A Place to Call Home (Misc) Part III

 

“I think the painters had a little spill,” says Phyllis, the kind-hearted lady who has agreed to help me clean up the microscopic sawdust basted on every inch of the house. I’m at work, so I tell her I’ll have to see when I get home. When I get home, I find that yes, the painters did have a little spill: a three foot diameter eschewing into the brand new handscraped, stained, and polyeurethaned hardwood floors. 
We play shower tango and started using the green shower tub across the hall. About a week went by until our realtor, an expert at spotting issues on the rise, saw something we didn’t- a ceiling hanging low and heavy with shower water.

As a follow-up to the “seeing the outside from the inside” dilemma, it cost us replacing 1/3 of the exterior of the house in order to get our privacy back.  Then the sprinklers broke, and the garage door started screeching so loud it would wake up our whole block.

The next week, I went out to the garage to shove as many things as possible along the wall. Winter was coming, and I wanted to be sure I could park my car inside. I’m not the patient type, so I was proceeding with the heavy lifting sans mate. I was in a particular pickle trying to shove the lawn mower (what’s that? Yes, it’s new!) on the other side of 4 6-foot long fluorescent light bulbs. I missed. Something like a KABOOM went down and shards of fluro bulbs hit me like a dust storm. When I opened my eyes, the entire garage is in a dusty haze, bulb bits everywhere. Apparently fluorescent bulbs contain explosive gas. I walked out, and let the garage door screech behind me. This was an issue for another person.

A week later, I stuffed the glass into our recycle bin. Not only did they not take the weekly recycle, they didn’t take the trash, and we received a first and last warning from the city. We’re on their bad list and we’ve only been there 2 months.

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