Please don't think I'm looking for sympathy or anything. Ordinarily I always try to look on the bright side and never complain because I know there are a zillion folks who have it far worse than me, but I really hate 2018 so far, so yes, I'm venting a little here.
Which brings me to the next chapter in my sad life. I’m moving, and I’ve learned one thing: I am too exhausted mentally and physically and too darn old to move ever again.
Buying a townhouse has been the one bright spot in an otherwise gloomy year for me. I’ve been looking at it as a fresh start, excited, slightly nervous, but mostly excited. I knew I needed to be out of my dad’s house so my brothers and I could sell it by January, so I was expecting to just get a feel for the market and probably move at the beginning of next year. My awesome realtor took my list of wants and managed to find almost all of them in one property that was available now, but it was on the high end of my budget. I loved it so much, I took a leap of faith and somehow managed to get the place.
You know how it works in the books many of us write. If I were the heroine in a fictional story, I’d be headed toward my HEA at this point. I’d move in next to a hunky guy who would inconceivably fall into lust with me. You know how it goes.
But no, not me.
I wanted to paint all of the yucky beige walls in my new house before moving in. Clean the carpet. You know, some simple things to make it mine. I am on a tight budget, so the painting has fallen to me and my best friend who has become a painting warrior on my behalf. She went over one night and stayed all night by herself to get the master bedroom painted as a surprise for me before my new bed set was delivered. Now, she swears my place is haunted and that she saw a lady in white walk into my closet. Heard strange noises. Some of the paint in that room keeps peeling off even though it had primer. There’s a strange “C” that keeps coming up on the wall, too, she says. Whatever. I figure she was hallucinating from lack of sleep and paint fumes.
Anyway, I had hoped to be moved in by Memorial Day, but what happened?
This past Friday before Memorial Day my best friend calls me to let me know the carbon monoxide alarms are going crazy at my place. What should she do? I Googled and called my other friend, both of which directed me to call the fire department. So, my best friend called them (after getting out) and I left work early. At this point I should note that my best friend lost her sense of smell a couple of years ago. She told me she thought she smelled something, but she wasn’t sure. When I arrived, you could smell gas on the street. It was so strong it took my breath.
“Do you smell gas?” my friend greeted me. “I think I smell gas.”
Bless her heart.
A crowd of my new neighbors — who I hadn’t yet met, by the way — were gathered around the fire truck as firemen geared up and went into my place. They registered gas in the kitchen and garage where my water heater is.
Long story short, I met many of my new neighbors — AWKWARD — and got to know some of the firemen pretty well. None of them were calendar worthy, sadly, but they were super nice. One was even a woman! The fire guys decided I had a bad water heater, but the gas guy arrived and declared my water heater was fine.
At some point, my smoke detectors all went off, even after the gas had been turned off. The fire captain scratched his head after the firemen and woman suited up again, went inside, and gave the all clear.
“I’m telling you, it’s the lady in white!” my best friend declared. “I bet the guy you bought the house from was a serial killer and she was one of his victims!”
Maybe. Or maybe I have a curse that needs lifting. Who knows?
It turns out, all of my smoke detectors are outdated and need to be replaced. They found something wonky with the electrical wiring — “you might want to get an electrician out here” said the fire captain — and my HVAC system is totally kaput.
I’m no closer to moving in because the HVAC guys can’t come until next week, and I’m too hot-natured to say ah, screw it, and move in anyway. Plus, I seriously think I might need a house cleansing. You know, just to be on the safe side. Or a shaman to remove this bad luck following me around.
I’m sure there’s a story in this I can use for my writing. Except in my story, there will be a hunky neighbor and an HEA. A girl can dream, right?