When I walk around the house I grew up in I alternate between annoyed and … embarrassed.
Annoyed because somanythings seem to not work – light sockets, oven broilers, the seal that keeps the fridge shut. The patio seems to be growing green slime. The laundry room is … well, the less said the better. Even with dehumidifiers.
Every little thing seems to have gone to pot in the years my parents were getting older.
And – I’m embarrassed. And embarrassed that I’m embarrassed. In part because my sister insists this is a “tear-down” house. At first my mind went to the imaginary people who might buy it one day. And I realized no one weaned on HGTV would be ok with the tiny closets here. Or the outdated bathroom fixtures. Or the general lack of anything telegraphing “modern” “hip” or “upper-middle-class.” But it was good enough for us growing up – no one cared if you jerry-rigged a hole in the bathroom closet so you could toss your laundry directly into the basket downstairs.
But I can practically hear Chip and Joanna groaning.
I think my sister is right. This house may have served its purpose and it may need to be entirely overhauled one day. It just makes it hard to put up with all the little things that are wrong with it.
I think that’s one of the lessons of elder-ness and illness. People haven’t noticed, or have simply chosen not to deal with, a lot of the crumbly stuff that isn’t visible. So there are lots of little things that become Frustrating. They don’t really matter that much but it would be nice if the handle stayed on the vegetable crisper. At least the azaleas are gorgeous!
This is Demented 