The Albatross Around My Neck

I seem to speak less and less these days. I haven’t said too much in this forum lately. I’m still here, just pretty busy. I think my resolution for next year will be to actually write more, and to work harder at my career as a failed writer (it’s not as easy as it looks). I’m barren of ideas lately. I just seem to have this static overlaying my brain lately and I can’t think of too much to say.

 

One of those reasons for that static is the challenges the last few months related to our old house, which we’ve been renting since we moved (as a way of waiting it out until we could pay down the mortgage and sell). The tenant left at the beginning of October when her lease expired. It’s been a lot of work but the house is now on the market, so I’m hoping we can sell and that albatross around my neck will finally die. 

 

So the last two months I’ve spent every weekend at the house, taken off on weekdays, run over after work, run over when I’m supposed to be working, et cetera, trying to repair the damage. We were lucky enough to have the enormous help of Steve’s parents, who were not afraid to get their hands dirty or help us do the work in whatever way they could, and we’re very grateful.

 

What damage needed to be repaired, you ask? The tenant basically trashed the house. It was a disaster—like, DIZZASSTER—the first time I went over after they left. They left all their furniture in the house, as well as dozens of bags of trash and crap. The fridge wasn’t working and was full of spoiled food. (The fridge was fine; the circuit breaker had tripped. So these dopes apparently never wondered why all the kitchen appliances and lights died at the same time. Still, the fridge was unusable after all that.) So I had to have everything removed from the house and haul bags full of former food to the trash.

 

Once everything was removed, I could see some other problems with the house. The hardwood floors in the living room were covered in some sticky, unmentionable animal matter and dog hair. The remaining carpeting was ripped up and hopelessly dirty. Everything was filthy and there was food everywhere. It smelled so much that you had to take a shower after doing anything at that house, and I swore I could still smell it on me later. Her dog had damaged two doors and another door was missing with no explanation.

 

There were so many other weird little things wrong with the house, that make you wonder, “Why would someone do this?” As I cleaned, I found dried dogshit, cigarette butts, and a chicken bone in the bedrooms. The decorative stained glass part of our ceiling fan was disconnected and left on the deck, because that’s where you leave that kind of thing. They removed the banister on the basement steps and part of the kitchen peninsula. The metal shed was damaged, clearly from an SUV hitting it. There were no smoke detectors in the house.

 

They left a trashcan full of dogshit on the deck and the rain had gotten in, making it a toxic stew. I had no choice but to throw the trashcan over the deck (I wasn’t bringing it through the house) so it would land on the grass beneath. Unfortunately, some of the biological matter also got on my pants and my car. I cleaned it as best I could and muttered curses under my breath.  

 

This was the first house Steve and I lived in. This was the house Jarvis lived and died in, and Cerys’ first house. I said my goodbyes when we left and let go of the idea that it was mine, but it was still upsetting to see it that way.

 

So over the last two months, we painted every room, got all new carpeting, treated for roaches, patched drywall, and cleaned, cleaned, cleaned. We were not thrilled with the expense (compounded by having to pay the mortgage on that house for months before the tenant left after she flaked out on rent) but we had no choice. If we hadn’t done all the work, the house would have sold for a comically low amount.

 

Little by little, the house healed. At one point we realized we didn’t automatically need to shower after going over there. The house has been stripped of all evidence of these people. It almost looks like we still live there.

 

Maybe soon we will finally be able to breathe easier without the burden of worrying about this house—about rent coming in time, about what will break next, about the next trip to Crazytown with the tenant, etc. I’ll be happy to focus on our current house and not the money pit. I am grateful we lived there but now I’m more than ready to let someone else start a life there.

 

And I’ll also be grateful (knock on wood) once I can go tearing out of the parking lot after settlement and speed to the bank with that cashier’s check.