The experiences of the last week have been the most trying time I have ever experienced in my life... and I've had cancer. Twelve weeks of chemo was nothing compared to the anxiety of waiting for the closing of our house in Florida. Nothing compared to movers in my house, dismantling everything I own and taking it away. Oh, and that's another thing. Whatever the "estimate" is for your move, add a few thousand more. "Sir, your estimate was for a thousand cubic feet. Obviously you have almost twice that amount here." As bad as that information was to me, I was not surprised. I saw it on the faces of the movers as I led them from room to room, and then out to the shed. With each room the idea of it being an easy day for them was quickly dispelled. Soon the house was filled with the sound of packing tape being vigorously dispensed as the movers "fixed" all the boxes I had packed up over the last month. It sounded as if it were a Velcro testing facility. They must have used over a hundred rolls of packing tape.
And then there was the closing. I did it "remotely", meaning I signed everything the night before and sent it over with my lawyer. As soon as the closing was complete, the proceeds would be wired into my bank account. That is unless there were a glitch, and there was. "The buyer's agent guarantees that the money will be in your account tomorrow morning." I was promised. It wasn't. After many phone calls it was determined that it would be there "for sure" on the very next morning. Again, it wasn't. The buyer's bank thought there was something suspicious about me and refused to wire the money. Of course I'm suspicious. Everybody knows that, but it's still my money. I'm also perverted, and I smell sometimes, but it's my money.