When It Rains It Pours

I squeezed in a quick visit to Dad in-between work trips. Unfortunately I picked the day the skies opened, ending a year of California drought. Things started fine the night before with a nice celebratory dinner with the real estate agent. The next day with Dad was a marathon of doctor visits, chatting with the bank about private client status (special pens for both of us because I can access his now-larger account), fixing computer glitches, and lots of eating. I was running back and forth to the rental car throwing things around, including the car keys. After dinner with his friends Jack and Linda (from the brief mobile home phase 30 years ago), I realized I couldn’t find the keys – anywhere. Not in Dad’s building lobby where I thought they might have fallen from my pocket. Not in my purse. Not in his apartment. Not in Jack’s car. I had to get on a plane early the next morning and I was screwed. I made many calls – to Hertz, to AAA, to the restaurant, to the security guys who patrolled the bushes, to the lost and found, to the airlines. I walked a mile to my hotel at midnight, debating what I should do next.

No surprise that I woke up at 4 am with my mother’s voice in my head telling me that the keys were in the lobby. I lose items about once a week, have done it all my life, and Mom is still providing advice. But this time she was wrong, and I was frustrated. At 7 am I walked back to Dad’s place, now with the rain dumping sheets and me pulling my suitcase uphill. I had changed my flight twice, notified my boss that I would not be attending his meeting, and resigned myself to hanging out at least another 4 hours to debate my options. I used a wire hanger to retrieve my Kindle from the car, where I had left the windows partly open. I then used saran wrap and duct tape to block the rain, now blowing sideways, from drenching the electronic panel. Dripping and demoralized, I retreated back to the lobby. I was about to set up the towing and locksmith service when Ida appeared, asking me why I was still around. I muttered ‘looking for my damn car keys” and she piped up “oh, for the Chevy? I took them to the wellness center last night.” WHAT?! Yes, Ida found them, and decided to relocate them to the wellness center, home of the podiatry clinic. Not to lost and found, not to the front desk, and no note left in the lobby. I couldn’t decide whether to hug her or strangle her. Well Ida is 98, she rules the place, and she eats breakfast with my father every morning. So I hugged her. We sprinted together to the wellness center (no elevator, she always takes the stairs). The keys were on the counter and probably would have been there for another week. I grabbed a roll of paper towels to sop up the car and took off for the airport, only to find that every flight was cancelled or delayed due to the “reverse weather pattern.” I managed to get to San Francisco, then Seattle, 10 hours later. I had to pay some extra fees but it could have been way worse (e.g., a missing key costs at least $200 to replace).

Of course, Mom was right again. And ironically, Seattle was bright and sunny today.

Moving On

Escrow closed today, the sale was legally recorded, and the utility bills are now in the chocolate king’s name. The process was not entirely smooth. The whopper surprise at the last minute was the request for brand new plumbing priced at $9000. I then engaged in a spirited philosophical email exchange with realtors about risk tolerance and the pros and cons of plastic versus copper fittings. The only thing consistently okay in that house was the plumbing. Other than the toilet leaking once in a while, the pipes are fine. There were lots of other items noted on the inspection report we could have debated, however they ignored the little stuff. Heck, they’re probably remodeling most of the place anyway. But I didn’t give them a dime for plumbing, and I walked away from the offer and said goodbye – and of course they came back a day later and said “never mind.” This was an emotional decision so that their family can be in one place - they are relocating the wife’s mother to live with her sister across the street. I can imagine the discussion when the (rich) husband tried to squeeze more money out of the deal, and the wife threatened divorce. Trying to take advantage of my 91-year old father was not smart, and I feel vindicated. Plus little did they realize how well Sid knew his plumbing.

How is Dad taking it, is he celebrating? Not really, he’s kind of sad, he loved his house. He choked up when I congratulated him, so I’m laying low on the “yahoo” tone. By his request, the realtor took my father to Subway for a $5 hoagie after all the papers were notarized at the bank. After all, there’s no point in wasting money.