After renting umpteen apartments during my college years, I couldn’t wait to be a homeowner. Our first purchase was a brand spankin’ new condo. We lived there for a whole two years, painted a few walls, hung a pre-fab mantle over the fireplace, and battled an ant invasion just before selling it for a tidy profit.
Twelve years later, we’re still in the house we purchased after we sold that condo. It’s a house with “character.” Do you know what that translates into?
Shit falls apart, constantly. I don’t think it’s any different in new construction, actually, because new homes are often built out of shoddy mass-produced crap, but our house falls apart because shit is old, worn out, and just tired of doing its job. Or, it falls apart because we’ve replaced it with something newish that isn’t made to last and we’ve now lived here for twelve years. So, it’s falling apart and isn’t made to be repaired. It’s made to be replaced.
It appears as if the useful life of everything is expiring at the same exact moment.
At present the list includes:
- washing machine (possessed)
- trash compactor (angry)
- pool pump (blown, non-euphemistically)
- refrigerator (recalled AND leaking)
- kitchen faucet (disintegrating)
- toilet handle (detached, emotionally and physically)
- wood floors (decrepit)
- fences (floppy)
- oven (cooling)
Fortunately, for the low-low price of $75 a pop, a repair man (and it always seems to be a man, one desperately in need of crack spackle) will come to our home, between the hours of noon and 5pm, to tell us just how jacked up said appliance/home repair is, give us an estimate, and be on his merry way.
Turns out money does grow on trees. The landscaper will even plant them for you. I’ve got an estimate.