I didn’t get that big old house I put a picture of on here. Naw, man. I was put off from the moment I saw that the cellar door was rotted off, the screen door was busted to pieces, and there was 1983 blue carpet terrorizing the floor. Since 1918 is a long time to be a house, and though I enjoyed the slanted playhouse like closets, and underlying charm the house was breathing, I found the price too steep for the problems the house was facing.
First off, the first floor toilet had a sink in its lap. I don’t know how any overweight person would have ever managed to sit on the pot with their whole bottom touching the toilet seat. There would have had to of been some sort of leaning, having to use the sink as an arm rest to squeeze a dimpled bun on that there john. The prospect for having a place to rest a pillow whilst pissing in my rallying heyday may have seemed a plus, but I’m a lightweight infrequent drunk nowadays, and find no ironic desire to pass out on the potty.
I was also hesitant to live on Florida Street. Everyone knows that the state of Florida is the oddball burden of the South, and the street of Florida in Greensboro is the same in that it has had a reputation in years past to be a bit of a bungler. When I first came to college in the city in 1996, a third year student warned me not wander that road, it was the heart of danger in its neighborhood. Years, however, have softened Florida Street slightly, and Glenwood has grown into a vibrant, artistic, multicultural, centrally located, affordable conglomerate of houses with ghosts of history in them. It was not the reputation of Florida Street that chased me away from residing in the house, rather, it was the noise and traffic that maraud the asphault on that path on a daily basis. The city buses, the school buses, the bus stop dwellers, the boomboom big tire cars, the high pitched crotch rockets. I told myself three years ago I never wanted to live on a bus line again. Buses are squeaky and they run at unenthusiastic early hours. Florida Street is too bussy for my all encompassing approval.
The strikes on the house could empty a pack of matches.
Billed as a four bedroom house, the house was more like two and a half bedrooms. The “bedroom” on the main floor was a walk through room with two doors, one which led to the living room, the other to the entrance hall. It was included as part of the path to the kitchen from the front of the house. There was no closet in it. There was also no closet in “bedroom” number two upstairs. Couple that with the fact that bedroom number two was the width of a full size mattress, no wider, and the length of two mattresses laid end to end, and you’d have yourself three more strikes.
With my mind made up and knowing this was not the house for me, the realtor bumping his head on the stooped door frame as he showed me the bathtub-less, shower only, upstairs restroom reinforced my decision. I was taller than the realtor, and I would have cursed myself every time I bumped my head on that door frame had I decided take up residence in that hole.
Plus there had to be lead paint on and mice holes in the walls. House that old? For sure.
The grout in the bathroom tile had seen way less dirty days.
The front fence entry was falling over.
The porch swing was raised too high to climb into easily.
The yard was sticks, rocks, and mud.
The windows were old and would have let all the expensive gas heat slip out without so much as a whisper of warning.
The kitchen was possessed by a stained and oddly cornered oven. There were gaps in the cabinets. There was no dishwasher. There was no place for a table. I was scared to look under the sink.
The price was delusional. I wouldn’t pay more than $600.00 a month for a place in such dire need for revamp. Centrally located or not. Just because something is cute on the outside does not mean the inside holds an inviting chamber. I should know that from my dealings with men.
It’s easier to run from a terrible cute house than a terrible cute man, though. It’s plain to see the insides of a cute house, but there will be trouble discovering the make up of a man.
Anyways. I ran from the house. It’s not me, house, it’s you.
I found a newly remodeled three bedroom house in the same neighborhood for 85 dollars less per month than what the Florida Street house was going for. It’s not as big a house, it doesn’t have much of a yard. But it’s clean and cute inside and out. I packed seven boxes today. I’ll be moving round July 15th.
I will miss being close to my Mama and Daddy, but feel relief that I am actively ridding myself of this sense of my life in stall mode. I’d dropped everything to figure out this whole single mama kingdom, and I hope to gain a part of myself back with this move to my old town. Happier days, are you sure to come?