We’ve bought the condo. We shelled out every cent we had to the closing company, picked up some milk crates and moved in.
We are one of the first to move in to this glorious gut rehab. (Rick the sexy cop lives upstairs, he was first…and he’s the subject of a very DIFFERENT thread).
Anyway, as we began our move, cheerily, happily, like a Folger’s commercial, streamed in sunlight, we encountered…
The tangle of a minimum of eight wires as thick as my pinky, protruding like a squid butt from a hole in the wall.
Being the Martha Stewartian gal I am I pointed in horror (keep in mind this is two days PAST our closing date) and screeched,
What is THAT?!!? GET RID OF THE WIRES. THE TANGLE OF WIRES.
NO. MORE. TANGLED. WIRES.
Well we found the foreman of the construction crew, a very fun, cuddly Barney Rubble type guy, who serves as the translator for the rest of the team.
He called over a guy who quickly shuffled in, nodded, and muttered something in what sounded like Russian or Croatian or Hungarian and we nodded as well, although we didn’t understand a word he said.
“Tomorrow,” the foreman said.
“Tomorrow?” I queried.
“Tomorrow.” he said.
“Ok, because we’re moving in here to LIVE on the 13th.”
We all nod.
“Tomorrow,” he says again.
That was on the seventh.
Today is the twelfth. We live there tomorrow. The tangle remains.
WHAT PART OF TOMORROW WAS LOST IN THE TRANSLATION?
Thank god this is the only problem we’ll encounter in homeowning.