For most of my adult life, as chance would have it, I lived in one-story homes. Student apartments, railroad flats, ranch houses, cottages…not a choice but just what we found that fit our needs. Last week, my two cats and I moved to a two-story house. A little variety – should be fun.
9:18 a.m. Phone rings and real estate agent wants me to take down a phone number. No pens or pencils upstairs. Run down to kitchen.
9:19 a.m. Agent asks me for email address of the loan officer who contacted me. Smart phone and computer upstairs. Run up to study.
9:20 a.m. Phone rings again. (I have phones upstairs and down, having planned for this brave new world.) Seller’s agent calling to ask for my loan application number for his client’s papers. That folder is on the dining room table. Run downstairs.
9:21 a.m. Agent gives me name of seller’s handyman so I can have him look at the washing machine, which just died during the first load I tried. But the only pencil I have unpacked is now upstairs. Run upstairs.
9:22 a.m. Doorbell rings. Run downstairs.
9:23 a.m. The man who spent a fruitless hour trying to get the garage door to work needs to be paid for his time. Checkbook is upstairs. Run upstairs. Run down again. Remember to bring pen with me.
9:25 a.m. Saffron meowing plaintively from somewhere upstairs. She has no idea where I am or why I’m running up and down the stairs. I think she fears I have lost my mind. Run upstairs and plop down with her and Pumpkin, the three-legged kitten. They’re relieved to see me. But I realize I left my coffee downstairs….
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. I can only hope.
