The Money Pit

The Money Pit

Most of you know that we moved (at last) to our new digs. We finally got all of our treasured belongings crap into the house and settled in. And that’s when it hit us. We moved into The Money Pit. That’s right, y’all. Evan and I are Tom Hanks and Shelley Long. Except Ev’s not Jewish and, poor guy, I’m not leggy and blonde. Also, Evan’s alter-ego – Bruce Dern – from The ‘Burbs (another great Tom Hanks film), has taken up residence in the joint. He has threatened to shoot innocent bystander squirrels with a pellet gun (!!) for gumbo. I swear, if I see that man on a walkie-talkie, sporting a shrub, I will scream. Okay, I’ll laugh… and then hide from our neighbors in shame. I’m also on constant look-out for film crews (and Tom Hanks, of course) because seriously… this cannot be our life.

Anyway. Back to the money filled pit and the disaster at hand. Like I said, upon move-in we realized that we made a costly mistake. Not only are we being forced to rent and rent is OUTRAGEOUS, but our landlord is a freaking nincompoop. When we moved in, the following things we were not up to par. We were told they would be fixed before we moved in. They weren’t. And they aren’t. And I’m sure everyone’s getting a great laugh at our expense because we bought (rented..?) it:

  • The flooring in the laundry room was supposed to be completed. It wasn’t. It isn’t. It’s plywood. And I’m not too excited to wash clothes EVER.. because God forbid my washer go ape-shit and leak on the floor.
  • The crap that was left under our shed was supposed to be picked up and/or disposed of. It wasn’t. It isn’t. We live in Louisiana and snakes love places like that. I mean, seriously. COME GET YOUR SHIT.  Also, we cannot use the shed because the woman who still owns the property has her stuff locked inside.  She lives in Texas now.  COME GET YOUR SHIT.
  • The ice maker never worked. I was told it was working when we made our walk through. THAT pissed me off. Because hell no it wasn’t. Know why?  Because the freaking freezer door was wide the hell open when we walked through. So no.
  • The handrails around the deck and by the back and side steps were supposed to be put up or our renter’s insurance won’t cover us. Not only have they not been, but the woman asked Evan to do it. Asked him to buy the materials and everything. Without being compensated. Excusemesaywhat?! Yeah, screw you and no.

And that’s just a taste of what has gone wrong. Our dishwasher broke two days into being there. She sent out a “maintenance guy” twice. TWICE. And both times homie left garbage (!!!) on my kitchen floor and didn’t fix either appliance he had come to repair. But for real…. Do not leave your food trash on my floor, dude. Don’t do it. My house is clean. Pick up your trash, man. The second time he went out he said that the dishwasher was, in fact, working.. but (gasp!) the ice maker was still broken. No shit, guy. You think? And both times he was out he was IN MY HOUSE for one and a half to two hours. To do what? Eat in my kitchen, leave garbage on the floor, and not fix a damn thing. Can you say idiot? ‘Cause I can. Idiot.

So we finally got two out of ten things fixed. Two out of ten things that we, by virtue of our lease, are not supposed to touch. Yet we’ve been asked to fix almost all of it. Seems legit, right? At any rate, when the “fix-it” guy left our place, he graciously let a mouse in. I know this because:

  1. We are clean folk who don’t leave shit out that a mouse would love.
  2. We don’t leave doors open and there are no openings that a mouse could possibly squeeze through because…..
  3. We scoured every nook and cranny and there is no entrance a mouse could have gotten through except the back, side, or front door.
  4. …and our fresh loaf of bread, that was put away!… and unopened!, had a mouse sized hole right… through… the middle.

Immediately we set out traps. The rat bastard straight up ate the peanut butter off of the first one. The second time he wasn’t so lucky. When I got home yesterday, I noticed a missing trap. Dad said that sometimes, if the rodent is big enough, that it can walk off with the trap. So all night last night I dreamed of mice coming to get me with traps stuck to various mouse-y body parts. Freaked out and didn’t get much sleep. Did I mention that I’m pregnant? So now I’m pissed off and sleep deprived. Sigh. But today dad went to the house to look at our washer that, of course, has suddenly become possessed – probably in part to our pitfall home – and bless his heart, he found the mouse. Dead. Gone. He’s a goner. WOOHOO! So that’s one more problem down.

But just when we think things are shaping up, now we have a skunk (or skunk family) dwelling under our house. The smell is insane. Evan said it like this, “Remember when you were a kid.. and you’d erase paper just for the sake of erasing it? And it had that awful burning smell for a second? That’s what our house smells like.” Guess what guys? HE NAILED IT. That is exactly what it smells like. And I have Febreeze’d, and mopped, and scrubbed, and cleaned. I have done everything short of having an elaborate rain dance in our living room. And it still smells like skunk butt. We simply cannot win for losing.

To add the cherry on top of the melted sundae we are living in, one of our neighbors has a donkey. And a rooster. Both of them like to make their animal noises at ungodly hours of the morning. I have always liked donkeys. I have never seen the point in them, but they’re nice enough animals. But at two in the morning? Sir. Save your hee-hawing for more noon-time hours. And if that rooster crows before five am one more time….

I swear on my left shoe that I just might let Evan have his fun and play-pretend like Lt. Mark Rumsfield. I’ll let you know when soup’s on… or the gumbo, that is.


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