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On Owning a House

 My husband is a source of amazement because, when an installation inevitably goes wrong, he shows patience and kindness.


My default mode is "enraged Karen." I'm stunned--in a weirdly gratifying way--when a house project gets derailed. The new dishwasher needs more space: My eyes turn yellow like sulfur, and I feel myself wanting to hiss like a snake. The replacement dryer *can* squeeze itself down the stairs, but the old dryer is actually too fat to come back *up* the stairs, so it must stay in its spot, in a kind of dryer graveyard, and we're all led to wonder....How did it enter the house in the first place?

"Repair" is a funny verb. The little gas fireplace was "repaired" for a handsome price--and then it waved its middle finger and screamed FUCK YOU, and it died. The washing machine was "repaired," or someone asserted this, and that someone wore a badge. You write a check, and the dude disappears, and the appliance breaks again. There is no justice; it's like someone arrives to saw off your arm, and collect payment, and that's your Monday. That's that.

My husband radiates compassion when we have these technician-visitors; he may be mid-work-call, but he'll put down the phone and smile and say, "Ah, a fun challenge! Let's brainstorm together!" I'll never grow tired of watching this.

I, at least, have other skills. I can train a new babysitter. I can cook a nice meat sauce. If my toddler is deeply, endlessly furious, I can draw a little "tattoo" on his hand--and this magically "resets" him, and he is suddenly calm.

So, somehow, things stay afloat. The fireplace won its battle--but it will not win the war.
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