With our house in Wichita under contract, Johnie and I began to more aggressively search for our own place to live in Kentucky. We loved living with our friends, but felt like a burden to them and were ready to stretch out in our own space again. (Though, admittedly, our own space was more cramped in some ways. Our friends not only gave us a place to live, they most likely offered us space in the nicest house we'll ever call home.)
We were indecisive about which city to settle in, and with me still not sure when or if my unemployed status would change, we were very frugal in our search. Still reeling and raw from the home-selling process, I was not ready to jump back into home ownership.
We looked at rental after rental. The location was wrong. The size was wrong. The price was wrong. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong. One day I saw a new listing for a three-bedroom brick house in our price range. I checked the neighborhood on Google maps and it looked promising. I called the number and scheduled an appointment.
The location was great - less than two miles from Johnie's work. The neighborhood was nice: small and quaint, but with easy access to the interstate, and Frankfort's meager offering of restaurants and shopping.
The outside of the house was just okay. If it would have been the first house we looked at we probably would have passed. But this was an actual house, not a duplex or apartment, with a yard for Buddy and a landlord willing to accept family members with four legs as tenants.
The inside was less okay. The floors were pretty gross. The walls were painted white but covered with a layer of smokers' dust. The dishwasher was glaringly absent (with not even a spot to be installed). The bathroom was just downright unacceptable: the floor was cracked and peeling, the tub had some very anxiety-inducing stains, and the toilet had a clothes hanger for a flusher.
That sealed the deal. I would not be paying to live in a place where I could not take a shower or use the bathroom. And I was that blunt with the owner.
He was very amiable and said the previous renter had lived in the house for six years. He had no idea the bathroom -- or the house -- was in the shape it was in. He planned on doing a lot of upgrades, including a new water heater, a complete bathroom renovation, a storage shed and an upgraded electrical panel. He thought the repairs would be complete by the beginning of August.
As we continued to negotiate, he also assured me the house would receive a thorough cleaning and that I would be allowed to paint the walls any color I desired.
Did I mention this place was in a great location, in our price range and was a single family dwelling with three bedrooms, five closets and a yard for the best dog ever? We decided to put our trust in the nice landlord and commit to the house.
The owner even agreed to let us move our things in prior to the move-in date -- for free -- to avoid prolonged storage fees.
It became evident pretty early that the August 1st deadline would not be honored. I managed okay because I was holding out for the Labor Day holiday. I had decided many weeks prior that I just had to make it to the first weekend in September. I knew by then my life would be settled. Finally. After a tumultuous year and a half.
We planned a trip to Wichita for that weekend so we could visit friends and family and pick up the remaining items we left behind.
When September came, and I unpacked and re-packed a suitcase in one person's bedroom to travel 800 miles to stay in another person's bedroom, before coming back again to a bedroom not my own, I wasn't managing so well.
I went to Kansas with a knotted stomach and it was still in knots when I returned. I tried to stay positive, but I was restless.
The rental house was still in disarray and I found no comfort in the money I was saving by living rent and mortgage free.
In the final days of September, we were able to move in, sans the shed, sans the thorough cleaning and with uneven, grout-covered tile in the updated bathroom. The cleaning came in the following days, the shed didn't come until the following year. The tile has yet to even itself out.
It was a hard transition from a house I loved and owned and controlled, that had been built in 1923 and by every indication respected every year after, to this rental whose carpet I couldn't rip up and replace, whose cabinets I couldn't modify to fit a dishwasher, whose backyard I really couldn't fence in. I love the freedom of not having to "worry about" the problems that arise, but sometimes I hate waiting for and living with the fixes the landlord provides.
I would have patched that wall differently. I would have moved that water heater to the left. I would have ensured the tile was laid straight and clean. I would have fixed that leaky toilet the day it started dripping. And the list goes on.
It took a while, but Johnie and I did settle in the rental. We've learned to deal with the house's small nuisances, and most days we're quite comfortable. We sometimes have waves of discontent, but we're still not ready to buy and a weekend venture back into the local rental market -- and the thought of packing up and moving to another temporary house -- helps calm those waves.
We also comfort ourselves by talking at length about the beautiful wood floors, expansive cabinet, counter and storage space, state-of-the-art dishwasher and appliances, spacious closets, multi-car garage, finished basement, privacy fence and immaculate bathrooms our next house is just sure to have.
And yes, at the end of the day, I'm just thankful to have a sturdy, safe home and I'm especially thankful it's located in one of my favorite states close enough for me to have dinner any night of the week with some of my favorite people.
