Laughing At Spilled Milk: The House of Horrors

My house isn’t working for me anymore.

I don’t mean that I loath the layout or location; it has literally stopped working. Apparently, like some bitter middle aged woman, it is offended by the upgrades we have been forcing on her so has gone on strike.

It started in June.  The family was stripping the kitchen cabinets of two rounds of primer, paint, and polyurethane, in record heat, when the air conditioner decided it would only blow cool air in the cool morning. Once the heat kicked in, it kicked off.

In July Troy called a repair man (see Troy: George Washington screaming) so that those helping us install the new hardwoods wouldn’t collapse on the sub-floor with heatstroke. We were informed that our antique furnace was emitting in the low twenties of whatever measurement they use to determine the output of carbon monoxide into our house. Twenty-nine and you’re dead in your sleep. So now, despite just spending half our savings on refinishing cabinets and sale flooring, we need to buy a new furnace.

In the same week Troy and I are in the kitchen finishing breakfast before heading out to price baseboards when we hear the sickening sound of dripping.  We follow it to the dining room to see the ceiling has soaked the entire length of the room.  After several minutes of mute denial, we get every bowl we own to catch the water from the overflowing toilet in our upstairs bathroom.

The start of dining room ceiling repairs



The next day our projector screen TV stopped working.  With football season approaching, Troy starts to panic in earnest.

All too soon it’s August and we’re finally ready to put in the floors.  Running the air compressor, we lose the outlets in the garage (and everything in the outside freezer), on my side of the bed, and in all the bathrooms.  I now have to do my hair in good faith and wedge the ironing board between Troy’s side of the bed and the claw food tub that is waiting to be installed once we exterminate the mold colony in the master bath. Sadly, Troy still hasn’t figured out the issue with the outlets, but the electrician’s warning that we would soon need a new electrical box is ringing in our ears.

The Clawfood tub that currently resides in the middle of our bedroom

Pipe declaring its independence from the joint

Pipe in basement with dry wall ripped out. We will never be able to match the paint.

Floors done, we start putting in the baseboards.
Troy goes down to the basement for something and comes back up with more grim news.  “Please try not to use the kitchen sink,” he tells me. ” The window bench in the basement is flooded with water.”  After taking out four feet of dry wall he finds that our house, which was built on bentonite, is “adjusting” and popped a pipe completely off the joint.

If this isn’t enough,

– The new door jambs prove that our doors are not standard size; we use a mallet to close them and a crowbar to open. On the upside, enforcing time out on a teenager has become much easier.

– Now with hardwood floors in the kitchen, the oven will stop working if it feels you walk across them, so I have to glide around like Dorthy Hamel without  the talent.

– The clothes drier stopped emitting heat. Seriously. All it does is give our garments a cold, wet joy ride.

– The engine casings on both of our cars are lose because our garage is now a full four inches higher than our drive way.  Parking in there is like ramming a curb.

– The fridge is making funny whirring noises that currently will stop when we give it a smack, but how long will this tactic last?


So aside from the shower, and a few ceiling lights my house is no longer working for me. Troy and I expect it to swallow us up in a rage, like in the final scene in Carrie, any day now (and living on bentonite, this is a real possibility).

But hey, at least our domestic coffin will have beautiful cabinets and some killer floors!

This entry was posted in Acceptance, Expectations, Home Improvement, home making, humor, Letting Go, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

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