My House is Falling Apart and so am I

Does anyone else have nightmares about their house?  Last night—and may I say I never sleep through the night anymore—I had several fleeting dreams, mostly about the house.  I cannot remember most of them. They leave me anxious and forlorn.  But the one I do remember is about my garage door.  It wasn’t working.

Has my garage door ever not worked?  Of course it hasn’t.  Many a time.  My house, built in 1955, at first had a heavy wooden garage door that sometimes wouldn’t open or wouldn’t close or wouldn’t close all the way.  When I had some remodeling done, a lightweight door was put in, one I was supposed to be able to open in case of emergencies, like no power.  But even this one has decided that sometimes it just doesn’t want to respond when buttons are pushed.  Allegedly the sensor.  Isn’t it always the sensor?

In the winter my house never stays warm.  I have cathedral ceilings on the main floor and wither goes the heat?  Not where I can feel it, that’s for sure.  I leave my house at 70 during the day and 65 at night.  It might be seventy at the ceiling level but on the ground it’s 67.  Turn up the heat?  I’m sorry, but I’m too cheap for that, especially when I see the power bills.  So I’m wrapped in three layers at all times.

My basement.  What a luxury to have some place to throw junk.  Or to turn into a swimming pool.  When we moved in, we occasionally had water in the basement.  Of course we fixed the cracks.  In fact, the person who fixed them in the beginning was called Mr. Crack.  But he retired.  Probably we were too much for him.

Cracks on the wall were one thing, but water seeping up from the cement floor?  Thousands of dollars later, the basement is waterproofed, allegedly.  On the plus side of spending all that money, I needed to sort through all the crap in the basement and call the junk man.  Will it surprise anyone that I had to pay one thousand dollars to get rid of the junk and he had to come back twice?  Don’t blame it on me. Blame it on three kids and a packrat of a husband.

In a continuing process about three years ago, I began a remodeling job on the house, that hadn’t been undertaken since we moved in.  First the roof.  I had arranged for the roof to be done while I was conveniently absent.  I came back, the roof was not done.  Roofers claimed too much rain.  My girlfriends told me there was no rain.  The roofers simply had to wait until I returned so I could be subjected to days of pounding and dust.  Thank you.  Writing you a check made my heart leap.  I won’t tell you where.

Thanks to a concept by my daughter and her favorite construction company, my main floor has been completely redone, first the extension on the back and then the entire what used to be kitchen, living room/dining room.  Now it is all one big room and I have to admit I love it.  But those of you who have remodeled know you have to be up and ready for the day at eight in the morning and then you have no privacy whatsoever.  This woman needs her solitude and her nap.  Didn’t get either.

On to the last house remodel, the final glory, the hall toilet.  Is it beautiful now? Yes.  Does it make my heart sing when I soak in the new tub?  Yes.  Did it take three fucking months to do one small bathroom?  YES!  Something about plumbing in an old house.  Hmm.  I’m not buying it.

Outside I’ve had the deck replaced. Composite material with chicken wire to keep out the animals that used to live underneath my wooden deck.  Too bad the skunks and raccoons didn’t realize why the chicken wire was there, the one they easily tore away so they could live under the deck again.

The yard, my garden, I am simply too old to manage it. Yes, I have a lawn service.  He is so lazy, but he is also so cheap.  I should change, but I don’t. However, this year I hired a friend’s landscaper to come and do the heavy work, like cutting back all the junk trees and cleaning the gutters.

I did manage to plant more bulbs this fall. Will any come up?  Only spring will tell.

Last project desperately needed: the driveway.  It has to be ripped up and replaced, as there is no hope for it the way it is now.  It is already turning into a moss garden.

I’m exhausted just writing about my house so you can imagine how exhausting it is to live within—and without.

I am truly at the stage in life where I’m considering moving someplace where every little thing is done for you.  No more nightmares, maybe, except for the cost.