The call came yesterday evening, when I was sitting on the couch trying to block the sounds of the upstairs neighbor’s daily dance exercises out of my cranium. He or she was dancing to “Firework” on this fine evening, jumping up and down to the beat on top of my head.
Do you ever hate (jump) walls so paper thin (bump)
Like the ceiling’s bout (smash) to come caving in (crash)
Neighbor you’re a piece (thump thump) of work- (thump thump)
C’mon let your ear (tap tap) drums burst – (splat splat)
The cacophony was such that we almost missed my husband’s phone ringing.
We have been waiting on pins and needles to see whether or not our home loan would be approved- these days, even the most squeaky clean amongst us are are subjected to dissection, dismemberment, and CSI levels of antemortem scrutiny at the hands of a troop of pencil pushing lending assistants who hem and haw and question your integrity while you sweat under the lamps. We’re down to the wire, having been pushed to the limits of our deadlines by Thanksgiving and apathetic paper pushers.
We put an offer in on a house a couple of weeks ago. Strangely enough, it was in neither Ticky Tacky Town nor Crazy Town. It was somewhere in between, a place I have yet to really be able to describe. It’s suburban but quiet, with a yard for the dog and lots of trails nearby. The house just kind of showed up on Redfin one day, the previous buyer having fallen out of escrow. And there it landed in my inbox, the exact sort of place I had wanted. Did I mention quiet? We went and looked at it, I fell into a state of infatuation, and we decided to move forward.
The offer is the easy part, these days. The rest of it, the piles of papers and hoops to be jumped through, now that was the fun part. In the midst of all of this, tense and brittle, I of course started to panic. Remorse set in. Did we do the right thing? Is Apollo going to mark up the place? Will Koa even want to move back in with us after being spoiled at Grandma’s for two months? Should we have waited to try and find just the right casa by the beach after all?
Hoping to assuage my doubt, we ventured back over there last weekend to revisit the neighborhood, me hoping that something would jump out at me to underscore the fact that I had chosen the right place to relocate my family for the next two decades. After all of this drama and stress, I wanted to really be sure.
We wandered over to the shopping center, me eyeing the grocery store with interest. Is it a good grocery store? Does that pet store next to it carry Apollo’s special food? And as we drove by the pet store, me twiddling my thumbs waiting for something to jump out at me, something jumped out at me.
About 15 somethings, to be exact.
I rubbed my eyes. 15 Goldens in festive wear.
On the day I was trying to convince myself that this town was my kind of town, the local Golden Retriever rescue shows up at the local pet store to spread some holiday cheer.
So some of you know me better than others, but in terms of the universe trying to send me a sign that this is a place I’d be happy, a gaggle of Goldens in holiday regalia materializing in my moment of doubt is the Dr V equivalent of a deity in a grilled cheese. Signal duly noted, universe.
Maybe I should call our new digs Golden Town.
And the call, of course, was to update us that yes, we were pretty much approved, though of course there were just a few more people to review the documents and another 5,000 or so pages to sign. But so far, so good. Which pleases me to no end, as I’m quickly approaching the “bang a broomstick on the ceiling” phase in my upstairs neighbor relations.