I’ve moved eight times in twenty-two years of marriage. That’s a grand total of 3,987 boxes to unpack, 50 pieces of battered furniture, 45 missing cartons, 15 damaged appliances, 2 wrecked cars, and one lost pet. I’m as unlucky as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. This time my house tried to kill me during the move.
For our latest and hopefully final move, we found a perfect house only two miles away. This time our move would not be dictated by my husband’s job. “Let’s do this,” I said to my husband after viewing the ideal home at an open house. “It’s perfect.”
Moving day swooped down on my household, as swift and predictable as daylight savings time. “Oh. My. God. The movers will be here in ten minutes,” I yelled, reaching for the alarm clock. “We overslept. Get the kids out of bed. Grab the overnight bag. Where’s the dog?” I said, pulling my hands through my hair.
Two Strong Guys Moving Company stormed our residence and attacked with cardboard and packing materials like rats on a buffet. By noon, our place was wrapped in a shroud of paper and plastic.
Two days later a cleaning crew met me at the old house to prepare it for sale. I arrived early to insure things would be ready for the team. With my tote bag of cleaning supplies, I entered through the garage. In the dining room, I stared around in confusion.
“What’s going on? Why are loose sheets of wallpaper all over the floor? Did someone break in and throw paper around?” I said to myself, stepping back and glancing up. Falling off of the bulging ceiling was drywall, piles of wet, gummy white drywall.
Oh, crap. The ceiling is going to explode!
Like the scene from the movie, Money Pit, I expected a bathtub to crash down on my head. I leapt away and dialed the cell for help.
My trusty handyman rushed over to turn off the water main that had rusted shut. Next, I called homeowners insurance, a plumber, disaster recovery crew and a general contractor to remedy the mess.
Final verdict, the movers had improperly unhooked the valves on the washing machine. For 48 hours, the water from the laundry room had dripped down to the ceiling of the living room.
Thanks for doing a great job.
After two weeks, the ceiling was repaired. I met Dan, the general contractor, at our house to inspect his work. He emerged from a tomb of plastic sheeting covering the walls, ceiling, and light fixtures.
“Yeah, smells like burning wood.”
“Kinda. Someone turned on the chandelier yesterday and forgot to turn it off. The plastic melted down over the fixture and the light bulbs. Man, you could have had a big fire.”
Are you kidding me?
“Consider yourself lucky. Better buy some new bulbs,” he said with a smile.
I’m soooooooo lucky.
Has this ever happened to you? Can you relate? If so, leave me a comment and let me know I’m not alone.