Hopefully you read my post a couple weeks ago on our current living situation. It's interesting, to say the least.
If you haven't read it, basically, we got kicked out of lodging and had to move into a house on post. Those lovely 10 days are supposed to be used to go house-searching. In case you didn't know, it's pretty dang hard to look at houses when don't have a car! Grrrrr. Still a little upset about that. Anyway.
So we moved into a teeny tiny house in the "ghetto" on post. I hate it. The only thing I do like about it is the fact that it has more than one bathroom. The kitchen is small. The living/dining area is small. The master bedroom is pretty much a joke. The closets just make me laugh. I'm not a huge fan of our neighbors, or that we've got streets on both sides of us. So noisy. The walls are paper thin... This weekend we heard teenagers outside talking way past midnight. Cool, fine, whatever, but why am I hearing them?! And let's not even talk about the many cars that drive by blasting their bass. Ugh. Basically we've been using all these dislikes as fuel to find a house faster. So far, so good.
I found out just a few days after we move in that these houses were built quite a while ago. The cab driver that brought me back from the rental car place informed me that these houses where here while we was stationed here. This man is about the same age as Papa. So, he's been retired from the Army for a while. I don't even wanna know when he was stationed here.They've obviously renovated the houses since then (especially since the military is all about the "live billing" for utilities these days), but I'm not sure how great of a job they're doing. Case in point:
Last Friday, Joe came home after PT to shower and eat breakfast. He mentioned that he'd rolled his ankle while running, so he decided to soak it in the bath. Whatevs. I came downstairs with Charlotte a few minutes later and hear drip drip drip. Obviously I thought this was strange, but I just thought we'd left the sink on or something. Checked the sink...nope. Checked the sink in the downstairs bath/laundry room, nope. Then I notice it's coming from above. I flip on the light in the kitchen and.......
There's water in the light fixture.
I ran up the stairs and yelled at Joe to get out of the tub. We put in a called to housing to get someone out. They come, make a boatload of noise, and leave after a couple hours, saying all is well. Cool! Then they tell me that someone else will have to come back and replace the sheetrock in the ceiling. Fantastic, but whatever. Not my house.
Dude shows up on Monday. He's polite and chatty with Joe. They get to talking and we find out that he's replaced sheetrock in countless other lower-enlisted houses all over this place. In one house, he's done it twice. So that's fun.
I'm just glad that we're not staying in this house. Because, geez, I don't know how much longer I can handle it. Hopefully we've only got a couple weeks in the on-post ghetto built in the '40s.
More on that later. ;-)
