Mensa, but for idiots
Posted on September 27, 2007
Filed Under marriage, suburban joys, snark, homeownership, milestones, bat-ass crazy, cheapskates, debt |
I have discovered the true meaning of the word ‘antique’. Antique , as it is used to refer to a home that is over one hundred years old, is really just a fancy way of saying “I was bat-ass crazy when I bought this heap and now live in a home with faulty plumbing, lead paint, rot, rat infestation and radon and seepage in the basement.” It is no wonder that there are clubs and organizations in which all the members are antique homeowners. It’s like a gathering of idiots, like MENSA but the opposite. The blind leading the blind, the stubbornly optimistic, the romantics fools who once thought renovating an early colonial New England home was their life’s work, a calling, a trade.
They have found disillusion and now gather in dark rooms, with leaded windows and low ceilings and gas-lit wall sconces. The meetings begin with individual introductions… “Hi, I’m Fiona and I bought a Queen Ann Victorian 12 years ago before I knew that it was slipping off its fieldstone foundation and I’ve spent so much money trying to right the damn thing that I owe hundreds of thousands of dollars to the kind folks who sent that letter offering me a home equity loan with a ballooning interest rate.” The group repeats in unison, “Hello Fiona”. And she can hear the acceptance and forgiveness with which they offer her a greeting. Their “Hello” speaks volumes- Yes. Finally. A roomful of re-financers and do-it-your-selfers and fools that also subscribe to Architectural Digest and Elle Decor. Fiona, thinks, with great happiness and no shortage of relief, “I’m home”.
And the meeting coordinator says, “Please, someone pass Fiona a beer, she looks defeated.” And then they all attempt to cheer her with tales of their own homeownership woes and worries. “Draw up a chair, Fiona. Have a brownie while we tell you about the insurmountable debt we’ve all incurred trying to salvage our antique darlings.”
Some misery just loves company.
But since I’m not a meeting type of person and can find no solace in group confessions, I must suffer this antique ownership thing alone. Naturally, my misery tries to find company within my own four walls, company that does not serve beer or brownies or look on with protracted expressions of understanding. Whenever I try to elicit some sympathy and assistance from My Better Half by bitching about the bathtub drain or piteously howling about the bat guano collecting in the attic atop boxes marked ‘X-mas Ornaments’ and ‘Infant Clothing’, I get the same, half-interested, why-are-you-so-hysterical shrug that often is paired with my most favorite phrase, “You need to relax.” 
And then, spurred into action by his apathy, I promptly call a professional who, I am certain, will deliver an estimate somewhere around the $2000 mark. Because nothing, I repeat, nothing incites My Better Half’s ire more effectively than the threat of untrained, unskilled ‘bat guys’ making $2000 in one afternoon collecting feces and spraying spackle foam.
Though I miss out on the understanding nods, the brownies and the beer, I do get to see My Better Half suit up and fix the problem. Whether it be rodent eradication or basement trenching, there’s no limit to what he’ll do as long as he is not paying some other schmuck to wear a respirator or wield a pneumatic drill.
Yes, the photo included is of My Better Half in his weekend uniform, ear plugs and pneumatic drill included. Too bad I erased the one of him in his hazmat suit and respirator sponging off the X-mas boxes. It was just too damning and ridiculous. his attempt to save a buck, even while risking Histoplasmosis poisoning.
Bat-ass crazy? Who? Us?
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9 Responses to “Mensa, but for idiots”
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But, but, but…it’s so damn beautiful.
Beautiful and deeply, deeply flawed. A tear down, I say. A tear down
Your better half?
Funny, Anymouse, funny. My Better Half…deeply flawed but not yet a tear down. I think he may be salvageable yet.
My name is Amanda and for the four years we’ve lived in our antique, our heating bill has been on par with our plumbing bill for the disintegrating waste lines and run-along-thecrumbling-fieldstone-they’ve-fucking-burst-again-pipes.
Love the blog…got here via Friday Playdate. I too have an old house and a dysfunctional relationship with it and I have a first grader. I can’t even blog about the issues we are having with the school but they aren’t pretty. In my situation we love the teacher but the principal is pretty much a dragon lady.
Hello, Amanda…(can you hear me nodding with recognition and support. Would you like a brownie, a beer or just a shoulder to weep on?)
Arwen, thanks for stopping by. Sorry you can’t blog about the school situation b/c it’s great therapy to lay it all out there. Does the principal read your blog? If not, I’d let it rip!
At my house, and maybe because it’s only 80 years old, the refrain whenever anyone comes to give me an estimate is, “that’ll be about $1000.” I feel your pain and know whereof you speak.
(raises hand)
100-yr.-old-home owner too.
feel your pain.
will drink your beer.
will have that brownie.