Before owning a house, I never stayed in an apartment for more than two years. Something would irritate me, and I'd think, ah, well, I'll be in a new space, a new borough, in the fall.
My husband and I now plan to remain in one spot for approximately eighteen years, before decamping to Palm Springs (where gays go to die). Each time my house annoys me, I think, this will all be different in Palm Springs (as if plumbing issues and HVAC crises and trash-disposal arguments simply do not exist in that big desert).
Right now, my house is twenty-percent non-functional, because a bathroom exploded and sent its liquid contents into the kitchen; lights flickered, and rainwater showered down, and I recalled the velociraptor climax from the first "Jurassic Park." Everyone in the family has learned to cope; a bathroom sink is now in the dining room, and a medicine cabinet is in a hallway, and I sometimes set out appetizers next to Band-Aids and pill bottles, until I worry that I'm becoming too much like Drew Barrymore, from "Grey Gardens."
Everyday is an adventure and a learning opportunity, and one thing I've taken from the summer is this: The insurance adjuster will try to fuck you, and you can fuck him right back. The guy will say: "What do you spend on food per week?" And you'll think you need to quote a high number--because this will then become your reimbursement. But the adjuster will tap-dance on your grave; he will say, "I'll pay you back for any cent over the six thousand weekly dollars you claim to spend on groceries....."
I am a new man; I am tougher and stronger; I will not be broken.
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