I Hate My House

Last night, we think our fridge died. Or maybe it's OK, we can't really tell. This morning a forest of mushrooms sprouted in my front yard. "Must be all the rain," said my wife. "But I don't see this crap in anyone else's yard," I said. "They won't hurt anyone," she said.

But they were hurting me.

When I first entered what would become my home, I should have gone with my first opinion: "No fucking way!" It was outdated and smelled like ass. Yet we kept coming back to it, over and over. I slowly allowed myself to believe that we could make this house a home through the sweat of our brows and the strength of our hands.  Tragically, I am not handy and do not want to learn to be handy.  Honestly, I fear that I'm genetically unable to fix anything.  Failure to accomplish something doesn't change the work required.  But, OK, I've got family to help me.  We'll get through these projects!

But things just keep breaking.

First the washer and dryer which came with the house.  It seemed like it worked at the time.  Even after hours of research and attempts to clean out the vent hose, we failed to fix it and we had to buy a new pair...then install a brand new vent which added more time.  The AC had a leak.  The guy who fixed it was really nice but paying to replace all the coolant wasn't.  The bathroom came without a tub.  We had one installed but, in the meantime, all of our mirrors came down or broke, sacrifices to the Indian Burial Ground I'm convinced lies under the back yard.  The bushes are overgrown.  By the time I had hacked away at the jungle surrounding my property so that it no longer blocked the driveway, all that was left were the unsightly twigs underneath.  I guess that's good for Halloween.  None of the light switches are wired to turn anything on.  The cabinets in the kitchen don't allow us to fit a normal size refrigerator.  Come wintertime I'm convinced the snow will collapse our roof, freeing the mice and squirrels that probably live in our attic so they may romp and shit freely over all of our possessions.   

But when will all of this home owner suffering end?

I feel terrible complaining: I agreed that this was the house for us and everyone in our family has been so amazing with time, money, and support.  Year after year the house will improve.  Problems that seemed terrifying at the time will resolve; we will learn some measure of handiness.  My children will grow up here, maybe not until they graduate from high school but definitely until they've both graduated from preschool.  Some of my most important memories will be created here and these negative thoughts will seem hilarious when viewed through the rose-tinted glasses of age.  Yet, right now, this very moment, I hate my house.

But at least the ass smell has finally dissipated.