Where do I even begin? How ‘bout I just start at the point when everything took a nosedive toward Hell? That’s as good a place as any…
So, you know we “sold” our house, right? An email from my closing agent on Tuesday stated that we weren’t hearing back from the buyer’s lender, so we might not close by month’s end. To which I basically replied, “Aww, HELLLLLL to the NOOOO!!!!!” For reasons I don’t fully understand – and probably shouldn’t be privy to anyway – it looks like this buyer wasn’t going to be able to get the loan. Within half an hour, my house was back on the market. Five minutes after that I was leaving work early for fear that I would either burst into tears or upchuck on diocesan property. I got in the car, dialed my mom and whined to her the whole way home. When I got home, I crawled into bed – still on my cell phone – and continued whining and crying and laughing with mom while trying to come to peace with the fact that my house is not “sold” and I basically wasted the last five weeks locked in a contract and bending over backwards to make everything work out for this dude. It took my Mom, a lot of prayer, and a too-full glass of wine to bring me enough sanity to focus on the next step. And now I know…it’s “Sale Pending” until the dotted line is signed!
Wednesday morning as we were headed our separate ways, Dom laughed at our situation and remarked, “Hey – today can only get better!”
Work finally started back up on our new house after a solid week of rain. Dom got a call from our builder sometime during the morning on Wednesday and was told we needed more dirt. To the tune of possibly $2,000 more. I was fit to be tied. Because, really…if I end up spending $2,000 more on this house, I want it to be for something more impressive than dirt, yaknowwhatImean? Dom tried to wrap his head around how in the hell they missed the estimate by 230 yards of dirt, and our builder tried to come up with ways to keep us from needing that much more dirt – without sacrificing the steps I want at the front of the house. It was finally agreed that I needed to meet with the builder at a home with 5½” front steps so I can determine if I like those as well as I would have liked the 7” steps I was originally scheduled for.
As if I would know the difference!!
And our builder said as much to Dom, but was kind enough to let me in on the situation and allow me my input. I like the 5½” steps just fine, by the way. After leaving the step-house and deciding that I could indeed make it back to work on time, I got a call from Dom…
“You’re not going to believe this!!! Somebody wants to see the [old] house today.”
Holy Mother of Pearl!!!! My home is a wreck, there are beds in my dining room and I am certain all three toilets need to be scrubbed. Oh Em to the Double Gee!!
I had two hours to get the house “show-ready.” So I sped home, gobbled lunch, vacuumed random dust that had been stirred up in the moving of furniture and cleared a path amongst said furniture. Then I realized I had already packed and stored the only toilet brush we owned.
And here’s where I get to sound like Heloise: In a pinch, a Swiffer duster substitutes quite nicely as a toilet brush. It really does.
With less than a half hour before people were scheduled to arrive at my house, I scrawled a note of explanation for the dumpy, shacked-up, box-riddled appearance of this home I need to sell. And I felt the pounding of a headache.
A conversation with Dom an hour later revealed that he would be meeting the Foundation Man (and final authority/judge of our dirt) and our builder at the site to discuss why we are 230 yards short and who is going to pay this $2,000 to right the wrong. The meeting was scheduled for 3:30. I decided on my own to show up unannounced and get the scoop in person. After all, it’s my dirt too…
I shared my situation with coworkers, who all agreed that I just needed to drink. The consensus was that I should stop at Tony’s Liquor and get a frozen margarita on my way to the meeting. In hindsight, I really should have because I sweated my butt off in the 100-degree heat while I looked at my dirt. And my head still hurt.
I’ll spare you the details of dirt fluffing and compression factors, sand and clay and just-the-right-mix theories, and just tell you (as I was told) that we do in fact have just enough dirt. No more is needed, after all. The Foundation Man assures us it’s all good. I don’t know where in the hell the 230 extra yards came into play, but they are a memory now and all is just as it should be. I don’t exactly have to understand it to be happy with it.
So, we have enough dirt for the house and enough wine for me. I’m sure Tony’s wouldn’t mind keeping me stocked with frozen margaritas, either. At the end of the day I came home to a sweet reply to the hasty apology I left on the kitchen cabinet:
Awww…I wish I could offer them a drink.