So we got into the new house this morning. We emptied the cars and then we went to sign the paperwork. I wish they’d left these guys:
I took that picture in March, when we were house hunting. They were just moving out the day that were looking. We had about 17 places on our list and a handful of them came off the market the first day we were up. It was a huge sellers market in the spring. Of the rest, some looked better online than in reality and a few just weren’t going to fit our style or desires. Which left us the place we ultimately got. They were moving out, big family, and didn’t want to let us in because they were concerned it would be too messy. By the time we got to go inside they were down to that “Do I really have to go back and get that last little bit? Can’t I just set fire to it in the backyard?” stage. The house was not messy. In fact it looked fine. It is a fine house. And two of the things they still had to pick up were those decorations above. I was really hoping they would stay with the house.
Anyway, We’re getting settled, see?
This was all done out of order because of the processing agency and the many layers of paperwork and bureaucracy couldn’t take care of itself in time and there was another meeting and so that changed our schedules and so on. And, oh, simultaneously the moving company was arriving with all of our things. Four guys directly out of central casting who were here to do a job, politely, quickly, and leave. And they did. They only balked at carrying all of my books, so I slung some of those boxes around.
Some things you’d just rather do yourself, anyway.
By the time we’d come back from signing the paperwork, and picking up lunch for the movers, they were almost all done. Those guys hustled. And then we were left with all of our things scattered all over and trying to figure out where to put it all.
This is actually easy because, when we were house shopping, I’d brought a tape measure and compared all of the rooms to our old house to make sure everything would fit where we needed it to. By then we were on our second realtor on this end of the deal. The first guy, let’s just say, didn’t work out.
You knew people like that, say the boyfriend of a friend of yours. You know, the young woman who didn’t know of her own self-worth and so never noticed he was walking her into an emotionally exploitive relationship? The signs were there, you could see them. I didn’t need that out of a realtor. Could you imagine that person standing there while I produced my tape measure and spent six minutes decides which wall the china cabinet was going on? So we thanked that individual, apologized for this not working out and found another one. And, it turns out, she was the selling agent of the previous owners of this house. They had to upgrade here in town. So here we are. Full of boxes, new door locks and so on.
All of the housing difficulties are done. The literally-going-crazy-before-our-eyes realtor representing the buyers of our old house. The logistics of getting a move done. The fired realtor here who went on and on about how they were doing you a favor, the actual realtor and her stand-in. The negotiating. The paperwork, the emotion, the finishing of the packing, the where-the-heck-is-my-charger, the making sure the cat never slipped outside. All of that is out of the way. Now, it is just us and the boxes.
And this wacky ceiling fan I most definitely did not buy at Lowe’s:
