Ever tried to pack or clean around a three-year-old?
Lemme tell ya - it’s no easy feat.
We gave our 30-day notice on this dump of a house a few days ago, and now I have the distinct pleasure of not only attempting to pack, but attempting to keep this place clean for prospective renters over the next three weeks (a teeny little clause in our lease agreement that is proving to be truly annoying).
And by “dump of a house” I really should say “lemon of a house.” Cause it truly is. Anyone remember this?
Anything look wrong with these stairs to you?
Yeah, they fell right off the wall while Kyle was walking down them.
Then there was the bannister that pulled away from the basement stairs (the uncarpeted stairs that lead to the concrete floor) that caused Kyle to fall down about seven of them while bringing up Christmas stuff… and then there’s the gigantic crack in the wall (and I do mean gigantic)…
Best to get out before the entire house collapses...
Actually, it’s pretty amazing that we’re all still alive after our two years in this pit.
So, we’re making a huge move… all the way next door. Way bigger and better house, a landlord without the need for anti-psychotic meds, and pretty much the easiest move in history… if you aren’t trying to clean and pack around a three-year old, that is.
See, even with general cleaning, it goes something like this:
(me, picking something up)
Jack: “NOOOOO! I’M PLAYING WITH THAT!!!”
(me, picking something else up that he hasn’t touched in days)
Jack: “NOOOOO! I’M PLAYING WITH THAT!!!”
Repeat this about 5000 times, till I eventually just give up.
So the idea of “showing” this dump to people – aka keeping it in a constant state of order and cleanliness - in order to get it rented out for our aforementioned psychotic landlord is daunting at best.
Hopefully the prospective tenants have kids. And know a good contractor for when this place finally crumbles on top of them.
In other news, as some of you may know, I hate shopping. I mean, I really, really hate it. I’ve questioned my estrogen levels on several occasions because expensive heels or clothes or malls do nothing for me other than put me in a really, really bad mood.
I dress like the artist slob I am every day, wearing the same paint-stained jeans and ripped up t-shirts pretty much every day. I’d much rather spend money on art supplies than clothes… and sadly, it shows.
So when my dad gave Kyle a $100 gift card to Kohls, we saved up a little extra cash on top and I resigned myself to the fact that I must get new clothing. Which involves two of the things I hate most… leaving the house, and seeing the many idiots that roam this place we call Earth.
So I pack Emma and I into the car on Monday, her last day of Spring Break, and we head to Longmont (a 35-minute drive). We stop at Red Robin beforehand and have a nice lunch as the clock quickly ticked down to my work hour.
We head to Kohls after that kid-hell and proceeded to shop.
By the way, ever try to find man pants in the size 32 x 34? It’s practically impossible.
So 20 racks of khaki’s later, we find daddy some new pants, a few new shirts, and I managed to pick out a few things for myself too. My internal shopping clock expires after about 45 minutes.
Tick tock, tick tock… I also have to work at 3 o’clock. And it’s 2.
Off to the register. Only $121? Thanks, sales!!!! That’ll be $20 bucks, about $80 less than I was planning on spending. AND, I won’t have to look like a total hobo anymore.
An old lady with a gigantic, black, hairy mole on her neck tries to run my gift card.
“You should really get that checked out… or removed,” I think to myself.
The long black hairs have put me in a trance. I cannot look away, no matter how hard I try.
“Oops, I need to call on this,” hairy mole lady says when she runs my gift card.
The line slowly builds behind me.
“Oh, okay,” she says, and hangs up the phone.
“Do you have another form of payment?”
Um, no, bitch, I have a $100 gift card. I ain’t paying out of pocket.
“No. What’s wrong?” I say, KNOWING this is why I fucking hate shopping. And people.
“Well, something seems to be wrong with the gift card system….”
*blood pressure beginning to rise*
“Get me your manager.”
In walks greasy-haired manager guy. He’s about 25 with a haircut that was clearly from the 80s and looks like it hasn’t been washed in weeks.
He asks giant mole lady, “Have you checked the balance on the card?”
*blood pressure rising further*
“I guarantee the card has $100 on it. I just got it as a gift (hence the words GIFT CARD), and it’s never been used,” I say, feeling a sense of impending issues that will undoubtedly piss me the fuck off.
He walks to another register and checks it. “Nope, it says it’s blank…”
*blood pressure reaching boiling point*
“Look, I have the receipt – my dad sent it with it (my dad is always thinking). CHECK IT AGAIN,” I tell him. He retreats to “the office,” to check it out… which was apparently located in Wyoming since it took well over 20 minutes for him to return.
The line behind me is now three deep. The other women in it look at me with pity. “This is happening to you because I’M in this line,” I say to them. They open another register. Don’t mess with the crazy lady, I imagine the clerks are thinking.
35 minutes have now passed. Kyle texts me, “What’s your ETA? We need diapers…”
It’s now one hour till I start work.
Finally greasy manager kid returns. “I’m sorry,” he says sheepishly. “It’s not your gift card. The entire gift card system is down. I can hold this for you, hopefully you live close…”
*now fighting the urge to grab the cash register and smash his head in with it*
“NO, I DON’T LIVE CLOSE. I LIVE IN FUCKING FREDERICK. THIRTY MINUTES AWAY.”
The lady in the other line pipes in. “Wait, I can’t use my gift card?? I live in Firestone (right down the street from me). Are you kidding???”
Greasy manager guy is getting nervous. Another customer chimes in too. “What, wait, no gift cards today?!?” A riot seems to be on the verge of happening. And apparently, people only shop at Kohls on gift cards.
“I’m really sorry, I know it’s a pain….”
I cut him off. “YEAH, it’s a fucking PAIN. It’s the only GODDAMN REASON I DROVE OUT HERE TODAY.”
“I can give you this 15% off certificate….”
I snatch it from his hands. “GEE. THANKS. That won’t even cover the gas it took to get here.”
Hairy mole lady adds, nervously, “Um, here, here’s a survey, you can fill it out online.”
I snatch that too. “OH YOU BETTER BELIEVE I’LL BE FILLING OUT YOUR FUCKING SURVEY.”
“Can you come back tomorrow? I can hold this stuff for you till tomorrow,” greasy manager guy asks.
“NO I WILL NOT BE COMING BACK TOMORROW.”
*Blood pressure has now boiled over.*
“Um, well, um, I can hold it for five days for you….” Greasy manager guy is clearly frightened.
I grab Emma by the hand and storm through the doors to the car.
And THAT is when I realize “Oh, fantastic, I left my sunglasses in the dressing room.”
I storm back in. Firestone lady is leaving empty-handed. A cute little checker girl has taken over mole lady’s place. I tell her I left my sunglasses, and she rushes to the dressing room with me.
Nope, no sunglasses there… there are the clothes I tried on, no sunglasses.
She pages the dressing room attendant, clearly in fear of me at this point (as she damn well should have been). She searches the cart and under the counter. No sunglasses.
“JUST PUT THEM IN MY FUCKING BAG IF YOU FIND THEM.”
I storm back out, squinting in the bright afternoon sun. I get in the car and attempt not to drive it through the doors of Kohls. I curse into the air and at every car on my way home with nothing to show from my trip other than a BLTA that is now making my stomach hurt.
And no, I still haven’t gone back to Kohls.
In other, happier news, Easter was a success. The Easter Bunny came and the kids had an egg hunt. We watched Princess and the Frog and I actually enjoyed it, which says a lot since I hate movies.
And Jack’s lip is looking a LOT better now. Just three weeks later, and the only visible scar is the one permanently ingrained in my heart.
This is the result of mommy's obsessive application of scar ointment... and very skilled doctors.
Bottomline – Moving sucks, as does cleaning around a 3-year-old, but this house sucks worse. And Kohls sucks, period.