My lawnmower hates me. This is not surprising, since gas-powered appliances have never taken a shine to me, for some reason. So far the lawn mower has:
1. Refused to start. (Out of gas.)
2. Refused to keep running. (Blade got jammed with grass.)
3. Refused to release the pull-cord gizmo (See jammed with grass, above.)
4. Refused to accept the pull-cord gizmo back into the wind-y thingie. (no idea.)
Yeah. Me and the lawnmower need to come to an understanding, pronto. My neighbors are probably already sighing and saying, "there goes the neighborhood. She can't even mow the freakin' lawn, for Pete's sake."
I debated removing the "WTFWJD" bumpersticker from my car before moving into the new place, so as not to possibly offend any of my new neighbors, then decided against it. I yam what I yam. If their kids want to know what the letters stand for, they can make something up.
The overhead garage door is not working properly. I can either (a) have it repaired, for $115.00, or (b) have it replaced, for upwards of five hundred bucks. Hmmmm, I wonder which option I'll choose? The suspense is killing me.
The lighting in the bathroom is woefully inadequate. I was calling it the bat cave; now it's referred to as the bat bathroom.
All the offers of help you receive when you first talk about your move will dry up at an amazing pace once the move actually becomes imminent. People lose their enthusiasm as the date draws nigh.
The perennials I am planning on moving are mostly done blooming. Which means it will look like I'm filling the front garden areas with a bunch of odd weeds. There goes the neighborhood, indeed.
But! Progress is being made. The shed is getting cleaned. The lawn WILL be mowed this weekend, if I have to do it with a damn weed whacker. Stuff is getting moved, one wagon-load at a time. One way or another, this thing is gonna get done. Soon.
Moving is not for the faint of heart.