works!) while I scrubbed the tub. I was working my magic with my beloved magic eraser (tubs have to be the grossest thing to inherit from someone else, am I right?). Water is going on and off, and after lots of scrubs, I am happy.
Downstairs, Peter had moved on from the washing machine to the fridge. When I came down, he pointed to a giant grey mark on the ceiling shaped like a Hawaiian island and said, "It's wet." He's very calm about these things.
But ughhhhhhh.
The one plumber we knew was booked solid all week, so we did our best with Yelp. This one has a happy ending because he came on Tuesday and fixed the leak.
On Monday, our beloved contractor called us to say our house had "one bag of worms after another." I know! But we do love him, especially because he's very honest and he loves talking with us and showing us stuff and he's very non-pushy and practical (if you're in the Boston-area looking for someone, let me know! But you can't have him until he's done with me :) Sooo we went over to the house on Tuesday morning to check out the worm bag. This time it's that all the walls of the entry addition were made with particle board. We had the Ikea of additions, so to speak. It needs be replaced with real wood that won't absorb crazy amounts of water or pose a fire hazard.
I mean, this is a happy ending, too, because I don't want moldy, particle board walls! I want normal walls, and they will be fixed, and it won't be that big of deal (hopefully - cross your toes for me).
On to the next. All this week we've been bringing over clothes and breakables. I had this grand plan to get a lot of stuff set-up prior to our move-in, like the kitchen and our closets; I know this is sort of crazy behavior. Anyways, Peter was game, and since he was still on summer vacation for most of the week, he did most of the heavy lifting in the packing + transportation + unloading department.
Last night, we brought over our final load (which was Peter's fourth of the day, OMG). We got everything out, the house was vacuumed, the kitchen was in working order. On the way over I asked if Peter wanted to grab a burger at one of our favorite spots. It was around 9:00 p.m. and we were so starving, and this was just such a great treat idea.
We hopped in the car, and it goes, "Click, click, click, click, claaaaaank." It was so mad at us. Our car is eight years old, but it's led a relatively cushy life free from long commutes and such. And we had pushed her to the limit this week. Our battery (the original!) was finally dying. I called AAA and spoke to the nicest employee ever who checked all over to see if someone could come replace our battery right then, but no such luck. While I was speaking with her, Peter called in Thai take-out, which is always dramatic when you have a soy allergy, but he succeed. The woman was going to send someone out to give us a jump.
(Here's another weird twist - I always have jumper cables in my car, but this week - this week only! - they were in our old apartment because of all the other stuff we were hauling in the car.)
We were waiting for our take-out and our AAA jumper person to come, when Peter decided to try one more time to start the car. It worked. We left it on while we waiting for our noodles and then hustled home. This morning the car made the same noise when we tried to turn it on, so AAA was called again, and this time a battery-replacer guy was available, and he was my hero of the morning. Happy ending there, too.
And yet! Later this morning our movers came and everything is a hodge-podge of placement because of all the work being done on the front of the house, which is annoying to a swift un-packer like myself. But the real worst is that both of our box springs don't fit up the narrow stairwell to the second floor. I know we'll probably need to buy new split box springs and it will all be fine. But we want to open up the stairway in the not terribly distant future anyway, so it just feels awful to have to do that for this temporary fix. I know I'll get over it (whatever we decide to do), but it's sort of set me over the edge for the time being. Not happy (yet).
I know people are always like, "Hardy har, welcome to homeownership - where disaster never ends!!!" But that's not true all the time, right?! This was just a particularly rough week of initiation?!?!?! I hoping on the Jesus statue in the closet that that's what it was.
If this were an email, I would end it here, but since this is a blog post, I feel like I need to wish you a very happy Labor Day Weekend (which I really do wish for you!). Hopefully we'll be going to the Berkshires for a last summer hurrah, but I feel like just saying that could jinx the entire Western Mass region.
