Welcome To The Neighborhood

I made a major move in January when I bought a unit in an Active 55+ condominium community, two miles from my previous home. I loved where I lived before but I needed to find a place with fewer stairs. A place with an elevator. I definitely wanted a place with an indoor pool.

I found a unit I loved, with two master bedrooms and an oversized balcony that looks over a golf course. I knew it needed a lot of work, but every place I ever buy needs a lot of work. I was ready for a challenge. At least I thought I was.

I sold my other home for a bunch of money. It was all tricked out and there were a lot of people who wanted to live there. On the other hand, I was the only person who wanted to buy my new home. It had been on the market for 125 days and, thanks to my son, Jason, I bought it for a song. I moved into my new home on March 3rd. The next day I broke my leg.

I hire people to work for me because my only remodeling skill is writing checks. I have a crew of people who have worked for me before and I felt secure that the work would be done quickly with  impeccable workmanship. I was wrong.

Now, more than six weeks after moving, my two main workers, two middle-aged roosters from Mexico, are sparring with each other. “Supply chain issues” have held up materials that must be coming from the moon. I feel like I’m camping out.

My interior doors were delivered last week, six weeks after their estimated delivery date. Half of the doors were fitted with frosted glass, which someone at the factory painted over before sending them to me.  The paint needs to be scraped off by hand, using a razor blade and a lot of patience.

Half of the cupboards in my kitchen have been installed. The other half are sitting in boxes in my living room. Appliances stand like soldiers in the middle of the kitchen, waiting for orders to take their place next to cupboards not yet in place. 

In the meantime, I’m meeting my new neighbors as I maneuver my walker up and down the hallway. Only women live on the third floor with me. I feel like a nun, living  in a convent without habits. My closest neighbors are two sets of identical twins, a woman who has been totally deaf since birth, a woman who walks 20,000 steps/day to ward off dementia, and a beautiful young woman who is hiding out from a stalker. 

Gradually I meet other people from the other floors when I go downstairs to fetch my mail. One of my favorites is a 100-year-old woman, who looks better than I do. She walks 10,000 steps/day with her little white circus dog. Her name is Jeri and she’s one of my favorites.

Jeri has been robbed a bunch of times by people who, she believes, are “just messing” with her. While she is out walking the dog, people break into her unit and take things. Sometimes they bring the things back but some things never return. The robbers take things like her big soup kettle and all the food in her refrigerator. They took her rollers, but not the picks.

Jeri’s daughters, as well as half the people who live here, think she is delusional. The police and the community security force no longer respond to her calls. It’s strange. She’s changed her locks, and still the robbers get in. She doesn’t have a computer or internet, so technology is no help. I don’t know if Jeri is delusional or not. When my sweet, mother-in-law was ninety-five, she was convinced that a sheik sat on her countertop and talked to her. There were children who continually ran up and down her stairs, making a terrible racket.

Maybe Jeri’s imagination is running away from her. Or maybe someone really is watching for when she’s out walking the dog and come inside to steal her hair-rollers. What I do know for sure is the Jeri is smart and feisty. If I live to be 100, I want to be like her.