On Leaving America - Part 35

The House That’s Trying To Kill Me

When the carpet layers redid out floors they turned off a valve that let gas into our living room fireplace so they could put carpet around it. Naturally the pilot light went out. Lighting it again is a bit complicated, never done it before and of course the instructions that were always under the TV have disappeared to God knows where. Will cost $60 for the guy to come out and restart it.

To make the week still more interesting our garbage grinder [new-installed last year] has decided to come loose from the sink. I have installed one before but this one looks strange. Something beyond my laymen’s knowledge has happened to it.

Two days ago my wife informed me there’s a leak in one of our twin bathroom sinks. New faucets were also instilled last year. I looked under the sink and found a carpet of ugly black mold. Another messy clean up. I looked but can’t find where the leak is coming from or why. A single drop comes down from somewhere about every five minutes. Another job for the plumber—guess he can look at the grinder too.

Later I moved a small throw rug that’s been on the floor of another bathroom and found a yellow stain where it used to be. Surrounding floor was sun bleached. Estimate for new linoleum in bathroom – $ 600

After ten straight days of rain, paint has started to peel off our garage doors. Looks bad and I’m unable to fix until it stops raining. Sometimes it never stops raining in Seattle. It’s snowing in Sweden. More than it ever has before—more than a yard so far this year. Another climate change.

We have a vaulted ceiling in the front room and this morning we discovered five hairline cracks that are totally visible . . . need to recall the painter who did front room and kitchen six months ago . . . another expense. In the meantime fourteen realtors have come with prospective buyers . . . no serious offers. Yard is too small. One bedroom is too big, another is too small. One buyer was disturbed by a 100 year old Swedish rifle I had hanging on the wall. One woman was allergic to cats. Windows look old, one said. One didn’t like the color of the house.

I should have burned the place . . . or myself—some kind of Buddhist protest in honor of all those trying to sell a house in this economy.

Will this never end!