If I ever again suggest I’d like to pack up my entire household and move to a different home, you have my permission to slam my nipples in the kitchen cupboard repeatedly until I black out. Now that we’ve got that out of the way, you’ll be happy to know my move is complete. We’re still living out of boxes, and my former home still contains many odds and ends that must be relocated.
The housemates, for example. Many of you have followed my housemate stories from the beginning, but for those just joining the party, here’s a recap: at the start of my divorce in the spring of 2011, the home I shared with my ex proved to be the most challenging asset to divide. Knowing the process might drag out a long time and that prostitution wasn’t a desirable method of paying the mortgage, I rented out two rooms in the home to a couple of twenty-something boys.
Besides helping me to make my house payments, those housemates have provided all of us with significant entertainment value over the last sixteen months.
But all good things must come to an end, and by that I mean my gentleman friend and I were so desperate for privacy that we’d taken to necking in the coat closet.
So now we’ve moved. But since the sale of my former home won’t actually close until late August, I offered the housemates an option.
“I’m taking all my furniture when we move August 1,” I explained. “Couches, chairs, lamps, dining room table, all the cookware in the kitchen. Same with the refrigerator and the washer & dryer – everything’s going with us.”
The housemates considered that a moment. “Are you turning off the power?” one of them asked.
“I guess not,” I said.
I assured them I planned to keep all the utilities going, minus the internet. And I confirmed that the new owners won’t take possession until late August.
“We’re staying then,” they decided.
So they set up their camp chairs in the living room, dragged their record collection out of my antique armoire, filled a cooler with beer and Oreos, and made themselves at home in front of their big-screen TV.
I walked through the living room the next day and squinted at the TV.
“You don’t have cable and you can’t stream Netflix through the internet anymore, so what on earth are you watching?” I asked.
“PBS,” one of them replied.
“It’s a special about sharks.”
“Right,” I said. “Good to see you’re making yourselves comfortable.”
“It could be better,” one of them replied. “When are you taking the hammock?”
Before I had a chance to consider the question, they scurried outside and carried the hammock in from the second-story deck.
“Perfect,” they declared, and sat down to watch the Spanish channel.
I have a sneaking suspicion my realtors will be forced to physically drag them from the house when closing day comes for the buyers. I’d kinda like to be there for that.
Mostly because I want my hammock back.