Not My Home

  
Denial is a wonderful thing, but eventually reality us to be faced. Coming home from Maine was wonderful because I got to see Russ, if only for 20 hours, but facing our house has been hell.
It started before I got home when Russ texted me the news that our floor refinishing contractor had a fire at their headquarters Saturday morning. Thankfully no one was hurt, but all their vans and equipment were destroyed. Then Russ added the information that our hot water heater was not working. A code 79 was shutting it down, which has been a reoccurring issue that can only be resolved by a visit from the gas man. Finally he threw in one last failure in the plumbing department. All this and thanks to the smell from the first two coats of finish and we could not spend more than five minutes in the house before a terrible headache would set in.
There was nothing I could do about the floor guys, but wait to hear if they were going to be OK to show up Monday and finish the job. I called the gas company and made a service request for tomorrow and I am not going to bother my sweet plumbers until the smell goes down.
So Russ and I moved into his company apartment they keep downtown by his office. I know we are lucky to have another place to stay, but somehow I feel very homeless. This is ridiculous since I am in our hometown, with a bed and a kitchen and a washer and dryer that I have been running non-stop. Why is this so unsettling?
Perhaps it is the trains passing by just outside our windows, or not having our sweet Shay Shay with us, but I have a feeling of helplessness to get my house back in order. I hate sitting around doing nothing when I know there is so much to be done, eventually. 
I can’t imagine how real homeless people feel, but just being displaced is unsettling. It is like I don’t feel like I belong. I now really appreciate the phrase, “there is no place like home,” like I never have before.