First things first. We were unable to get a truly slimy offer accepted on the Cold Spring Harbor house. So we made a reasonable offer, which the builder jumped at in a play-it-cool sort of way. Still, the Grove Street house, which we've dubbed Shoe String Harbor, is a steal. Unless, of course, you need to cluster-bomb it with cash to make it something you're comfortable in.
And as we were negotiating the purchase of that house, we were also negotiating the sale of our house. We asked the buyers to lease the house back for two months, so Jesse's schooling would not be disrupted. They agreed. But it wasn't going to be cheap to lease back our place. And that didn't seem to matter, particularly not to my husband, when he thought I'd be undergoing chemo. No price was too high for a place in which I'd be comfortable. He ignored all my suggestions that we live down the street in a neighbor's flat, where the price was very reasonable.
And then, within 24 hours of signing the lease-back contract, we realized I wouldn't be needing chemo after all. Mike must have already been mulling over the implications of that when I submitted a spreadsheet, forecasting all the costs we would incur trying to create storage space in this house without cupboards, cabinets, shelves, and drawers. I do believe he whitened somewhat when he saw the numbers. Clearly, a woman who didn't need chemo and a house that did need some pricey enhancements would indicate the need for a change in strategy. We contacted the buyers and asked if the lease-back could be dropped entirely. We contacted our neighbor and confirmed that her flat was still available for a short let. Everything was acceptable everybody. We had two weeks to clear the hell out.
So we've been scurrying around like crazed rats. Tomorrow is the big day, aka the Day of Tears. I try to think of leaving as just the bottom of the trough. Things will get better. If I can get through the day without crying in front of someone I don't know well, then all will be well. Goodbye my dear old house. We lost a beloved border collie and a delightful cat here. We raised our baby here. I will miss you terribly.
There are some who are still not reconciled to our departure. My mom, who says our absence will be just like "a death in the family," never misses a chance to tell us that we are making The Mistake of Our Lives. We'd only just started tucking into the spicy Thai take-away I'd brought to her when she began to give the advice she dispenses freely and often. Urgently, she told me to go down to the seaside every day once we're in Cold Spring Harbor. Apparently I need to watch and even measure the tides as they come in.
I grunted in the kind of ambiguous affirmation that I always hope will forestall further conversation on an over-discussed topic, but she tends to take such noises as signs of encouragement.
"Mind what I tell you, when the water starts gittin' higher, you just sell that dadgum house."
For a giddy moment, I wonder if whatever Pessismism Porn Channel she is currently watching has managed to turn her attention from global warming and the economic crisis to tsunamis. At least that would be a different topic. But, no, she's still on about dead penguins, melting icecaps, and rises in ocean levels so abrupt that even we, 300 feet up and a mile away from the Long Island Sound, will be devastated. Mike will later observe that it would be a damned fine thing for us if the levels did rise, for then we'd have sea-side real estate and wouldn't that be worth a pretty penny. "I'm going to go out and burn some carbon right now!" he adds.
I know it sounds churlish, hell, it's even tacky, but I do find myself pleading for more good luck from whatever friendly star has thus far blessed me mightily. My star has given me a tumor so indolent I don't need chemo, and has given me a house sale so quick it made our heads spin. I don't want to be greedy, I tell my star, but would it hurt you to send a devilishly handsome, 68-year-old man with deeply cushioned pockets and a lust for the road to my Mom? In an ideal world, they would be smitten with each other and she would charge off into the sunset in her new $100K motor-home, happily forgetting her kids' phone numbers for awhile.
But I guess that's too much to ask.
Dealing with my mom was just one tiny interruption in the long, headachey blur that is moving house. First came the Vast Culling. In which we made a brave but ultimately futile attempt to get rid of the great drifts of crud that have collected in our garage and in our kid's bedroom. How can it be that she hasn't cared for Bratz dolls for five years, yet there are ten of the dolls' feet, all mismatching, in one corner of a drawer?
By the time the culling was done-ish, we had nearly 30 black plastic trash bags, stuffed with junk you wouldn't inflict on a homeless person. That doesn't include all the stuff I took to Good Will, to Half Price books, to the city's hazardous waste unit. There was the Playmobil, which we got neighbors to take. There was the giant plastic Santa that dear friends had blessed us with when they left our street to move to Massachusetts. They were wise to first show Santa to our then 6-year-old, making it impossible for us to unleash the screams struggling inside us to be heard.
Habitat for Humanity was particularly glad to see me coming. I mean, we had 20 doorknobs, cheap and cheerful, that we'd replaced over the years with better stuff, but then saved out of sheer laziness. And there was the screen material, the plywood, the pieces of trim.
The trash bags, enough to damn a lake, were filled with the stuff that no one would take: three cans of Brasso, all half-used; 5 RCA cables which no longer matched a single item of equipment we still possessed. Those bags were the sorry record of people who get to the store, feel they need something -- an ethernet cable, a reel of weed-whacker twine -- but can't remember if they already have it. Terrified of having to make a second trip, we always buy the thing that we can't remember already owning three of.
I put the lighter stuff in the plastic bags, slapped $120 worth of pay-as-you-throw stickers on them, and put the heavy stuff in the City-provided bin. This included an old candelabra with a dragon motif, to which a key part had popped off and been lost. Lord, that sucker was heavy. It included old Christmas lights, most of which worked for one season, or half a season, and then quit. When the garbage truck came around to pick up our bin with its giant mechanical claw, it actually dropped the bin. There was an awful noise. I happened to have stepped out on to the porch at just the moment the bin crashed to the street, its terrifying weight having overwhelmed the truck's machinery. I quickly and quietly stepped back inside, certain that the binmen would be coming for me, nooses in their hands, fashioned from the RCA cables. It was what I deserved.
And so my lucky star came through. I may not get a Sugar Daddy for my mom, but at least the trash collectors didn't see me, skulking on the porch.
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