briskly, have to move briskly after class, back to the loft to pick up the car and drive over for the house closing.
Hello, real estate agent? I think I am on the wrong road (on the wrong planet?). You’re all waiting for me? Sorry, sorry.
How many people does it take to sign a bunch of papers? Who bothers listening to an explanation of what they are about anyway? They say older people. Older people wont sign anything without going over minutely every word. They’re terrified of being scammed. Me, the attorney, I never read any of it. Bring it on and let’s be done with it.
Presents, I get presents. And profuse thank yous. Hey, for what? I did not build the place! For hustling like crazy to get it ready on time and for the fantastic cleaning job you did. (I did do a fantastic cleaning job. The place sparkled when I said good bye to it last night.)
We can’t wait to move in. And the neighbors! So friendly! Yes, definitely, but I did ask them last night if they would love you more than me and they promised no never in a million years, so don’t hold your breath.
My real estate agent gives me a gift certificate for a day at the spa to relax after all this moving craziness. Today, for the first time in over a month, I am not driving any boxes over anywhere.
I zip to Whole Foods in the spiffy (leased from a friend) car that I am loving so much. It is NEVER going back to its original owner. I decided. I will hide it and its awesome sun roof which I opened up, warm air rushing in, loud noise of the radio rushing out.
(Meanwhile, the van stands deserted, actually, unbeknownst to him, right close to this guy’s house. Someday I will get around to giving it away to some kid who wants to take it apart with the intention of never putting it together again. Inside, I hid Mr. B. I feel a little like a parent who has left a child abandoned in a hot car. But I refuse to bring Mr. B to the loft until they finish putting up a bike rack.)
I alternate between pangs of such deep nostalgia that it overshadows all else and feelings of euphoria. The house project is complete. The new family loves it. I am free of land. I am free of repairs and gutters and rakes and mice and older appliances and a super old roof, of three bathrooms to clean and salt blocks to replace. Of snow removal, of creepy people-eating vines growing among bushes and plants, of a lawn that looks like the Mojave Desert, of empty rooms holding tight memories and little else.
At Whole Foods, I run into Peder. Twenty-five years ago Peder sold us our condo – our initiation into home ownership. Freaky coincidence to see him today. I wanted to say – hey you! I am done with being a homeowner. One condo and three houses later, I am done. What a ride!
4 hours ago
If Mr. B. needs a temporary home, there's room in the shed w/ our bikes. As for the van, perhaps there's a bottomless pit somewhere in the area into which it could be consigned?
ReplyDeleteI should add, our neighbors' old but not overly decrepit-looking car got warned by the MPD for being parked too long in one spot while they were on vacation several weeks ago, so I'd counsel an occasional visit to the van make sure it doesn't need to be relocated.
ReplyDeleteThey're out to make life difficult for me, aren't they? Ah well, the van's days are numbered anyway. I'm just giving it a little pause in its long and wonderful life to contemplate nature and to listen to some chirping birds. If the MPD can't make allowances for the aging members of our communities, then they are no friend of mine.
ReplyDelete