Moving On: Chapter Two
Moving is a
pain. I reach for an antique crystal bowl, cover it in bubble wrap and place it
into a packing box. That’s it for a while. I’ve been at this for hours. My back
aches. I get an aspirin from my purse and head into the kitchen to pour a cup
of coffee. It looks like a war zone, and I’ve barely begun to pack. The things
I desperately need and use most often are boxed up. I have to find substitutes
for cooking utensils, dishes, everything but my toothbrush while this moving
nightmare is going on. I’ve been drowning in chaos for five dreadful days.
My thoughts
wander, and again I relish the fact that Chuck the Nut is out of my life. He
didn’t give a rats rear. He Came home late, and reeked of another woman’s cheap
perfume. His clothes were wrinkled. Bah! The last week he lived here I left his
soiled clothes on the floor where he dropped them. A few days of that was
enough. I threw him out, dirty socks and
all. The rest of his unclaimed belongings I gave to the local thrift shop.
I have an
appointment with a real estate agent in an hour. I put on lipstick, change my
blouse, take a glance at the mirror to see if I pass inspection. I actually
look put together and calm, that’s a laugh. I run out the door, get into my car
and set the GPS. I requested information on an advertised home in the Weekly. The
ad showed a lovely three-bedroom home, Newly painted a light green with deep
brown trim, and bragging an updated kitchen. The yard looked like a park from
the photo. We’ll see.
The real estate
office waiting room has two light tan sofas placed in an L that has a blonde
wooden coffee table in front of them filled with Home magazines, naturally. It
is modern and stark in its basic blah beige decor. I could yawn.
Glancing
around further, There sits a blond receptionist, wearing an egg shell sweater
of course. She appears to be in her young twenties, head down, unaware of my
existence, lazily filing her nails and chewing gum. She is a cliché. I look
away from her and see a tall, thin man whose suit limply hangs from his skinny
frame as though he is a walking coat hanger.
“Hello,” I
extend my hand, ”I’m Pamela James. I have an appointment with Onan Moreland.” I
couldn’t make that name up.
Thick
glasses hang down on his nose. He leans into me, lifting his chin to view me
through his bi-focals. “I’m pleased to meet you Ms. James. I’ve prepared three
houses to show you today, if you are ready?”
We leave
his office and I notice the blonde hasn’t taken notice of us at all. She is
worth her salary, if she is working for free.
I climb
into his stark white, four door, unembellished car with a license plate that
reads “House 4 U”. Tacky. The car seats are covered in clear plastic
reminiscent of last century. I can’t slide, but squeak across the seat as I
move into place and buckle up. The only thing missing is the classic plastic
pen protector for his shirt pocket. Then this would be the genuine 1960’s look.
He has the evergreen car deodorizer hanging from the mirror. That is the only
thing added to the bare bones interior.
“The first
place is a rambler in a tidy quiet neighborhood.” He hands me papers with stats
and photos of each house and slowly drives off, like an old lady, yet he can’t
be 40 yet.
He is
taking me to a house I did not see in the advertisements. So much for the light
green house. I don’t mind the change.
A few miles
north, Onan slows down and turns onto a stark concrete driveway. The yard is a
no upkeep red rock with a couple of sticks resembling dead desert plants
sticking up.
As we get
out of the car, a woman opens the door, and runs past us. “Hey, I’m sorry I ran
late and couldn’t leave until now. I’ll be back in half an hour.” She takes
off. Her ponytail bounces behind her. She is wearing a red white and blue spandex
running suit and waves as she sprints away.
Well, I’m
glad to see who lives here. She seems too busy to be fussy. I won’t expect
Martha Stuart decorating and a dust free decor. I notice Onan just staring at
her as she runs off. I guess he is admiring her shapely figure.
We open the
door and the house seems empty of a woman’s warm touch. I look around and
notice exercise equipment, weights, Big Bow flex gym, treadmill, scattered sport
paraphernalia everywhere I look. There are two kayaks hung from the ceiling of
the family room, stacks of sport magazines cover the coffee table. In the
kitchen, off the living room, cases of power drinks, and boxes of instant protein
powder cover the counters. It is a small, inconveniently designed kitchen that
needs remodeling. Cooking in there would be miserable. Hah! I’m a psychic! I
knew what the house would be like inside after seeing the gal run off. The
rooms are barely adequate, bedrooms have tiny closets. The bath has pink tile,
even on the walls. Yuck. Nothing calls
to me except the sound I hear in my head. Get the devil out of here. This place
has weird Chi. I don’t want to live with THAT kind of energy force.
Onan stands
in front of me and asks, “Do you like the layout? The colors of the walls are all
white. It has a clean look, don’t you think? Why, this place is an open canvas.
I believe they’ve kept it up too. The roof is clean.”
The roof is
clean? What is that? They work on their bodies not their roofs. I shrug. They
love their home so much they put huge hooks into the ceiling to hang two boats?
Bah. We leave.
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After
driving for nearly ten minutes, we enter a quaint neighborhood filled with
mid-century houses all set back from the street and showing picturesque
manicured quarter acre lots.
We turn
right off the road and enter a charming winding driveway edged on both sides by
beautiful flowering shrubs. Huge trees dot the front lawn and big bushes hide
the house. Branches scrape along the top of the car and I see Onan cringe. We
pass this forested entry and I get a peek at the house. The setting is charming,
almost like a fairy tale. The house is a little cottage. French windows with
shutters, an arched front door, I look at the lawn and envision mowing this
immense greenery for the rest of my life with no time off. The place is cute
but small. No, make that tiny. I almost have to duck to get through the cute
arched front door. The entry doesn’t have a closet and opens directly into a
little front room. To the left, I see the galley style kitchen with a nook for
eating. The cabinets are darling glass lighted from within. The counters are so low I have to bend down to
turn the faucet on. That would kill my back. I’d be permanently bent over in no
time. The hallway straight ahead of the entry, past the living room, is narrow.
I find a bathroom at the first door on the right as I enter the hallway. The
toilet seems almost child size. The sink
cabinets are smaller than standard too. I reach up and touch the ceiling.
Puzzled, I wonder why anyone would build a house like this? If I were half my
size I might fit. It would work as a playhouse for a rich kid. Ridiculous. This teeny weeny house makes me feel like a giant with a growth hormone problem.
I
walk
further down the hall and see that the bedrooms have beds maybe a foot
off the
floor. Otherwise they look standard sized. The en suite off the master
bedroom is
a repeat of the first bathroom repeating the small sized fixtures. The
head of
the shower would wash my neck and shoulders just fine. I’d have to dip
to have
my hair get wet. “Onan, why is this house so small? If I were to try to
do jumping jacks anyplace in this house I would knock myself out
hitting my head on the ceiling.”
“The owners
are quite short. When I got this listing, I saw both husband and wife were under
five feet tall, and she was considerably the shorter of the two.” Onan shrugs
his shoulders, “Like midgets or something.”
He says as he walks into the next room.
Well, that
makes sense. They must have loved this house. Custom fitted like shoes and a
shirt. Hummmm. This is a first for me. I can’t imagine a basketball player in
here. He would bite his knee if he’d sit in one of the living room chairs, no,
it would have to be the sofa. He wouldn’t have a prayer fitting into the chair
that’s in there. That image is funny to me. Guess it’s more like Goldilocks’
and the three bears, but there isn’t a Mama bear or Papa bear here.
Onan again
brilliantly remarks, “I thought you’d like the homey feel of the house. No
wasted space here. Very practical.”
Yeah, for a little child. I’m 5’5. I could buy doll clothes and play let’s pretend. Wow.
I can’t
wait to see what Onan has in mind next.
We drive forever. I’m getting hungry and tired. No, I’m bored. The house
he drives up to is a brick traditional home. I begin to feel hopeful.
“The
setting is home spun. The neighbors are mostly small back yard farmers, organic
nuts.” Onan grins as he waves his hand in grand style in a semi circle as if he
is showing me an impressive rural housing development.
I
immediately notice the neighborhood is full of chickens, I hear a rooster
somewhere off to the west and small farm animals can be seen looking through
chicken wire fences. One goat is loose and standing atop a truck. The houses
are built staggered on the large lots for maximum privacy. Nobody will look
into a neighbor’s window. As I get out of the car flying bugs bombard me. My
arm stings from fresh bites. Good Grief. I make a dash for the front door, then
it dawns on me, why am I running to look at a place that is set in hillbilly
haven? Oh, well. I’ll give it a chance. There’s always ‘OFF’ for protection. I
wonder if I can by it by the gallon.
Onan slaps
at the bugs and says, “This house is reasonably priced and a sweet deal.”
“I’ll be
sure to check everything out carefully, Onan.” I roll my eyes when I turn away
from poor Onan. He hasn’t a clue.
The living
room is charming. The fireplace is the focal point. The walls are painted a
light butterscotch. It is cheerful.
The kitchen
appears to have plenty of cabinets that are old, but painted and with new
hardware making them look passable. I begin to seriously study the place. I
notice the counter is artificial marble. Cheap. The floor is laminate, not real
wood. Cheaper. The lights in the kitchen and dining room are from the last Home
Depot sale I saw in their flier. Upon further inspection, I notice the closets
are small, typical for the time the house was built. That would work if I only
wore bikinis or was a nudist. The bathroom focal point is an updated sink, made
from clay. It could break with one drop of my hairbrush or blow dryer. I’ve
seen enough. “Onan, I’m through here.” I still haven’t seen the house I called
about.
I scream to
myself, where are Dorothy’s red shoes when I need them?
(To be continued)