Last Edit November 20, 1995
It's the move from hell.
Really!
I set foot in my new house, and I use that term loosely, on Monday.
My 40" TV died.
My tub doesn't drain.
I can't find enough outlets.
My gas stove smells like gas. And I'm not cooking.
My clothes dryer isn't installed.
It hits 90 degrees by noon - something about a black tar roof. Single pane glass. 40 year-old windows.
The windows don't open. Not easily. When they do, they won't stay open. But they won't close either.
The drapes shed ten pounds of dust as I drag them shut. No awning. No overhang. No trees.
It's a fun week.
By the next week, I have found my nylons. I'm still not sure about my shoes.
I do have car keys. But not the keys to the house I left. So soon things depart.
I am ready to adjust.
Saturday is a good day for fixing things. After all, we work all week. Saturday is for errands, for repairs, for maintenance crews.
I plan ahead.
I call.
I schedule.
I am efficient.
All is ready.
The guy for the tub is due at 10AM
The TV man before noon.
I am weed-eating my 3-foot deep patch of back lawn. I have no mower. My feet are green.
So are my hands.
I'm a mess - but my lawn looks good.
Of course my new neighbors must drop by to say hello.
The tub man comes in and pulls apart the tub.
Part way.
Oh oh - it's frozen.
It has been for some time.
"Really?" says I.
"Oh yes," says he.
I run to the phone to call the Realtor.
Something about non-disclosure.
Something about the tub needs to be removed, a wall taken out, whatever.
Oh well.
There are two bathrooms.
"Can you hook up the gas dryer?" I ask hopefully. Washing clothes would be nice. Drying them without a line nicer.
My bra hangs on a moving box. My son's shorts dot the shower rod. Shirts hang wherever. I gave up on sheets.
"Sure," says he.
I have shoved the dryer under the do-it-yourself stairway that runs to the do-it-yourself attic room of questionable merit. He'll need to run a pipe. I can catch lint in an old nylon. I don't tell him that is all I have to wear at the moment. He goes off to measure.
I am hopeful. I go back to weed-eating the front patch of grass.
I can deal with this.
I'm O.K.
I'm not O.K.
"Sorry, " says he. The gas won't shut off.
I run to the phone and call the gas company.
Tuesday they say. They insist.
Oh, well.
The plumber can come back Thursday.
Another week of damp underwear. Maybe I should buy a clothesline. Except the dogs would pull things down. And eat the line.
I continue weedeating.
The TV man arrives. Oh, good. I miss the big set already. It's the only one I can watch without my glasses. Ask my kids how often I lose my glasses.
Oh, joy.
He goes in to bravely determine if there's life left in it.
No joy.
There isn't.
The power supply (think $400 and up). On top of the broken screen (think teenagers fighting. Think $600. We watch around the hole. It's on the side.) Not worth fixing.
Time to get a new one.
They are giving them away.
Oh, why not.
My almost-fourteen says I deserve it. I enjoy it. Whenever I can control the remote and watch my shows.
I clean up my green feet.
We find a map and find the store.
I look at 50" and 60" sets. A set size should match your age. My house is too small. We would need to sit in the backyard.
I settle for a new 45" projection set. It's time I lied about my age anyway.
They will deliver that day. I buy the last one.
Great.
They even deliver as promised. We won't miss our shows.
They are running late. A little.
I tell them I can decode the remote, they can leave.
Like all men, even these very young ones, they are incensed that I don't need to hang on their every word.
Good-bye I say. Women with green tinted feet do feel like being annoyed.
I watch a movie. Maverick. Seems appropriate.
The VCR ate the tape.
I am not to be disturbed further today. I have had enough. I take a screwdriver to the tape unit and bodily remove the tape.
I hook up one of my other VCRs, from a set turned to the wall for lack of outlets.
I go to bed.
Saturdays are good days to accomplish things.
Maybe next week I can find my shoes.
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