This morning I woke up in my new house. Though I thought moving day would never get here, in truth, time has flown. Hard to believe that as recently as three months ago, the idea of moving hadn’t even entered my mind.
I heard on the news that consumer spending was down last month. It’s not my fault. In fact, considering what I’ve spent, I’m rather surprised we didn’t see an uptick. Since the closing two weeks ago, my new house has been visited by a steady stream of contractors, installers, and delivery men. Before you chastise me for sexist language, I was going to say delivery persons, but they were all men—so I’m merely being accurate. Don’t judge me.
Earlier this week, I started shifting the pile from the old garage to the new. My PT Cruiser convertible—just like Steve Carrell’s character’s car on The Office (whose name also happens to be Michael)—wasn’t really made for hauling. Having to put the top down to load and unload isn’t all that convenient, but at least the weather has been nice.
By the time the movers arrived yesterday morning, except for what I’d been using in the kitchen and stuff too big to fit in my car, everything was already over at the new house. Four hours later, the movers were pulling away with an empty truck. Since then, I’ve slowly been shifting things from the garage to its final resting place somewhere inside.
There’s still too much in the garage for my car to fit inside. The big pile of empty boxes and things I don’t want after all is largely to blame, along with all the framed pictures, mirrors, and such that are destined for the walls. Once I get all that cleared out, I’ll figure out how to arrange what’s left. Hopefully, I’ll be able to park in the garage before spring.
The first night in the new house was interesting. My new normal depends a lot on television, the Internet, and a refrigerator—none of which I had last night. I am oh so grateful for my iPhone for keeping me connected. If only they had an app that produced ice cream or other frozen treats. I went to bed a little earlier than usual, but couldn’t sleep.
This is the first place I’ve lived where the vents for heating and cooling are in the ceiling. The vent over my bed has a rattle in it, barely loud enough to be heard over the new and unfamiliar sound of the heat pump. I’ll get used to it. One day. I’m sure of it.
Then, just as I was drifting off, I heard it. Six beeps. Then I heard it again. I started counting, reaching 45 when the series of beeps sounded again. It wasn’t loud–just loud enough—and like clockwork, beeping roughly once a minute.
It wasn’t my phone. I tried to think what it could be. The only other electronic device in the house was…the microwave oven. Nope. That wasn’t it. Knowing it was a long shot but with absolutely nothing else to try, I pulled the plug on my wireless printer and went back to bed.
Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep. Shit. I got up again and determined the beeps were coming from a home security system I hadn’t yet checked into activating. I was so sure I was screwed that I closed the bedroom door, wrapped the pillow around my head, and resigned myself to sleep, sleep, sleep, despite the beep, beep, beep.
I got up an hour later, turned on the lights and found my damn glasses so I could check out the beeping contraption. I stared at it, painfully unaware of how the thing worked, knowing I didn’t have a number it was bound to ask me for, fearing I’d do something that would bring every cop in a fifty mile radius racing to my house.
We writers and our imaginations…
I opened the box. A male electronic voice requested my identification number. I closed the door with a sigh and returned to bed. The beeping stopped.
This morning I jumped out of bed and…get this…washed my windows. That’s right. At seven this morning, I was washing windows. Why? Because I could. The new house has double-paned windows that tilt in so you can wash the other side without going outdoors. Fancy. And you know I gotta have clean windows here in…
My Glass House