Ugh. I’m writing this offline before I post it, so please excuse any Word to Blogger layout translation snafus. By the way, I only in the last couple of years learned what SNAFU actually stands for! And – ha! – my life, for these past 3 years (almost to the day!) has been *just* that: Situation Normal All F***ed Up!
Anyway . . . yesterday was the 2nd to last day of work out at the property. Sunday will be the last. The biggest thing to move is the king-size bed, and that will require some MUSCLE. Fortunately, I have some scheduled! Dear, dear, *wonderful* friends who have been helping throughout.
The date of – oh, let’s say it – EVICTION stayed at the 5th, but I got an extension to work for these last 3 days (last Sunday, yesterday, and this coming Sunday). The credit union has been absolutely awful, I’m sorry to say. My BFF encapsulated it well when she said, “I wonder if there’s such a thing as a foreclosure that’s NOT heart-wrenching?” I doubt it. Unless the people moving out really don’t care. And that’s not me.
I was scheduled to sign the new agreement for the extension on Friday, the 4th. That Tuesday, a holiday “off” for me since it was New Year’s Day, Papa Pea and I removed the two woodstoves – the antique Kalamazoo that the ex and I moved up from our last house and the adorable little brown enameled, glass-fronted Hearthstone. On Thursday morning, as I was getting organized for the day, an e-mail popped up from the credit union (“credit”, my arse!): if I didn’t return the stoves, they would rescind the option for the extension, and my appointment for the next day was cancelled. A mad scramble with my lawyer and their lawyer ensued . . . and while the stoves ARE (arguably) *mine*, if I needed the extension (which I DID, thanks to the guy they hired to winterize the place – but that’s a story for another day which I MAY just try to forget once this is all over) I had to return the stoves. So, no perfect, cozy little wood stove to replace the (nice and perfectly functional) stove that’s in this cabin. And, no cool antique stove that WAS MINE BEFORE I EVER MOVED INTO THIS HOUSE OR GOT THE LOAN TO BUILD IT. Rat bastards!!! Moral of the story? Even if banking institutions *seem* like they’re gonna play fair (esp. small town ones where everybody knows everybody else), they’re not when it comes down to the wire.
The other aspect & HUGE humiliation of the extension is that I am required to access the property only when the overseer is there to unlock the doors and let me in (to my own house) and wait for me to leave at night to do the same. The small concession that they made (okay, it’s a big one) is that, instead of supervising me all day – which he’s required to do, legally – he leaves after letting me in and then returns (to, yes, supervise) about 1 hour before I’m out each evening. Dates and times have to be prescheduled. Last Sunday was fairly awful, emotionally & psychologically, since it was the first time I was there under THEIR rules and overseeing. Yesterday was okay. This coming Sunday should be devastating, when it’s time to leave. We’ll see. I let my emotions do what they will, what they need to do. I’ll have a good crew out there helping with the last things, but I’ll want everyone to leave before the very end. I had nice, “closure” thoughts a while back . . . thinking I’d sit in the house for a quiet while alone. Maybe a glass (paper cup?) of wine in hand, just taking it all in. Buuuuut, that’s gonna be a little hard with the overseer sitting right there on the stairs, his occupied spot when he’s there to watch all that I do at the end of each of these days. But, again, it will play out how it does.
One way or another, it will be over very soon. THEN, all the fun and games of trying to find spots for everything stacked up on the deck here (where it’s RAINING right now, might I add!!!) and at my folks’ begins (the two large storage units are packed nearly to capacity, awaiting the bed and the last upholstered chair, large area rugs, small side tables, and remaining *stuff*).