It got to a point where I was dreading walking through the door. After a night’s rest, I still have a headache.
Five hours of house hunting yesterday yielded a low-level headache that graduated into a migraine and no house.
The culprit of my still-throbbing brain? Partially it’s all that “fresh paint, new carpet!” that these so-called homes advertise. Most likely, though, it’s because out of eight houses, four of them had rampant mold problems due to badly-maintained basements. Out of the three other houses I’ve visited in the past, all three of them also had the same problem. This means I’ve been to eleven houses, and seven of them are a mold-infested nightmare.
I have lived in houses (Greenwalls, for example) that had these sorts of problems. If I recall correctly, the mold problems at Greenwalls gave otherwise-healthy Dr. Jane asthma, caused Marion to go into congestive heart failure, and aggravated Lisa and Cindy’s health problems.
But my writer self sat in the background, and made observations. Like the smell factor. I’m not a highly trained scent ninja, but I am programmed to look for scents. The houses I liked were the ones that had no off scents. And I could pick out the houses with mold problems the moment I walked through the door.
So the search continues. And no writing occurs on days when I have migraines or I’m looking for houses. Alas.