It’s fair to say that, as a married woman looking to move, that my life has now become a battle against crap. Although the veteran of at least two dozen moves, this happened to me once before, when I was a bachelorette resident of Daytona Beach, Home of the Shell Yeah Angry Minor League Turtles, a used beer koozy of a town that I miss from time to time, as its salt water taffy is excellent even if its charter ballet isn’t.
The neighborhood I lived in was, to use a precise real estate term, iffy.