Yep, my house is starting to figure that something is up. It’s noticed that I’ve been a bit more distracted lately. That I’ve been stepping out for afternoons and coming back with empty boxes. It’s tried to listen to my phone conversations and heard words like “possession” and “keys.” But the lipstick on my collar was when a guy walked through the house and shouted that with three guys and a truck it would be “easy to clean out.” This house is no dummy — it’s figured out that we are leaving.
And it’s letting us know it’s displeasure. This is no house to be easily scorned. First, there was the tiny-tiniest rivulet of water from the door of the washing machine to the floor. The repair man came. He pronounced it a “non-specific leak” and told me to wipe my gasket. But the house has other tricks up her sleeve. The dishwasher has started making the strangest hum while running, yet isn’t sick enough for the fellow at South Appliance Repair, who was all too anxious to cash my $375 cheque just 18 months ago, to come out. And somehow, the only bugs to come out of dormancy in this frozen wasteland I call home, have managed to die in the upstairs flush-mount light fixtures. The ones I just washed 2 months ago. The ones I guess I’m going to be washing again.
I’d bring home some flowers for the kitchen, but this house has upped its passive-agressive game, and now I know it would be a good $35 wasted. As if to cover its eyes in horror, both light bulb on our porch blew at out at once, leaving our night-time coming and goings in darkness. No cheery, bright welcomes anymore, just stumbling toward the keyhole by street lamp. Then it brought out its big guns. Friday morning I tried to open the door of our bathroom door and – nothing. The lever handle had total ceased to engage the mechanism when you turn it on one direction. In other words, a person could in a moment of er, urgency, find himself fumbling in futility as he tried to reach the fixtures on the other side of the door.
I realized that this was our house’s equivalent of hardball. “Fine. You want to leave? Not until you clean up a bunch of carpet stains caused from some very small children with very large bladders.”
House, Baby. I’ve avoided this conversation for way too long. Yeah, we’re going, but you’ve got to know: It’s us, not you. Seriously. Have you seen what a single bedroom with three girls packed in it looks like? It ain’t pretty, unless you think being inside a room after a IED stuffed with nail polish, Barbie Dolls and used Kleenex has gone off is pretty. And what about the time I nearly got hit by a bus putting the Baby in the truck? In the rain? WHEN I HAD A HEAD COLD? Yeah, I’ve met someone new on a quiet street, but I only started looking because we’ve grown apart. Or we’ve grown by three kids and have to part. You get the picture.
Look, I know you’ll meet a new family real soon. Yes, house I can guarantee it, because Transfer of Title is a legal document. So buck up Sweetheart. Us leaving is the best thing that could happen to you.
And please, please, please stop breaking things. I promise I’ll buy you flowers.