Gordon wants this blog to basically be a big giant public service announcement that says, “Don’t attempt to pick up and move while your wife is pregnant. Just please don’t do it.”
He said this probably because I hung up on him yesterday when he called to tell me we were not going to be able to close on our house that day as originally planned. This of course set off a chain reaction of events, not the least of which included rescheduling the flooring people AND the movers AND the gas people. Hopefully by the time this blog posts today, we will in fact be sitting at the mortgage office moving forward. I’m sure the Devil will be presiding and we will have to sign our names in ram's blood with a black feather.
But at that moment of hearing the bad news, I suddenly felt sisterhood with the White Witch and her compulsion of turning people into stone. I needed someone to blame, and since I didn’t have our buyer right there to rail on or his loan officer — the two culprits in this debacle — I cried and hung up on my husband. He came home immediately to make sure I hadn’t run off to join the pregnant lady circus.
We caught wind on Tuesday — the day before this — that we “might” not be able to close the next day, and I asked Gordon if there was some person whose office I could visit where I could mouth-breathe over their shoulder and knock their bobble heads and stress balls off their desk with my pregnant abdomen until the paperwork was completed. But there was no such person at hand.
“There is nothing you can do,” said my poor bewildered husband, who knew even as he was saying it that it was the worst possible thing to tell me.
But at that time, I wasn’t hysterical. Wednesday, I was hysterical. Tuesday, I was just mildly annoyed, but thought surely with something so huge and monumental that the loan people wouldn’t dare screw it up. I’ve had a quick education via Facebook since then where I’ve learned MANY, MANY people don’t actually close on the day they were planning on. One friend even had the U-haul all packed up and parked outside the mortgage company. Yeesh.
Actually, Tuesday had actually been pleasant before AND after I heard the troubling news. A friend came in the morning to help me pack my kitchen. We had a fun time doing it — or I did anyway — despite the fact she found a half-eaten grape in one of my drawers, which was only mildly embarrassing for me. (It could have been a roach.) Then my mother came over and brought my little boy back from spending the night at her house, and the three (four) of us had a lovely lunch at Lucille’s.
Even after the “might not close tomorrow” call came in, I was still distracted. Gordon and I were driving out to Lowe’s for more packing supplies and began discussing the extent of our son’s beauty. He was sound asleep in his seat as we drove and I was looking at him.
“He’s so gorgeous I can barely stand to look at him. Doesn’t he just burn your retinas?” I asked Gordon.
“I don’t know if he really burns my retinas,” Gordon said.
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Look at those lashes. Tell me you’re not destroyed.”
By the time we had finished at Lowe’s, Gordon had eventually agreed that his retinas were being jeopardized by Drew’s gorgeous face, and then we ate at Arby’s where they gave us two jr. double-melts for the price of one. A good evening all around.
But Wednesday was the crucible. What shook me up most was the haunting suspicion that everything was about to cave in on itself like a house of Splenda packets — that maybe this delay was an indication of the whole deal gone bad, the whole enchilada being run over by an 18-wheeler. I roamed around my house crying, tripping over boxes like the demoniac amongst the tombs. I didn’t used to believe in Purgatory, but if I did — and I'm getting closer by the day — its definition would be this: to sit at home with your stuff in boxes, not knowing when you will get to move them or even IF you will get to move them.
So that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. On a brighter note, once we move I will escape the free-loading squatters who always seem to make their appearance in our house this time of year despite the fact we have no pets.
And who knows, maybe the fleas will even send us off with a congratulatory fruit basket.