Once upon a time, back when the world was a sunnier, happier place and I had no familiarity with the concept of mortgage interest deduction, the Lovely Mrs. Smith and I came to the conclusion we ought to buy a house.
Which is to say the Lovely Mrs. Smith came to that conclusion. I came to the conclusion that whatever she thought was fine because, well, I wasn't really paying attention and the Cardinals were playing on TV.
That was several houses ago. And it's been downhill ever since.
I thought of that just a few days ago when I stood amidst a collection of roaring air dryers trying to remove the water from my kitchen.
Now, I'm going to stop you right here. No, regular readers are not experiencing déjà vu. And while I'm more than willing to head back to the same well of inspiration (yeah, water-based references: perhaps not the best idea) when it's time to write a column, in this particular case I'm not.
Yeah, it happened again.
As a result of Homeowner Shellshock (a little understood but widely suffered disease that strikes about the time a major appliance goes toes up and you realize the warranty expired only slightly before it did), the exact timeline of the events of the last few days/weeks/seemingly eternity are a little fuzzy.
All I know is, one evening we were looking at our newly installed flooring, which came into our lives and home courtesy of a leaking water heater, and contemplating the happy return of all our furniture, which, with the rest of our lives and sanity, was stored in a pod in our driveway.
The next mid-morning I was having explained to me how, among the many things in life that just don't mix, the back of a refrigerator and a poorly installed icemaker water spigot was currently at the top of our personal list. And that our furniture and life would need to remain entombed in the driveway until further notice.
I did not see that coming.
So, apparently that Biblical assurance that all future destruction wouldn't come from flooding was a general, not necessarily a specific, promise.
Yes, just when I thought the tide was turning on my water-heater induced remodeling, it apparently actually did. And started flowing toward the back door, meandering through the kitchen cabinets on the way. And, only slightly later, taking most of that brand new flooring with it.
I mean, who knew one little nozzle could produce that much water? I mean, before it actually happened. I'm pretty checked out on how much water it can produce now.
Which brings me back to my misguided belief of the joys of home ownership. Or, specifically, the highly-overrated joys of home ownership.
You see, from the outside looking in (OK, for at least those of us who aren't really more interested in watching the aforementioned Cardinals game), home ownership is a dream, an indication of permanence and stability. A home is the warehouse in which all our dreams are stored, the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.
Buy a house, however, and just about the time the new paint smell goes away, you'll discover you've signed on to trying to keep a Faberge egg together from the inside with duct tape and piano wire. What hasn't broken is just waiting to break, at the most inconvenient and under-funded time of your life.
Too harsh? Well, there are some advantages. Give me a minute. I mean, there's got to be something ... OK, yeah, a place to bury the dead pets. So, maybe I'm a little unduly influenced by recent events.
Seriously, I'm not nearly as upset with the LMS that she talked me into buying any of the houses we've owned as I let on. I mean, it's not like we could raise four kids in a series of tents. You can't really do that anymore, can you? How about a yurt? No?
And it's not like I'm the only person that the same bad thing has happened to twice. Lots of people have been dealt the same card again and again.
For instance, in 1957, Richie Ashburn of the Philadelphia Phillies hit spectator Alice Roth with a foul ball, breaking her nose. As she was being carried out, he hit another foul ball that broke a bone in her leg. That is the only time that particular "two terrible things in one at-bat" thing has happened in the history of Major League Baseball.
I'm pretty sure I know how Alice feels.
Commentary on 05/06/2016