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The New Place

By February 11, 2017 No Comments

Just over a month ago, we moved into a new home. New for us, but built in 1990. Looking at the gold-plated fixtures in the master bathroom, one might think the eighties. Gold-plated fixtures. What were they thinking? Most houses with a little age on them have quirks, and this one is no exception. The remote control fan in the family room has an agenda of its own. Maybe it’s a logical agenda, but I can’t be sure since there are no instructions to the thing and what works one day to get it functioning doesn’t work the next day. Ditto with the dishwasher. It’s an approximately 3000 square foot house that has one HVAC unit. One. That means when it’s pleasant downstairs, we roast upstairs. Especially those of us over the age of hot-flashes.

I have a lovely master bedroom with an elegant tray ceiling, and no ceiling fan. When I’m too frequently roasting and over the age of hot-flashes. In the middle of the night, on my two or three potty runs, I have been known to curse at the toilets because they are short, while I am tall. Decidedly not convenient on knees over the age of hot-flashes. Each and every toilet in the house incessantly runs after being flushed unless coerced into stopping. This is probably no big deal to fix. In fact, I bought some toilet stopper thingamajobbers that would probably do the trick … if I could figure out how to do it. We’re very, very, not fix-it sort of women.

I refer to myself and my three young adult daughters who are all living with me in order to get a financial head start on their various paths. In other words, because it’s free. Don’t get me wrong. We’re all intelligent with college degrees to prove it. Not that it would have been evident after I purchased swivel bar stools that took ‘some assembly.’ Uh-huh. Try three of us and four days.

What else? The brick patio is buckling because of tree roots underneath. Either that or the house was built on an ancient burial site and the pissed-off dead are trying to rise. Paint is peeling, the roof needs to be replaced and there are a couple of rooms I haven’t figured out a use for. But the house does have its charms and, little bit by little bit, it is coming together. Frankly, I’m trying to keep pace. Like the house, I have some disrepair and neglect that needs addressing.

After a long, unhealthy marriage that would have ended years sooner except for financial constraints, I’m finally starting over in many, many ways. Or maybe I should say I’m preparing to start over. One step at a time. One day at a time. But, hey, a little WD 40 took much of the ear-piercing squeak from the garage doors as they opened, and my handy-dandy little hammer and screwdrivers have fixed a whole lot of stuff. Yes, there are now more holes in the walls than were necessary – but that’s why God made spackling. Which I’ll get around to at some point in time in the near future. The point is, while the house and I may have seen better days, (speaking strictly from a standpoint of beauty and functionality) we’re going to be just fine.

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