Happy Dance

Well, we kind of closed last Friday. We just could not take possession or legally get the keys until the title company received the signed contracts via FedEx on Monday. 

Point of information: no lawyers are involved in house sales/purchases in Florida. Instead, an Unholy Trinity of realtors, lenders, and title companies process all house sales/purchases.  I hate to admit it, but I think the absence of lawyers is why house purchases are so complicated down here.  Duh… There are no overpriced legal superheroes to move things along or intimidate lesser beings with their legal expertise and authority. Consequently, you end up putting your hopes and dreams in the hands of entrepreneurs, egomaniacs and bean counters. It is kind of a crap shoot. I am finding that quite a bit is different in Florida. 

There was no advance warning that we would not get the damn keys on Friday. The notary who was doing the remote closing for the title company (located hours away in Fort Lauderdale) did not even know. But one of the last documents was a form for our realtor to sign stating she would not release the damn keys to us until the title company received the “wet signatures” of the signed documents.  In realtor world “wet signature” means the original signature.  Very descriptive, I think.  I use that term all the time now because I think it is cool. Wet signatures.  “Excuse me, I need a Wet Signature over here.”

Anyway, our lovely realtor had never heard of such a thing in all the closings she had done.  We had already wire transferred our down payment to them the day before so it was not a matter of seeing the money.  The signed closing forms were scanned and emailed immediately after closing.  They had what they needed to release the damn keys. The closing took place on Friday afternoon.  The FedEx package could not arrive until Monday.  The whole weekend would be lost. No one at that table could believe that we could not have the damn keys. We thought it must be a mistake.

Our lovely realtor called to clarify and get their approval to give us the damn keys so we could get in to the house over the weekend and start cleaning. The movers were to arrive on Monday.  Unfortunately, the lady at the title company was adamant that we could not be given the damn keys until the FedEx package arrived on Monday with the Wet Signatures.  Our lovely realtor asked to talk to the manager.

Then a heartless bitch with an attitude like you would NOT believe got on the line to read us the riot act. She said she was the owner AND the president of the company, ha! She acted more like the Queen of Sheba. She was horrible. I simply cannot believe someone that rude could own a successful company. I think she was lying about being The President and must just have been the clerk sitting next to the one who answered the phone. They probably play good cop/bad cop all day long and then laugh about it afterwards. Had we been in the same room with her (a room with an exposed light bulb hanging from the ceiling), I have no doubt whatsoever that she would have sucker punched our lovely realtor and kicked me to the floor. 

Our lovely realtor got in a huge and nasty argument on the phone with Ms. Monster Mouth (aka The President) over the damn keys.  Our lovely realtor was kind enough to put the phone call on speakerphone so we could hear both sides.  You should have seen the look on the notary’s face.  So what can I say?  I quite enjoyed it. Most fun I have had in months. I even managed to stay out of it. Really. I am not kidding. Well, I did yell something out at one point, but only one time. I am pretty sure that one “shout out” does not really count.

We moved in on Monday, right after getting the okay from The President. The movers met Tom at the storage unit at 3:00 pm and loaded up while I took the damn keys to the new house and cleaned furiously. The movers brought all our earthly belongings around 6:00 and were gone by 8:00. They did a great job.  

The past few days we have been nesting, buying odds and ends we need, opening boxes and putting things away. There are so many boxes. I am quite sure it will takes months, if not years, to empty them all. We have cable TV and internet – real fast internet, not like in the travel trailer. The long wait is over. We have a home.  Life is good. And it will be even better when the pool is functional.  I could cry I am so happy. But of course I don’t cry, so that’s not gonna happen.  

Cheers!

Closing Thoughts

Yesterday we received the final paperwork clearing the way for closing on our house tomorrow, Friday, June 27^th.   Today I am a whole body pretzel with all my fingers, toes, and appendages crossed.

This closing will take place 4 months after our original closing date was cancelled for the same exact house, and 3 months after the subsequent closing date was also cancelled and the contract terminated by Fannie Mae.  As you may remember, we had already sold our NYS house so we had to move down here anyway within days after the termination of the Florida house contract in late March.  It has been a challenging adventure.  The inconvenience of not having our belongings and practically living on top of each other in a travel trailer out in the boondocks will come to an end.  I still fear Fannie Mae will cancel at the eleventh hour and leave us high and dry, even though I rationally know all will be well.  I cannot help it.  Stuff happens.  I have some trust issues now. When you do not own a house or have a permanent home the world can be a scary place. Being at the mercy of landlords, government agencies, and bankers is an invitation for heartache and dehumanization.  I will not forget the lessons learned here. 

The movers are scheduled to bring our furniture and millions of boxes out of storage and to the new place on Monday.  We also have a delivery scheduled for new appliances. Utilities are being transferred.   TV/internet/land line phone services are scheduled for next week.  If I had a brain in my head I would have contracted with a cleaning service to clean the place before we move in, but I did not because when I shake my head nothing rattles, so I guess that means I am brainless.  Perhaps part of me wants to get in there and clean the place from top to bottom myself, making it my own, getting to know it up close and personal?

I am astounded to find I am a bit sad to leave the trailer.  Quite seriously, I am more sad and nostalgic about leaving this trailer than I was in March when we left behind our NYS house of 24 years.  What the hell is wrong with me?  I guess it is because the past 3 months have been hard for us.  This little trailer was a home when we had none, a sanctuary that served us well when we needed one. 

I will be without internet for a few days after we move, so I probably will not post again for a week.   If all goes well, it will be a very happy post. I think I can remember how to pull that off.

Right or wrong, here are my "closing thoughts" on our recent circumstances:  We were fortunate in many ways.  For one, we could afford to find a short term rental situation that was safe and private.  We knew we would eventually buy a house.  We have family near by, and friends a phone call or email away who gave us emotional support.  I am painfully aware that many people who do not own a home do not have resources or options.  The truly homeless are the saddest of all.  They are vulnerable beyond belief.  Can you imagine how awful it would be to end up in a homeless shelter with no money and little hope?  Like I said, stuff happens and sometimes you do not see it coming.  It can spiral outside of your control.  In some cases people lose their jobs and then they lose their house.  This is why so many of these houses for sale in Florida are foreclosures.  These former homeowners are not slackers or the mythic welfare cheats.  They are middle class parents with children who bought houses when the market commanded ridiculously high prices, thinking they had secure jobs and a safe, secure future.  They did not, and it was not their fault.  Someone once pointed out to me that, contrary to popular belief, it is actually physically impossible for a person to pull themselves up by their own bootstraps.  Sometimes you need help.  The banks did not always work with the owners to help them stay in their houses until their finances recovered.  It can be a cold, cruel world when money is the driving force.  During our house search I saw willful damage some of the people did to their homes before they were forced to moved out.  I was both shocked and moved.  Shocked because I could not condone their actions.  Moved because I could understand the anger and frustration that drove them to do it.  I am hyper aware that we are getting this house because someone else had to give it up.  Perhaps our recent (and in retrospect, mere) 3 months of struggle was a means for us to fully appreciate having a home.   I am grateful to our realtor and our lending agent for the kindness they showed and the help they gave us.  Compassion without judgment is the greatest kindness.  This is the lesson I have recently learned.

Big sigh…

Getting Down to the Wire

Looks like the house closing will take place next Friday.

When I chose the title to this post, it seemed perfect to describe where we are in the house closing process; however, it occurred to me that the phrase “getting down to the wire” made no sense at all taken at face value.  I wondered where the phrase came from so I looked it up in my handy on-line phrase checker, http://idioms.thefreedictionary.com, to learn where it came from:

“Usage notes: In a horse race, the wire is a metal thread that marks the finishing line.”

Then I realized because of my crappy working class education, I did not know what an idiom was, so I looked that up in my computer-based dictionary.   An idiom is:

“a group of words established by usage as having a meaning not deducible from those of the individual words (e.g., rain cats and dogs, see the light).

I could not help but notice how close “idiom” was to “idiot” so I checked “idiot”, too.  They both come from the Greek word “idios” which means: “own, private.”  Apparently in Ancient Greece an idiot was not someone with a mental disability, it was someone who was considered selfish.  It was a person who was perceived as overly concerned with their private, individual life and ignored their public duties as a citizen of Greece.   Yep, a person in Ancient Greece who did not vote or participate in public duties was an idiot.  

This is what makes retirement such a pleasure.  I have the time to dabble and delve – wasting time in the most delicious ways.  Wait – I am not “wasting” time, I am “taking” time.  Big difference!  I own my time now.  I am using time to my own private advantage.  Some of you may think, “She has too much time on her hands.”  But there is never too much time. When I was working, for 40 long years, most of my time was not my own.  I sold my time to earn money and make a living.  I was not doing what I loved.   I was simply doing the best I could.  Now, my time is finally my own and I use it in my own, private, selfish way.   After today, I will never think of the word “idiot” in quite the same way.  

Anyway, getting back to that wire…I will believe it when I see it.

Inert States

Can we talk about inertia?  Some of you have asked how I am making it through this house purchase waiting period.  It is hard, and it is also a sincere test of psychological health and well-being.  I wouldn't mind being depressed.  Unfortunately, it is hard to be depressed in Florida because there is so damn much sun.  Getting enough vitamin D is not a problem for Floridians.  Depression is kind of out of the question when you cannot help but be happy as soon as you step out of the door into the brilliant sunlight.   It is a little unnerving, especially for someone from Ithaca, New York where most days are gray and whenever I stepped outside I felt like I was crawling out from under a rock.   Anyway, I am settling for inertia.  The effect is sufficiently self-indulgent and mind-numbing, which helps.  I am also eating an amazing number of Reeses Peanut Butter cups.  OK, OK, there is wine, too.  

Let me give you an example of my inert state.   I bought a can of tuna about three weeks ago.  I like tuna sandwiches.  I want one.  I realize I have the can in the cupboard, but I cannot bring myself to take it out of the cupboard and open it with a can opener, squeeze the excess juice out of it, let alone add mayo and swish it around in a bowl to mix it up.  Come on!  It is too much work.   You know what I’m talking about!  I am now a delicate flower of a woman living a life of leisure, and it would require me to get up off the couch and stop reading my favorite trashy paranormal/urban fantasy novel, AARP magazine, the New Yorker, or the history of the U.S.A from 1812 to 1848 that T lent me.   These reading materials are all active and assertive subject matter and I feel like I have exerted myself by just reading them.   I need to save my strength for wrestling with my two year old grandson, N.  He likes to play Ring-Around-The-Rosy and when we all fall down he demands that we all fall down flat on our back and kick our legs up in the air.   He has real style.

That, of course, is an exaggerated view of my current life.  The tuna can avoidance behavior and Ring-Around-The-Rosy are true stories; however, we are pretty active most days going to State Parks, visiting tourist traps, babysitting and swimming in M&MV's pool. The grandchildren really cheer us up, too.   We just need a house so we can get all our things back.  Sometimes we go to the storage unit just to look at our things. Hmmmm, maybe that’s what we can do this afternoon.

I think of the quilts I could be making if I had my sewing machine and quilt frames.  I might even finish that masterpiece quilt I started in 1989!  I think of the meals I could be making for my family.  I could be swimming in my pool every day if only I had one.  I could be making lots of fun decisions about paint colors, furniture purchases, where to hang the pictures in the house, how to set up my quilt room.  I could be complaining about the oppression of endless boxes that need to be opened and contents put away.  I am looking forward to complaining about that.  Considering my current state of inertia, it might take a long time to get the house set up.  

Looks like we might close on the house on June 30th at the latest.  I am reluctant to even post this because I do not quite believe it.

Kismet

We are still in the *&^%#@ trailer, but hanging in there.   It feels odd to complain about being stuck in this trailer because, as I have said too many times before, it is actually a lot like being on vacation.  However, I fear it is a Twilight Zone vacation that will never end.

I have a confession to make.  We have not cooked in over 2 months.  There is an oven/stovetop, but it is teeny-tiny small and in a cramped and inconvenient hallway on the way to the bedroom (also laughingly referred to as “the kitchen”).  T considers it unworthy of his consideration and refuses to cook on or in it.  I am so filled with inertia these days that sometimes I will not even pull out the toaster because it seems like too much work.  We exist on sandwiches, frozen TV dinners, and restaurant meals.  T would have NEVER eaten frozen TV dinners before.   Now he spends a good deal of time shopping for just the right one.  It is kind of cute.  I have recently resorted to buying frozen omelet breakfast meals, too.  There is only so much oatmeal or cereal that one can stomach. 

I used to love going to restaurants.  Now it is hard to get excited about going out to eat.   We try to pass the decision of where to go on to each other.  The general dynamic is like flipping a coin and the loser has to decide.  I no longer care.  Just put a funnel in my mouth, push my head back, pour some gruel down the hatch and fill me up.  Three times a day would be nice.  Whatever. 

It is the rare restaurant that cooks as good as home, anyway.  Also, there seems to be a dearth of decent Mom and Pop restaurants in the area we are staying at.  I am sick to death of chain restaurants.  At first it was fun to throw caution to the wind and eat at the chains, but now eating in those places feels like the death of the spirit.  They all serve the same kind of food.  Yes, I am a food snob.  Please do not hate me for it.  I like real food, cooked at home, with vegetables and fruit.  I cannot help it.  And there are no Wegman’s Supermarkets down here with fabulous healthy, multi-ethnic take-out choices.  Those of you in the frozen northlands of New York State need to understand that God gave you Wegman’s to make up for the long winters.   You can’t have everything!

Now that I have had my dramatic moment, let me say that we actually do have a favorite restaurant close by.  It is a Mexican restaurant.  The food is fresh, authentic, and fantastic.   As for the Margueritas, let me just say they are the absolute best. Ever. In the Whole Wide World.  We try desperately not to go there every day or twice in the same day.

We now have a signed and fully executed contract on House#1... again.  We are just waiting to get a closing date so we can sign on the dotted line, give Fannie Mae all our money, and move in to the house.  I hope that will happen before the end of June.  Would it be a cliché to say, “I hope it does not fall through again?”  Bite your tongue woman and don’t tempt Fate! 

I am pretty sure Fate is a huge jokester with nothing much to do in its spare time.  It is bored.  Perhaps it is retired?  Consequently, it devises screw-ups for humans in order to entertain itself.  We have been Fate’s playthings for a long time now.  Just how long can its attention span be?  I am trying my best to not react and to seem boring.  Then perhaps Fate will move on to someone else?  I mean, there are lots of truly awful people out there who could use some attention.  Not any of you, of course.  Fate could be spending time with a wife-beater, a banker who holds up the sale of foreclosed houses, a kindergarten teacher who prefers one gender of small-fry over another, drivers with road rage - there are so many obvious choices. 

Our son-in-law’s mother (SH) and step-father (JY) are moving down TODAY!   We’re all very excited to expand our Florida family and have them down here.   We love them dearly, and can hardly wait to see them.  

Oy Vey, and I Really Mean It

Yeah, the house purchasing crappola continues.  For point of information House #2 is owned by the VA and House #1 is owned by Fannie Mae.   No real human beings seem to be involved on the seller's end beyond the listing agents.  The listing agents must not be motivated by commission otherwise their lackluster performances make no sense.  Perhaps they get a flat fee from these large government organizations when they work for them, and that is why they do not seem to care?  Or maybe it is because the organizations are so large and impersonal that they do not make decisions quickly?   It is hard to say.  Like John Snow (Game of Thrones) I know nothing.

House #2 (VA):

This is a truly great house and we like it best; however, it is a little too big for us and has been sitting empty for a few years.  Consequently, it needs a significant amount of work, and the purchase price is more than House #1 (which is move-in ready).  When we first looked at it and decided to put an offer down we could see all the rooms had to be painted and it needed new carpeting throughout.  We also saw amazing potential both inside and out.  Great house.  After inspection, it became clear it needs new roof, new a/c, and the pool area would need a LOT of work: big bucks.  We were willing to get the additional repairs and refurbishing done, but we needed the VA to come down in price somewhat to make it worth our while.   It would have been a show of good faith on the part of the sellers.  Last Friday, after waiting nearly two weeks for their response, they finally got back to us with a measly reduction.   They made the statement they would rather put the house back on the market than come down anymore on the purchase price.  We got the message.  Since we are retirees on a fixed income that meant the house would quickly become a money pit for us.  We were still considering it, though, because we like the house.  Then Divine Providence intervened and our path became clear: the deal breaker for me was the following.  Last Friday we went with our lovely real estate agent, TM, to House #2 to look at it one last time before making a decision.   The neighbors out back know our lovely real estate agent, TM, because they go to the same church.   When we went out back to the pool we were talking to TM and the neighbors were in their pool and heard her voice.  They then started talking to TM through the fence from their yard.  Well, I have lived in the country the last 24 years without close neighbors.  I am loud, crass, and working class and so are most of my friends and family.  We cannot be repressed, nor would we want to be.  I am not used to neighbors hearing what I am saying in my own back yard.  Some of T and my most spectacular arguments have been outside on the deck up north.  I like arguing outside.  I do not want to whisper when I am playing with my grandkids in the pool.  Ick.  This soured me on House #2.   I do not want to live there.  I do not want to spend all our discretionary retirement income fixing it up.  Too bad, so sad.  Moving on now.

House #1 (Fannie Mae  - the house we thought we had before we left NYS):

This house is a little smaller than House #2, but the lots in the subdivision are bigger and houses are further apart.   The houses on either side do not have pools, so “they” will not be sitting outside in the blazing Florida heat listening to us, even though I KNOW “they” want to.  We are simply not interesting enough to risk sunburn and dehydration for.  The house behind us has a small pool far enough away that they would have to walk all the way to the fence (outside their pool area) to hear what we are saying.  The lot is totally fenced in on all sides out back.  I will never have to see or even meet my neighbors beyond a quick wave and a  “Hi there” if I do not want to.  Yes, these are the things I worry about.  Welcome to my neuroses.  I am a big nut, I know, but it is hard for a country girl to get used to suburban living.  If you are also a country girl, ya’ll know what I mean.  Yes, I just spoke Southern.   I am Southern now.  Deal with it.

As I mentioned in an earlier blog post, House #1 went back on the market last week and the listing agent called our lovely realtor TM wanting to know if we would like to make an offer.  Of course at first I was angry; Angry is my middle name.  Hot-Head is the name I took for Confirmation.  If you say my first name first, middle name second, Confirmation name third, and my last name last you get a pretty clear idea of whom I am.  And I only used the word “whom” because my spell checker forced me to. 

I digress.  It quickly became clear that House #2 was not going to happen, so we made yet another offer on House #1 – offering the same terms/price that our previous contract had agreed upon.  They immediately got back to our realtor and accepted it.  There was no haggling and no counter offer.  I was caught off guard; astounded really.  I was looking for a fight.  We went to see House #1 and noticed that the sliding glass door was stuck and asked them to fix it - they did it the next day.  We asked for proof of title (to make sure they actually own it now) and they provided it immediately.  It has new a/c, new water heater, and new carpeting throughout thanks to our previous two offers/negotiations.   The roof was new in 2008.   We can move our stuff in without having to do any major repairs or refurbishing beforehand (we will paint rooms over time).  So we are going for it.  Or maybe this is a dream, hard to tell these days.  We should have a signed contract today. 

We have not forgotten that Fannie Mae cost us money, inconvenience, and anxiety in the past few months, but we always wanted this house to be our retirement home.   In fact, this is the third offer we have made on it.  The first time we walked away from it because they would not come down from their initial absurd asking price and also would not make some necessary repairs when the old water heater broke.  The second time they did come down in price to our liking and fixed the things that were wrong, but then it turned out they did not have title and could not sell it to us.  (I still can’t get over that, by the way, it boggles the mind.)  Hopefully the third time works. Hopefully we are not just brain-fried old suckers opening ourselves up for more hurt.   The only downside is our lender needs to start from scratch with this offer – she is unable to just reopen a closed file, so it may be as much as 30 days before we can close and move in.  But at least the reason is on our end and not the sellers.  Sigh.   But (again, hopefully) perhaps there is an end in sight.  This has been nuts. 

Memorial Day: Honoring My Father

My Dad served in the Pacific during World War II aboard the troop supply ships U.S.S. Starlight, and the U.S.S. Wharton.  He enlisted in early 1943, and he was discharged late in 1947 after serving 4 years, 8 months, and 3 days. He was a Machinist Mate 1^st class, and he participated in the Battle for the Liberation of the Philippines in January 1945.  One of the hallmarks of this particular battle was the Japanese introduction of kamikaze pilots.  Kamikaze is a Japanese word meaning "divine wind" and these suicide pilots sank 17 U.S. ships and damaged 50 more in the battle for Luzon in the Philippines as they flew obsolete planes into American ships, hoping to do considerable damage to the U.S. fleet. 

As a machinist, Dad worked below in the ship.  He remembered hearing a kamikaze plane hit the ship next to his, which sunk as a result of the attack.   He said it was extremely loud and the ship he was on shook so much that he thought it was his ship that had been hit.  I can only imagine the claustrophobic fear he felt in those long, lonely moments thinking they were trapped in the belly of the ship.  When he realized it was another ship that was hit, he ran up 3 flights of stairs to see what was happening.  Men from the damaged ship were jumping into the water to escape the fire on board.  My father volunteered to help rescue them and spent the rest of the day pulling men both living and dead out of the Pacific.  

One rescued man was burned over 90 percent of his body.  Although he did not know the man, Dad volunteered to stay by the man’s side.  For three full days and nights he stayed with the stranger, changing his bandages and simply not leaving the man alone with horrible pain. 

After the war ended my father also volunteered to be present for the atomic bomb testing at Bikini Atoll in the Marshall Islands, which began in July 1946.   When asked why he would do such a thing, he replied that it seemed like it would be an interesting experience.  He also said it was beautiful.  

He received the following medals: The Asiatic Pacific (with 4 stars); the American Area Medal; the Victory medal; the Philippine Liberation Medal (with 2 stars); and the Navy Unit Commendation Medal.

My Dad died of congestive heart failure on Veterans Day, November 11, 1996, immediately after he finished singing “It’s a Grand Old Flag” in front of his cronies at a senior citizen’s luncheon.  He finished his song, stepped down off the stage, and immediately had a fatal heart attack.  It certainly scared the other old folks, but it was the kind of death I would have wished for him – quick and painless.  Not a bad way for an old sailor to go!

The Theatre of the Absurd

Life is so strange; sometimes I can hardly believe it.   If I can be thankful for anything in this Comedy of Errors called “Retiring to Florida” it is a chance to perform in this Theatre of the Absurd called “Buying a House in Florida circa 2014.”  Quite the story, and I have been cast in a truly great dramatic role.  "All right, Mr. DeMille, I'm ready for my close-up."

House #2

Our current housing opportunity is fraught with waiting.  The listing agent (representing the seller, who is the Veterans Administration) is a turd…seriously.   I yearn to ask him why he never returns our realtor’s calls.  Is it because he is, in fact, a turd?  Or is it a brilliant realtor tactic to break us down by making us wait and wait for his response and thereby force us to become desperate enough to accept any counter offer he makes?   I really want to know, because if it is a tactic at least I can then understand his lack of responsiveness.  I might eventually be able to respect his ruthlessness.  Real estate is a game one plays to win, after all.  My fear is that he is just lazy and uncaring. And that is so boring.

House #1

Last Sunday our realtor called to tell us that the listing agent from the original house we came down here to buy (the one that Fannie Mae never really owned….) would be going back on the market because they now have title to the house, and they wondered if we were still interested in making an offer.   An offer?  Really?  For crying out loud, we had a contract; a contract they kept extending and then unilaterally cancelled over a month after we first expected to close.  And they cancelled it three days before we moved down here, long after we sold our house up North.  How do I detest thee? Let me count the ways.  

OK, I am now pulling myself together (slight pause while she pulls herself together).  Now that I have publicly ranted and indulged my anger and frustration I need to consider:  Do I want to become a hateful and bitter victim?  No, I do not.  If I change into a hateful and bitter person because of the acts of another, then the bad guys win and I lose.  Been there, didn't do that.  Not gonna happen now either. I refuse to be unhappy because a few other people are either dimwits or have sold their souls to the devil.  And I think that is the crux of the matter.  Putting aside homelessness, boredom, anxiety, and anticipation, I just bottom line refuse to be unhappy. This long, frustrating process has taught me that I am not in control of anything except my reactions. Our goal is that we will find a great house to spend our retirement in.  And we will. 

Concrete Jungle

This is Florida where there are new housing developments popping up all over.  One day you are driving down a country road enjoying the view and thinking, “Hey, Florida is actually pretty out here in the country.”  The next day you are shocked to see that all the trees have been felled and a new development is being built.  The land is lost and will never be the country again.  The natural world is replaced by suburban gated communities with restrictive Home Owners Associations telling everyone how many animals they can have, what color they can paint their houses, and what kind of plants they can plant on their property.  All the houses look alike.  I thought Floridians were mostly conservative Republicans?  I thought conservative Republicans were against oppressive big government?   Why do they choose to live like this, without personal freedoms?  Where are the rugged individualists?   Or have the rugged individualists all become Libertarians?  These are the things I wonder now that I have been retired for six full months!

And now a few words about our current living situation: The Concrete Jungle, aka RV Vacation Resort.  In truth, it is quiet and pleasant to be here.  There is a total vacation vibe.  Everyone is taking it easy.  The RV’s and trailers are parked herringbone style, fairly close to each other.  This is a large park with a lot of units, and across from us is a row of small, prefab houses that are referred to as cottages.  The cottages were once rentals.  The resort is slowly selling them off.  A few of the owners may or may not live in their cottages year round.  When we first moved in (early April) there were a lot more RV’s parked in unit spaces.  By May 1^st, about half have moved out – theoretically to go back north?  Some have left, but continue to rent the unit space and leave their RV parked here.  I am not sure what the draw is about this place.  It is backed up against a Publix grocery store and strip mall on one side.  The other sides are surrounded by the ubiquitous new housing developments.

There is a clubhouse, pool, and administrative complex in the middle of the park.  The office manager is British.  She is kick-ass efficient and keeps everything running smoothly.  She is also da boss.  I so wanted to like her.  But, we pissed her off right away when we first arrived because we tried to get both cars in under only one gate opening.  My husband loves the challenge.  We managed, but it really made her angry.  She wanted us to be punished.  She scolded us soundly.  I think she might have waved her finger at us, too.  I felt rebuked and ashamed for our transgression.  My husband, T, being a former lost boy and all, thought it was funny and wanted to do it again.  He was not sufficiently obsequious or sorry.  She knew.  She can tell when you are bad to the bone.  Other residents seem to have an electronic pass that opens the gate.  We did not receive one.  I can only imagine why.  We have to punch the *&^%$! code in each and every time.  I have seen her flirt with some of the old men who come in to hang out with her or to pick up their mail.  “Here comes trouble!” she will say in her slightly higher and more feminine “nice voice.”  I have never seen her pal around or joke with a woman.  I tried to be funny with her once, but only ended up laughing at my own joke a little too shrill as she stared a hole through me.  I might have even displayed some facial heaves as the air became thicker...very awkward. She reminds me of a couple of office professionals I have worked with over the years.  She controls the atmosphere within her sphere and only dispenses good vibes on her favorites – the ones who suck up to her regularly.  The rest of us are beneath her notice.  Thank you, God, for not making me her supervisor.

Still Waiting, Dammit!

Ok, now it is beyond waiting. It is about control. I have none. I want some. What is a woman to do? I am afraid the answer to that is “get cranky.”

I like to do things on the spur of the moment; the lack of planning makes everything more fun. Yesterday at 2:45 pm I came up with the brilliant idea of driving into town, picking up E (who I happened to know was home from school faking illness) and going to the theater to see the new Spiderman movie at 3:45. It takes 35 minutes to get from our trailer to their house, then 15 minutes to get from M&MV&E&N’s house to the theater. We could do it! I had faith in us.

My husband, T, agreed and we jumped in the car and headed to pick up E.  Unfortunately, T must have been on slow motion drugs yesterday afternoon because he consistently drove under the speed limit. We have a GPS and it tells us what the speed limit is, and what speed we were going. I could not believe it. He must have known how important it was to get there on time. I felt the need to shout out the speed limit to him so that he would know. As you can imagine, he REALLY seemed to like my help in that regard. The other drivers on the road were purposely driving slow, too. Bastards!  I cursed them roundly, and not quietly.  I screamed: “I hate your guts!” to a school bus filled with children.

I messaged ahead to give M instructions to have E come out as soon as we drove up so we would not have to go inside. I did not want baby N to know we were there because 1. It would break his heart when we left right away, and 2. It would slow us down to interact with him. I called again when we were punching in the access code at the gate for their housing development. Why, oh why do so many Floridians live in gated communities? Coming to a stop and punching in the numbers and then waiting forever for the hateful gate to slowly swing open cost us at least 20 seconds. E did not come out immediately when we drove up 20 seconds later. So I called again. M messaged that E was going to the bathroom. Fine. I guess they do not plan ahead either.

It took forever to get from E’s house to the theater. OK, maybe because I insisted T take a new “short-cut,” and I miscalculated how short the cut was, whatever. We arrived at the theater at 3:50. I ran to the ticket counter, E and T trailing behind. What is it with slow motion drugs, I wondered? Don’t they know how to run?

Previews were being shown and there were only seats left up front, so the ticket person suggested we pay a bit more and go to the 4:00 3D showing. I glanced at E&T to see if they wanted to go to the 3:45 non 3D (as planned) or the 4:00 3D showing. I sincerely thought I heard them say, “No, we want to stick with the plan – go to the 3:45 show.” I paid for the 3:45 tickets. When we got in they stupidly were trying to veer into the 3D cinema entrance. I yelled at them that it was not the one we were going to. I could not believe they were wasting more TIME. With what I can only call shock they informed me that they both had told me at the ticket counter that they wanted to go to the 4:00 3D movie instead. Sheesh.

We walked in and took seats in the 3D theater. We had about 7 minutes to kill. I immediately began to relax. T went to get snacks for all of us. You can drink beer and wine in this theater, plus they sell fries with cheese sauce. So, snacks are pretty great here. Then sweet E turned to me with frightened eyes and asked what we would do if we got arrested for going into the wrong theater? Ouch, the heady responsibility of being a grandparent!  I reassured her I would go out and tell the authorities we were in the 3D theater, and I would pay the additional $6 cost. Good thing, too, because we did not have 3D glasses…

I walked up to the nearest authority (a tall, skinny, pimply faced 16 year old boy) and confessed our sins. He shook his head at me sadly and told me that was not the way we were supposed to do this. My eyes glazed over as I successfully managed not to punch him in the head. Over the right ear would have been good, I thought. He gave me 3 pairs of 3D glasses and I returned to my seat.

T then came back with a tray full of food and drink. E had fries with cheese sauce, a humongous box of cookie dough candy, and a Sierra Mist that was at least a foot tall. T got fries and a glass of white wine. I am on a life-long diet so naturally I only got wine. As he went to sit down the tray tipped and HIS glass of white wine spilled over and onto him, the tray, and the floor. We moved up to the next row, cleaning up as best we could. The floor, however, remained sticky.

Spiderman was great! It was fast paced, and included lots of fighting, lots of crashing and plenty of yelling. Just what the doctor ordered. I was refreshed. I worked out a lot of anger issues watching Electro get his butt kicked by Spidey.  Although I felt kind of sorry for Electro because it was not really his fault that he turned bad. Sigh. My nerves are shot. I may need to go see the Captain America movie today. Alone.