The following is a true moving horror story. If you have any you’d like to share, feel free to send them to me at firstname.lastname@example.org. One of my goals of writing is to take the edge off of life’s troubles, especially moving.
“Sure I can show the house,” I replied to my realtor’s phone call. Even though I’d shown the house twice that week, I steeled myself. With 1982 interest rates at 17%, our house needed to be available for any showing. In Carmel, Indiana, homes were elegant and plenteous, making competion fierce. It didn’t matter that I had a newborn, a thirteen month old and a three year old undoing any housekeeping I ventured to undertake. Between the distinctive odor of two children in diapers, and sour baby bottles ensconced in the depths of my couch, gracious living was hard to fake. I did well to put the diaper pail outside and stuff baby toys under the bed (who’d look there?). As I threw the dirty clothes basket in the shower, I though I’d hop in the bath tub for a quick bath. With three little ones I had learned to shave time off of my morning routine as efficiently as any Olympic runner. With impressive speed I washed, shampooed, and dried off. Throwing on some clothes, I grabbed my children and headed to the car before the potential buyer got to our house
After circling the block for fifteen minutes, I saw the Realtor’s car leave. Hurray! We could all go back inside and relax. I unbuckled three car seats and got the troops into the house. I immediately headed back to the bathroom to use the facilities. As I opened the door, I let out a shriek. There, parked next to my sparkling bath tub were my undies I’d just stepped out of. They hadn’t moved since I slipped out of them for a quick bath. And there they stayed in all their glory, waiting for their owner to claim them.
I thanked the Lord we didn’t sell the house to those particular clients. I could never have faced the new owners across a conference table at closing as they viewed me with subtle snickers. Some things just work out.