Saturday, July 26, 2014

House Hunting: Part II


My house-hunting adventure continued today with the first slew of showings with my new realtor. (New realtor = the one who actually called me back and whom has this whole fancy email thing figured out.)

House 1: This house is very near to the home we had lived in for the last 13 years and on a street that is a part of our regular evening walking route. It had a nice front porch, a quaint and easily maintainable backyard, and a friendly black kitty next door that I would be likely to catnap and call as my own (only until the neighbor woke up and realized it was missing, of course.) 

The inside of the house wasn't so much of a treat. Musty smelling, wallpaper in every bedroom (even in places where wallpaper doesn't belong. Hint: Wallpaper was designed for walls, yo) absolutely no appliances, makeshift closet rods made of leftover plumbing, and the piece de resistance... wood paneling in all of the common spaces. 

Now I realize that real wood paneling can be easily painted to look like beadboard or wainscoting. But, this home had this this flimsy thin faux wood walling that someone had, not so cleverly, cut out little hidden "doors" in. What? I know this makes no sense. But, imagine following along the wall to discover a piece of packaging tape, masking or duct tape (Believe me, the tape came in an abundance of variety.) You notice a rectangular cut-out along the wall and give the tape a tug. Like a little trap door, the thin paneling would give way to reveal either a surprise "Oh. A fuse box!" or the deception of one, "Oh, a bed of splinters!"

I think I jumped the gun, though, on the piece de resistance. This was actually the fact that we never did find the furnace. We found the water heater, the hookups for where a washer and dryer should be, the air conditioning unit outside, but never a furnace. My realtor was still looking for it along the home's perimeter when we tried to let him off the hook, "It's a 'no' to this property, so there's no need to find it." He couldn't give up the game though, "Okay. But, I still want to find it. It's got to be here somewhere!"

Condo 1: The only condo we toured today was located in a dream location. Right in the downtown area of my own hometown, but in a complex I'd hadn't considered due to its extremely cramped parking situation. 

There was a subletter who hadn't vacated the premises prior to our arrival, but who was kind enough to shirtlessly take to the bedroom to iron his laundry while we had a look around. (He wasn't so kind, however, as to turn off the internet porn he'd left up on the screen of his laptop on the dining room table. But, if you ask my mom, "I thought he was just studying to be a doctor." I'll let you folks decide for yourselves.)

It was a one bedroom unit (I had been looking for two) but the one room was ample enough in size and closet space to make up for it. The layout was well appointed and the picture window in the living room had a lovely view of the courtyard space below.

The downside? The parking, as mentioned before. At least one nosy elderly neighbor who was not at all shy about hanging out in the hallway and gawking at us a we toured the rest of the building. And, worst of all, horror upon horror, NO CATS ALLOWED! Come on, people! I'm turning 40. I'm unmarried. I've earned at least one cat in life!

It remains on the maybe list.

House 2: We actually started out this afternoon in the property that I'd referred to in my last post as the home in the meth-y neighborhood. But, for the purpose of good writing and suspense, I decided to save the "best" for last.

I'd recently re-nicknamed this one the "rapey woods" home because there's a wooded ravine behind the property. This intrigued me with the thought of wildlife but, instead, alarmed some in the family with its imminent threat of rapey danger. (Upon further research, I also learned that there is a registered sex offender living, ummmmmm, as the closest neighbor to the right!) But, it's newly renovated and miraculously in my price range. Let's take a look!

The yard was beautiful, fenced in, and the woods dropped off almost immediately into the Rouge River; giving any rapist worth his salt a great challenge to attack me from the property's rear. But, that's where the fun ended. 

Upon opening the front door we were immediately hit with the strong scent of mold. Then, when taking a first glance around, I realized that "newly renovated" was really the listing agent's code that they had newly acquired skills in the the art of Photoshop.

The gorgeous original hardwood floors pictured online, in reality, had the smoothness and consistency of a highway rumble strip. Their appearance, in person, gave the impression that a former owner at one time had strapped two pairs of ice skates on the family dog, let go, and said, "Let's just see what happens."

Now, I am not a flooring snob! I am fine with carpet. I am fine with tile. I am fine with laminate "hardwood". It's just that when sinking my savings into a home, it would simply be nice to walk across my own living room without the fear of splinters and sea-sickness.

I am also not an appliance snob. But, let's just say that the stainless steel refrigerator's freezer had a stain in it which could have possibly been left behind from a severed head. Moving out of the kitchen...

The bedrooms were okay, but with the really weird closets of a house built in the 1920's. (By the way, this house was built in the 1920's.)  The bathroom was standard. The smell of mold was STRONG throughout the entire upstairs and had already cemented a "no" vote in my mind. But, since we're here, why not check out the basement?  What harm could come from checking out the basement?

Stomp, stomp, stomp, stomp... down the stairs we go. Looking up, yes, there is obvious water damage to this home. And, the copper plumbing did not have one inch that wasn't covered in rust.

It's still a "no" vote, but I possess a curious mind. Let's open the washer and dryer. Well, I think that severed head may have also taken a run through these.

Turn around. Ooh, a pet spider.

Turn around again. Ooh, a mysterious room that was probably used for storing beets and raw potatoes back in the day.

What's behind this door? 

The best I can describe what was behind this door is, if you've ever watched season one of Bate's Motel, it's the room where the kidnapped Asian sex slave was being held in Officer Shelby's basement. 


There could be no other explanation for this room other than to hold a kidnap victim hostage. 

Then when you walk into the room, there's another door that leads to another hostage room. The first room even had a wire for cable TV hanging down from the ceiling. Presumably, this was the "good hostage" room that you're allowed to watch TV in. When you're a "bad hostage" you get led through the labyrinth to the bad hostage room.

What house needs TWO hostage rooms in the basement?! (Maybe even three, if the room by the basement steps isn't really for storing beets!) These rooms also had excessive water damage to the point where the floor was coming apart. Presumably due to water torture or the rinsing of the severed head. 

I had squealed in horror when I opened the second hidden room's door. My realtor scurried over to ask me what I think. I said, "Well, if I ever decide to take up serial killing, I've found a place to stow the bodies." He laughed and actually agreed. Therefore, he is still my realtor.

There's a sex offender next door, two to three torture rooms in the basement and the likelihood that a severed head has frequented every appliance in the joint. This home is also not for me. NO LIST!

I realize that living by myself might eventually become lonely, but I'll take loneliness over being visited by the souls of those who passed here any day!

We're going back to the drawing board and praying for new listings this week. Home shopping on a tight budget may not be easy, but it is certainly entertaining!

Now if you'll excuse me, I had to go wash the mold spores out of my sinuses. They're giving me a headache.

Wednesday, July 2, 2014

Rite of Passage


This year-of-turning-forty is not without its rites of passage.

The latest, being my very own breast cancer scare.

[Usher me past the velvet ropes of womanhood.]

Probably half of the women I know that are my age or older have had at least one lump, bump, cyst or funky mammogram result that sent them into that multi-day tailspin until... dah dah dummm... RESULTS.

Yesterday, during a routine physical, my doctor felt something.

Now, my doctor is a chatterbox and what she felt caused a reaction I'd never seen in her. She stopped talking. Mid-sentence even! We went immediately from sharing our lack of plans for the holiday to her shoving my left boob in the same spot repeatedly while her chatty smile turned into an instant look of dread.

I didn't immediately catch on to the severity of the issue, so when I tried to continue the conversation, she finally blurted out that I have a lump.

I was stunned.

I had came in for a routine physical. I went from the high of being told we could skip the pelvic exam this year due to my previous year's shining results. We'd already covered the state of my family history, my GERD, my bum knee and I received new praise for upping my exercise routine this year.

All that was left was the easy part. Lay back, don't make eye contact and have a breezy conversation while my doctor feels me up.

She ended up taking my own hand and shoving it into my left side-boob, as if to wake me up to the fact that we were no longer talking about barbecuing on the Fourth of July. "Do you feel that?" she asked me. "Oh... yeah.. kinda," I lied. "I'm sending you for an ultrasound."

Her easiest appointment of the day suddenly turned into hushed conversations with the nurse as they scribbled in my file and crazily hurried together paperwork to get me into the lab as quickly as possible, while the nurse kept turning around to assure me how pretty I looked that day. (Ah, the sisterhood of women. Always able to deflect panic with a compliment, God bless us.)

The soonest the lab could take me for an ultrasound was to be this afternoon. All I had to do was stave off my imagination for one shortened workday before I could have answers and feel some relief.

Well, an office worker from lab called me first thing this morning with some news that she was obviously hesitant to share. The ultrasound tech had called in sick. I blurted out an, "OH NO!" Which she echoed in sympathy, "Oh no, is right..."

She then tip-toed through the rest of the conversation. I could practically sense her cringing on the other end, as if I had the power to reach through the phone line and choke her out. "I understand it's not your fault," I assured her, "but when is the soonest you can get me in? I don't care what day, how early, how late..." I found a moment to sympathize with her for being the messenger and promised myself that I would not bark at her in the manner that today's other patients must have verbally manhandled her with.

Next week. Thursday. Stupid "sick" lab tech. Stupid holiday.

My six hour wait for peace in a moment's notice had multiplied into a one-week-plus-one-day one.

Boy is my imagination is going to be testing me!

I realize this isn't usually the stage in which you share this kind of medical news. In fact, I wasn't going to share any of this publicly until I had happy results that I could turn into a hilarious blog post, typed with fingers that had been bathed in utter relief.

But, then I figured that God doesn't test us so we can keep secrets about it. 

Maybe not all women will experience cancer. The unfortunate ones don't have a choice. The brave of those ones build up the courage to share their journeys.

But,  there's also the rest of womankind. The "at least half of the ones I know" that can relate to the waiting. Good news, bad news, just hoping for the all clear. Most of them won't even end up being sick and needing treatment... but, oh, the crazy places your mind will go when you're caught up in the day-long and night-long distraction of not knowing yet.

Why should we be ashamed to talk about it? It's one of the neediest times to open up our mouths and vent.

So, for your entertainment (and maybe to pass Phase One of my "test") here is an overshare of some random thoughts that have passed through my scattered brain these last two days:

  • Geesh, the first year I didn't bother with a self exam!
  • I thought only big breasts got lumps.
  • Why'd I go and pick the cheaper insurance plan at work?
  • I'm house-hunting! I can't afford cancer right now!
  • After the lab lady asked me if the lump hurts, I answered "no." After I obsessively poke myself in the breast all evening, "Ow! It hurts so bad!"
  • Lumpectomy or mastectomy?
  • With a mastectomy I could inherit an insurance-paid-for perfectly-shaped pair.
  • Why does the medically bad boob have to be the physically cuter one?
  • Should I start giving out free second-baseys so my real breasts can have one last thrill before they're severed and tossed in the garbage.
  • Do they put the amputated breasts in the garbage can?!
  • Should I photograph them before they're gone?
  • Why do I immediately think I will be breastless in the near future?
  • I'm sorry to my boobs, for always calling you small. You are not inadequate in any way, shape or form.
  • This really isn't helping my mid-life crisis.
  • Is someone going to make me do a three-day walk now? I really don't think I want to walk that far.
  • Do I have to start wearing pink? I hate pink!
  • I can't believe I was tempted to cancel my annual physical.
  • Don't ever cancel your annual physical.
  • I love my doctor.
  • Why now?
  • Why me?
  • Am I dreaming?
  • Should I really blog all this?
Well, too late now. I just did.

I'd love to end this post with "IT WAS JUST A CYST!", but I jumped the gun on this news and now we'll all just have to wait on the test and its results together. (Don't you love how I tangled you into my anxiety web?)

You don't have to act weird if you see me in real life. I'll accept all encouraging hugs. I welcome your own stories if you never had a chance to vent your own scare. I'll even understand if you avoid me altogether because this news made things awkward and you'd rather pretend you never read this. Fine, you never read this. You know nothing about my boobs. I can play along! When I'm in an awkward moment I overshare. I can definitely feel for those who don't.

Of course, I'm accepting all offered prayers. But, I'm not quite ready for unsolicited advice, so don't go there yet. 

And, please, don't bother my family with questions they don't have answers to. I told you everything I know so far and they're alot more private than I am. (Do you really think the men in my family want to acknowledge the existence of my breasts?) If you must talk about it, bring it to me only. 

My doctor tried very hard to convince me that I should think this is just a cyst. (But, she also whispered too much with the nurse in a panicked fury too closely to the exam room door...) I'm choosing to be encouraged by her hopeful prognosis. And, in my heart-of-hearts, I know she's probably right. She is the expert, after all.

Worst case scenario: I'm dying. But, aren't we all dying of something?
Bad case scenario: It's something and I'll need treatment. But, treatment exists. Praise the Lord!
Best case (and most likely) scenario: My doctor's hope was right and the worst that happened was that I entertained you all with my honest paranoia. 
Most bizarre of the benign scenarios: God just gave my breasts speed-bumps to deter fast men.

Don't skip your self exam this year. And be sure to make that yearly appointment!