Suddenly Homeless
Poor me! I had — actually am still having — a very traumatic experience. Not that I'm complaining. Well, maybe just a little. I know, I know. Into each life some rain must fall, but must it fall inside my home?
Yes, that's what I said.
A few weeks ago, around 4:00 AM, I was awakened by what sounded like the pitter-patter of a gentle rain against my windows. I wish. Instead, it was the dripping of toilet water (and I'm not talking cologne here) from a broken commode in the condo above mine. The unit had been empty and on the market — and unattended — for months, its owner having moved to Florida. When the firemen arrived, in response to my 911 call, they found the offending toilet gushing like Old Faithful, and its output raining through the ceilings of all my rooms.
Since I moved here, my neighbor across the hall, a very private person I'll call John, has been my go-to computer tech support guy, my TV programmer, my diagnoser of car problems, my frequent provider of delicious meals, my broken chair fixer, my advocate in settling billing disputes ... in short, my guardian angel. But he's no longer that because I've now elevated him to sainthood. As during previous predicaments, he was on the spot again for this calamity — racing to shove pots, pans and towels under every drip ... furniture to leak-free sections of the rooms ... moving my computer, desk and TVs out of danger and into his condo ... contacting my insurance company ... calling a disaster cleaning company to deal with the mess ...
The demolition crew arrived almost immediately, moved my furniture into a temporary storage pod, then started mercilessly ripping up floors and tearing down ceilings and walls, releasing trapped water before mold had a chance to establish a beachhead.
Unfortunately, that day was the only time they arrived promptly. The next few days were a nightmare. When they didn't show up as promised (which was every day), I'd try to phone the smooth-talking company owner, and invariably I'd hear “The mailbox for this number is full and cannot take messages. Please try your call later.” When he finally did answer a call, it was only to tell me that they were in a terrible traffic gridlock. "But it's clearing up. We'll be there in twenty minutes."
I was skeptical. I'd heard his same spiel the day before. “I may be old, but I'm not senile,” I said. “If you're going to be here in an hour ... two hours ... tell me the truth.” “Oh, no,” he protested. “Twenty minutes.” They arrived three hours later. I confronted Mr. Smooth. “I listened to the traffic reports,” I said. “There was no three-hour tie-up.” “Oh, no, it wasn't that,” he said with such sincerity, I almost believed him, “We got a flat tire ...” Obviously they were juggling three or more jobs at once.
And so it went, day after agonizingly slow day, until Mr. Smooth declared their work was finished and he'd return the following day to pick up several bags of trash he had left on my balcony. It turns out the demolition was far from complete, the trash is still on my balcony, and I haven't heard from him since — maybe because the owners of two other units which also suffered damage and used his so-called “services” have filed complaints against him, and a victim in another part of the state has the police looking for him.
So much for the bad news (well, at least for now). The good news this is that I have a great, highly-recommended contractor ready to begin restoring my home to its former glory. Ooops! Here comes more bad news: The contractor can't start until the insurance companies get their acts together and give him the go-ahead, but they’re so tangled in red tape, I have no idea when that will be.
Meanwhile, my neighbor, Saint John, insisted on moving me into his guest room, even though my insurance would cover my staying in a hotel for the duration. No, no! It's not what you're thinking. John is fifty years younger than me. (Somehow that sounds less depressing than saying I'm fifty years older.) He simply felt I'd be more comfortable in his home where I would have a bedroom and private bath, a kitchen, living room, laundry facilities, and the company of his sweet dog (whom I’ll call “Dog” to preserve his, as well as his master’s, anonymity). Also, I’d be close enough to my condo to monitor its demolition and eventual renovation.
It's been over three weeks since I moved in, and John continues to be an incredibly hospitable host — though, inevitably, some small disputes have developed. I nag him about letting dirty dishes pile up in the sink, instead of putting them in the dishwasher as he uses them; and, though I, of course, am perfect, he also has found things to nag me about — like putting his mugs away on the shelf with the handles not precisely aligned. He likes to keep his AC set at SA (Sub Arctic), while I prefer not to have icicles form in my nostrils. We also don't share the same style sense. I brought home a new blouse yesterday to replace one of the dozens that were water damaged. “Do you really like that?” asked John. “No,” I said. “I hate it. I bought it because I don't have enough aggravation in my life right now.”
Though we’ve been friends for over five years, we never fully recognized each other’s quirks until this experience. So even though our grandma-grandson relationship is strictly platonic, it presents a good argument for couples to get to know each other by living together before committing to marriage.
As for John and me, I know we will be even stronger friends when I'm finally able to move out, because he is truly a saint. He'd have to be to put me up — and put up with me — for this long (and who knows how much longer!), especially with my uncharacteristic black moods of despondence because of the delays in reconstructing my condo and my fear that at my age all the stress will kill me before I have a chance to move back in. It’s true. I’ve developed many alarming symptoms, but I won’t describe them to you. It’s bad enough that my doctor thinks I’m a hypochondriac. Even Dog, who has been very sympathetic up to now, is getting tired of listening to me.
May God grant you a Saint John to ease every woe;
May good luck follow wherever you go;
And may your neighbors’ toilets never overflow.
©2012 Rose Madeline Mula for SeniorWomen.com. Rose's newest book, The Beautiful People and Other Aggravations, can be ordered through through Amazon.com and other online bookstores, and at Pelican Publishing (800-843-1724), as is her previous book, If These Are Laugh Lines, I'm Having Way Too Much Fun.
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