Our property manager isn’t much on the managing part of things. Case in point: if she had made the repairs she had promised in the summer of 2008, my apartment wouldn’t have flooded again in 2009, and then my floors wouldn’t have buckled and warped and popped out — a Hot Wheeler’s dream, to be sure, but hell on visitors who trip on the speed bumps in my living room. If she had kept her promises, the King of Everything and I wouldn’t be homeless right now.
I haven’t felt like this since we moved back to the States in 2006. Dependent upon the kindness of friends and family, shuttling from place to place to sleep as the fix date kept getting pushed back…. You can move back in on Thursday! No, wait, Friday. Well, you were right, there’s a terrible smell in there now and they won’t be able to finish until Monday…
I have officially run out of patience. My father takes very good care of his family, especially when you’re up against something that’s bigger than you are. He’ll always go to bat for one of us. On Friday, I called him, sick of being a ping pong ball, bouncing from bed and breakfast to couch to god knows where.
He booked us into the hotel a block from our stinky house, and the kid and I are going to have a mini vacation. Tomorrow, we are going to have brunch in the dining room, go to an arts and crafts show with grammie, have lunch out, and then order in room service for dinner.
Which is a far cry from how I have been living this week, with a snatched breakfast from Starbucks, some salty soup from the deli around the corner, a couple of saltines for dinner or occasionally the very nice friend who has rescued me and taken me out to dinner… or a great dinner en famille at my parents’ too.
I lost 25 pounds his fall, simply by not eating in restaurants anymore. On top of the money I have to spend on always eating out because I can’t COOK!, I’m worried about gaining that weight back in this stressful time. I’m also worried about the dry cleaning bill I’m going to have. Every piece of fabric in my house reeks like a nursing home’s moldy basement full of old clothes. Times infinity. And about the time off I’m going to have to take to get my house back in shape. Every stick of furniture that was in my living room or dining room is in our bedrooms. I can’t get to my son’s clothes or my winter jackets.
The kid asked me if I was homesick, tonight.
Yeah. I am. I want my house back, darn it. But I wonder if this hotel has a spa? Maybe I could get a massage.