The washing machine at my new (very old) house is next to a utility sink, where it spits out all the water during the cycle. The water is a terribly deep gray. My clothes are exceptionally dirty, it would seem.
The gardeners who come once a week to my new (very old) house don't seem to like to do yard work. They frown when I ask them to trim things. It's perplexing.
The electrician who came to my new (very old) house to solve electrical mysteries found a different kind of mystery in the attic: a stack of canceled checks and crumbling notebooks, dated 1924.
The plumbers who were at my new (very old) house to fix a sewer issue charged more money for a week's work then what an apprentice meat cuter makes in a year.
The shower stall in my new (very old) house is very small and makes shaving my legs an acrobatic exercise. Good thing there is a big claw foot tub too.
A different plumber that came to my new (very old) house this morning went to high school with the very expensive plumbers. Teenage rivalry lives on in your thirties, it seems.