It is one of the undeniable, though bittersweet, joys of homeownership that the bad times make you remember how wonderful your life is when all the mundane things that you take for granted actually work. For instance, I remember a time when we could flush a toilet in our house and not have unmentionable muck bubble out of the storm drain in our driveway. Such an innocent time.
The plumber’s already been here and it’s not our inside pipes, so now the city guy is striding down our driveway to the back of the house (where the garage entrance is), a pickaxe over his shoulder. This is going to hurt, I can tell.
I think I’ll go sit in the local RMV office for the fourth time this week to see if they’ll accept my newly arrived checkbook or notarized deed of quitclaim as proof of residency, since they wouldn’t accept our duplicated unsigned mortgage papers or the mailer from the bank that had my debit card. Maybe I’ll have a Massachusetts drivers’ license by the end of the day.
Hey, it beats unpacking boxes, right? Right?