My house is 38 years old. Young by people years; a little bit of a misfit in house years. Not charming, not trendy, sort of dated and not "mid-century" chic (what, can someone please tell me, is chic about a three bedroom ranch with blond wood and a slate foyer??) A house is cool if it's really old or at least over 60 years old (oh wait - that is old)...it's even cooler if it's really young and has all the latest stuff. (I personally believe that granite and stainless steel will be come like the Harvest Gold shag carpet and the Avocado green appliances of the 70's...so I won't and don't have either....). Depends on taste. A 38 year old house, my friend, is never cool UNLESS there has been some extensive - and expensive - "updating". Then it becomes like the Housewives of Your City...still not-quite-right.
When a house nears forty, things start to fall apart. This is what my handy-guy told me this morning. ( It sounds right. I started to fall apart as I neared forty.) When this process of aging and decay begins things crumble, rust, leak and generally suck your bank account dry. I need to point out that this is exactly what happened to my body - except for the bank account thing cause those were the days of really good health insurance.
Like everything else in life, my house is falling apart in bunches. First there was the garage roof shingles that mysteriously started folding into themselves during the relentless Spring rains. ( Much like the effect of humidity on my disgusting silver,grey and black curly -once upon a time straight- hair.) I sat at my computer for weeks watching their edges curl and their middles puff outside my window (not to belabor a point but my body did the same thing) Finally I told my husband who muttered something under his breath and called the roof-guy. Ca-ching $$$$.
Next came the first basement issue - the river running through it. It went from my well tank across the concrete and into a drain conveniently located on the other side of the room. No fish. Shouldn't be there. Call the plumber. My handy-guy ("I don't do basements") stood in my basement waiting for the plumber and taking bets on what was wrong. "You look like you have a hole in your well tank. That'll cost ya." He was wrong. Our basement sink drain was clogged and the water, according to Mr. Plumber, was overflowing - thus creating a river that ran through the basement, into the drain and out into the nether world. The well tank - however - did have a busted pressure valve. I am fortunate that I have not sprung a leak in my body basement. I am blessed that way. Tough bladder and no babies. I do get pissed off a lot though.
Ream out the sink pipes, replace the valve. Ca-ching $$$$$
Fast forward one day. "Bob - I found the source of the water in the basement" I announce. "The wall is wet. The f--king wall is leaking!" This, of course, was the only wall in the basement that hadn't been "waterproofed" years earlier. The wall behind the plugged up sink...(or was it?) Why didn't the $75 an hour plumber guy see this? This was where the wall braces ended. Crap. Now - to continue the analogy of my aging body to the aging house (in case you missed the point of this)...I have had the total opposite experience of leaking...it happens in older women. They can't replace your mortar or brace your walls - but they can give you some stuff that helps. I know. I call my parts-fixing guy and he takes care of things. Just sayin'. But for this, we call the basement fixing-guy. Nice estimate. There goes the trip to Costa Rica.
Last night I was in the basement and heard a waterfall. We don't have a waterfall so I was concerned. There it was. Another leak. From the pipe that comes from the half-bath and forms a tributary of the other river. The wax seal (sounds like a Fellini movie) under my toilet was broken. The wax seal keeps the toilet from leaking. Handy-guy again. We're claiming him as a dependent on our taxes.
I've recently notice that the concrete slab that serves as a "stoop" or ugly-porch at the entrance to my house is pitted. The garage floor has cracks. The soffets in the back of the house appear to be separating from whatever caulk someone used to seal the edges. The back door has been painted so many times I've started calling it "Joan"..no more paint is possible.. New door comin'...
The handy-guy says the house is "settling" How long does a house settle? Am I still settling? I know there have been times in my life when I've "settled" but I had choices. I don't think you get too many choices about how or when your body - or your house- settles. Bummer.
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