Mick and I are at the grocery store this week. We finish loading the reusable bags in the trunk (I'm getting ready for life in Cali) and I say, "Mick, go ahead and get in the car." He doesn't. So I say it again.
To which he replies, in English, "No Mommy, I don't speak English, I can't get in the car, 'cuz I don't understand you." Apparently, America's immigration problem is hitting closer to home than I ever realized. And I laughed my "culo" off the entire way home.
Beyond having to teach Mick some surprise English lessons, this week has been the next phase in selling the house, repair negotiations. If only the buyer and the seller could just sit down together over a cup of coffee and discuss this stuff in person, but instead, it is like a that childhood game, "telephone." I say something to my agent, who says something to the relocation company, who says something to their agent, who says something to the home inspector, who says something to the buyer, and then all the way back again. By the time it gets full circle, it is practically Mick's assertion of not speaking English, because nothing makes any sense at the end of the circle. After a week of this vicious circle, I think we are in agreement. Either way, I have people lined up to repair stuff at the house next week. And hopefully, in the next week or two all these details will be closed. If not, don't be surprised if you find me pulling out my hair. The telephone game is not nearly as much fun as it was in 3rd grade.
That is life in the stroller lane.