I always figure that if I'm going to screw with Alexis' head, I should do it multiple times at once, instead of spreading it out over several weeks. So, of course I chose the move as the perfect time to switch her to a twin bed.
We've had the bed for years. It's an antique that we found at a local flea market-type store. Alexis seems to like it, but not as much as she likes this:
That's Rainbow Light. Alexis lurves her Rainbow Light. I learned a little late that the quickest way to her heart was through a new lamp and not through some crazy noise-making toy. Whatever. Now I know.
Alexis lurves her Rainbow Light so much that she insists on sleeping with it on. I would normally fight her on that, but considering the whole New Room/New House/New Everything thing we have going on, I decided to let it slide. Fine, kid, sleep with the light on. Whatever. I'll just turn it off after she goes to sleep.
So, last night I wandered down the hall to her room to turn out the light, and promptly freaked the hell out.
Her bed was empty.
I rushed back to our bedroom, even though I was positive I hadn't heard her wander down the hall. I listened closely in the dark and only heard two snorers, Mr. Husband and the Bulldog. No Alexis.
I rushed back to Alexis' room. I looked on the floor. I looked under the bed. I tried desperately to figure out where the little night walker could be. Then I saw her.
In her old bed.
I had put it in her room with the twin, just in case she resisted the bed switcheroo. It just didn't occur to me that she would pull her own bed switcheroo, so I didn't even see her there, right in front of my face.
Thanks for the heart attack, kiddo.
If you are ever in need of a plumber, you need to email me first. I will do something muy importante for you: I will call the bank who owned our house and find out if they would use that plumber. If they would? RUN AWAY. Everybody has a super power and that bank's super power is the ability to find really, really bad plumbers.
Plumber #1 was the one who was sent out to turn on the water to the house a week after we went under contract. It was a minor little thing that we requested be done for our inspection. Cause, you know, it's kind of hard for an inspector to thoroughly scope out a place if the utilities aren't on. So, Plumber #1 showed up, knowing full well that it was a foreclosure, and yet walked straight to the water valve and straight back out the door.
Um, I wasn't kidding when I said the kitchen faucets were hacked. Literally, somebody cut them out and didn't cap the pipes.
Once some genius figured out why there was a geyser in the kitchen, the geysers were tamed, the water was left on, and everybody figured all was well.
When the selling agent stopped by four days later, she walked straight into a swimming pool in the kitchen. We later learned that there were four leaks total, and they had managed to slowly destroy a whole bunch of hardwood flooring.
So, those leaks got fixed and we finally made arrangements for the inspection. When our inspector made his way to the master bathroom, he discovered a minor little detail had been missed--there was a separate valve for that part of the house. He found that valve and turned on the water to that portion of the upstairs for the first time in probably two years.
It wasn't pretty.
The whirlpool tub was making like a certain Havanese and started peeing all over the floor. The master shower was leakier than Britney Spears off her meds. The hall bathroom started bawling because it felt left out. Before long, there was water POURING from the ceiling in the family room, one story below. Seam tape bubbled and drywall bulged as our inspector feverishly tried to identify each and every leak source.
At the exact moment that the family room reached maximum pond impersonation, the appraiser walked in. I have greatly enjoyed telling our new neighbors what our house was appraised at, but have thus far left out the part where the appraiser was standing in the middle of Western PA's version of the Niagra Falls when she came up with that number. It's fun to watch people sweat, and hearing that a house may not be worth as much as imagined is a definite cause of stinky armpits.
After that round of leaking, the bank got smart and fired their plumber. Enter, Plumber #2. While Plumber #2 never did something as gooberish as to not notice entire faucets were missing, he too committed more than a few errors.
At last count, we still have three leaks. I have named them Larry, Curly, and Moe. Say, "Hi," to them because they will not live to see the weekend. I hope.