Homesick

Admittedly, my house needs a little work. Some roof patching; perhaps a whole new roof. Lateral sewers. Then there’s the cosmetic stuff. The three-foot hole in the drywall by the bedroom that occurred when – well, I don’t think I’ll tell you how that happened. And about the kitchen remodel, we won’t be breaking ground during this administration.



One may think dogs, or children, or even grown men and women whine, but that’s nothing compared to the irritating, insistent, incessant sniffling of a house. “My head hurts, I’ve got a draft, My feet are wet, There’s a pest in my pants.” Wah, wah, wah.



Dear God, why did I ever leave the league of renters? Sure, I felt pretty smug about it three years ago, when my house had appreciated four-fold in 6 years, but that unfolded one quick year later.

It’s true, if you lock in your mortgage, the basic monthly rate never goes up, but everything else does. Insurance, taxes, utilities. And you get the added bonus of personally dealing with termites, dry rot, paint, plumbing, and the band of merry thieves each problem spawns. And it never ends, I tell you, it never fucking ends.

Albert the Lab got one of his semi-annual bladder infections, so I called the vet and asked to renew the antibiotic prescription. They agreed, but only if I collected and delivered his urine sample. For a dog that doesn’t usually care where he slings his pee or who knows about it, he got strangely shy as I chased him around the yard with a Merry Noel teacup.

In between rounds, I took a seat on the back steps, the ones that are in need of some carpentry and reinforcement. I thought about all the other things we chase in life that we really don't want. We chase them because someone told us to, or we didn’t have time to think it through properly. I’d put a high-paying stressful job in that category. And to that, add a devastatingly handsome husband or two, Labrador piss, and a small circa 1923 house.