The absolute last person I expected to see on my front door stoop was the lady that we bought our house from in 2006. She hadn’t exactly been overly kind or pleasant during our interactions at closing, but after having a party during our condo closing, I think I kind of hit the Apex of Awesome right there. So I tried not to judge.
I also tried not to judge as I sat with a putty knife and an econo-sized vat of Goo-Gone trying to chip off the pieces of 3, 3! different kinds of flowered wallpaper in our teeny first floor bathroom. I’ll admit that maybe I cursed her a whole lot after I realized that they’d applied wallpaper DIRECTLY to the drywall.
This was the bathroom I painstakingly remodeled for my 27th birthday. It looks NOTHING like this anymore.
*pats self on back vigorously*
Maybe I wasn’t overly pleased by her choices of I-Want-To-Kill-Someone Green as colors in at least 3 rooms of the house.
But I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I am certifiably colorblind* and perhaps I am the one who is wrong. Maybe the color is positively lovely, radiating goodness and light instead of making me want to ram my head through the wall. Or just any head, really. I’m not picky.
My dad was in the ICU post heart attack, I remember that day right before Christmas, and Alex was having his typical trouble sleeping. I’d finally gotten him down for his 2.5 minute afternoon nap and the sound of the doorbell made me nearly shatter my teeth as I ground them down.
I’d needed that 2.5 minutes, thankyouverymuch, and no door-to-door salesperson selling coupon books was going to make me happy about giving it up. The days leading up to this were hell and I had had absolutely zero opportunity to even begin to absorb the fact that one of the clots they’d found after the heart attack would have killed him instantly had it dislodged.
So, opening to door to find that the lady whose house I had bought years before–the house that I now owned–standing there was not exactly what I expected. A fleet of cross-dressing purple goats would have been less shocking. She was just one of those eminently forgettable people and, well, after I’d finished cursing her taste in wallpaper, I’d forgotten her entirely.
She walked in, the second I opened the door, no pomp, no hello’s, no circum-fucking-stance, she just pushed past me and walked in. I was too shocked and too Midwestern to respond with an, “I’m sorry, but pop off, lady.”
While I did recognize that she once owned this house, as I had seen the paperwork as I signed my life away, she hadn’t owned it in over 2 years by that point. Mouth agape, hanging in the breeze like a particularly human shaped trout, I just gawked at her. Daver was off somewhere else in the house (my guess would be either looking at horse porn or working, but it’s simply a guess) leaving me to deal with her.
“Did you get any mail delivered here for me?” She asked.
Still shocked, I replied, “I send all of your mail back, return to sender. It’s been 2 years. I don’t get much for you any more.”
Then she took a step backwards in my hallway and looked me up and down suspiciously. I’m sure that she saw the large bags under my eyes, the don’t-fuck-with-me turn of the mouth, and my shaking hands. It didn’t seem to dawn on her that maybe this wasn’t the best time to come over. Or if it did, she didn’t care.
“Are you suuuure you didn’t get anything delivered her? A friend was supposed to send me some money.” She continued sizing me up.
“I’ll check with Dave, but I’m the one who gets and sorts the mail. Anything that was yours would have been sent back.”
Dave had returned from Equus Lovers -r- Us after hearing the commotion, and I asked him if he’d seen any mail for her.
Again, she tested me like I was going to change my answer or something, and again, I told her no, absolutely not. It was obvious that she was beginning to suspect that I’d stolen whatever money had been in said envelope.
While I have been accused of being rude or tasteless, I am not a thief** and I never have been. Not, I should add, that someone who SHOULD have had her mail forwarded 2 years prior can really complain if she doesn’t get her mail…but still.
She stood there in my kitchen, uninvited and quite frankly unwelcome casting her suspicious eyes slowly back and forth between The Daver and I.
“Are you SUUUUUREEE you didn’t take the money?” She was starting to sound like a cross between my mother and an overzealous police detective.
Finally, I snapped, “NO!” I nearly shouted this, frustrated beyond belief and pushed to the end of my rope. The moment that Alex woke up, we had to go visit my father in the ICU and bring him the mini-Christmas tree I’d made for his room. No matter what the issue, using the phrase “visit my father in the ICU” never got easier to swallow.
And this bitch had the audacity to COME INTO MY HOUSE and accuse us of stealing money from an envelope mistakenly sent “from a friend” to my address of 2 years.
I don’t know if she was finally satisfied by my answer or realized that she’d really pissed me off, but she turned around and was off as abruptly as she came.
I’d have thrown the last scraps of her ugly wallpaper after her, but just then Alex started to scream. Looked like I wasn’t going to be getting any break after all. I gritted my teeth and marched up the stairs to collect my son.
Off to the ICU we went. Detailed sketches of elaborate poo flinging mechanisms I could use on her new house danced in my head as we listened to “The Little Drummer Boy” for the forty-fifth time that week.
*not being cute. Truthful. You may start feeling bad for my children….NOW.
**Okay, so I stole YOUR heart. And some hair picks once. When I was like 14.
Gentle Reader, please, have you had anything you’ve been falsely accused of? Or anything as freaking weird as this bitch?