It all started with the 6-hour trip to close out our summer Alabama home (No, we do not have a summer home in Alabama but after all the trips there I had to start calling it something). Our only objective of this last and final trip was to haul back the personal belongings and furniture and sign the papers to close on the house.
Two hours into our trip, my husband received a phone call from our truck rental company. They were providing a courtesy call to let us know that the big ass truck we had rented would not be available at our original pick up site, but would need to be picked up at another location. But no worries, they said. It’s only 30 miles away. Which turned into 57 miles. And, no they didn’t give a damn about inconveniencing us at all. (Sorry I can’t provide a reference since I probably shouldn’t name the company; let’s just say it rhymes with Budget)
Not even having any time to curse about that issue, my son calls and tells us that his girlfriend’s car won’t start and she was supposed to drive to Missouri the next day. Final solution was for us to rent a car dolly behind the big ass truck to haul her car back to our house. I mean it’s not like my husband hasn’t done that a bizzillion times already.
THEN: There was a police truck check point that my husband passed right on by on the way to the house. Which resulted in a cop running his ass down and making him go back. Wasn’t a semi, wasn’t a real truck FHS (For Heaven’s Sake – my new OMG). But Oh. No. Had to go through this whole long ass drill before they sent him on his way. Did I mention we were paying $70 an hour for helpers to load the truck? Which was stopped on the side of the road?
As we enter our lovely home for the last time, it is sweltering Alabama Armpit Heat. And of course the air conditioning wasn’t working. So all we had was one little window AC unit that was set at 64 degrees and only worked if you stood directly in front of the damn thing.
Our final surprise of the trip was my daughter calling in hysterics because “The cat brought something into the house and it ran into the recliner.” Pause. Wait for screaming to weaken. Wait for her to quit calling the cat a number of super offensive swear words.
“Christina, calm down.” Now this sentence immediately got my husband’s attention so I had to quickly add, “Now, what did Boca do?” He immediately lost interest.
It didn’t help that my son grabbed the phone and proceeded to “talk her down” explaining how flattered she should be that the cat brought her a special treat. The final decision was for her to go into her bedroom, put a blanket along the bottom gap of her door and lock it. She would text me occasionally over the next 24 hours:
“Boca is stalking the recliner.”
“Still stalking the recliner.”
“I can’t deal with him, I think he has been in the same position all night.’
“Adulting is hard. Can you come home soon?”
My son ended up back at the house the next day. It wasn’t a bird like my daughter thought it was. It was a rat. A pretty big rat. And I am so glad that my daughter thought it was a bird. Otherwise, like us, she would have been staying in a hotel for the night.
So, I shall end, as always: Bad Cat.