Thanks, 1968

Last week I put cumin in my oatmeal; an accident of course. Without my glasses, cumin and cinnamon are twins in the spice cabinet. Also, painters were here which always throws me off. Strangers in the house, the smell of paint, the anxiety if today is the last day they are here. Our house was built in 1968. Several families have lived here in almost five decades, and all of them have tried to change it in some way. Any time an electrician comes, or a plumber comes, they have bad news for me.

“I’ve never seen anything like this.” Or, “this isn’t to code.” Or, “yeah, it’s a mess.” These phrases could be a metaphor for this year, and while I’ll leave my personal life out of this particular post, the house has had it’s worst year yet.

In March, our twenty-year-old refrigerator, the one that was here when we moved in seven years ago, froze all our food then died. Home Depot brought three refrigerators before we finally end up with a non-damaged, proper sized refrigerator. Part Home Depot’s fault, and part mine. In the summer, it was the HVAC and the microwave. Then the Fall brought hurricane season and we had storm damage to our roof. Later, our wood-burning fireplace needed repairs. Then our crawl space, and then the guy shows me horrific pictures he took under the house from a leaking shower. I call the plumber. The plumber confirms. We have our Christmas tree up and workers are still in and out of here, and there is more to fix. Days like today I want to stick a sign in the front yard and wash my hands of it. Thanks, 1968.

Other times, it is home. It’s reading books by the fire, watching  football while cleaning the kitchen, enjoying a nice hot bath, hiding Easter eggs in the yard, planting pansies in the flower boxes, watching neighbors walk their dogs, hearing people cheer at the tennis courts, watching fireworks over Silver Lake, seeing kids play basketball in our driveway, being "Boo’d" at Halloween, teaching our kids to ride their bikes around the cul de sac, having one small Christmas tree and one giant tree, homework at our dining room table, and twinkly lights on our back patio.

I honestly do not know what to do with this house. It seems like home but also an impossible insurmountable amount of work and projects; projects I don’t want to deal with. Some people love the change and the challenge, but not me. I hate moving, I hate making decisions- like forever decisions that I’ll have to look at for years to come. I want someone to do that for me, and yet I know what I like and don’t like. I want to ignore all the things wrong with the house, at the same time move away, at the same time fix everything, and soon. I am a walking contradiction, and I know this, but I keep staying. And stay I probably will.