a good house.

Unclear why I’ve been dancing on the hot coals of anxiety these last few days (especially given the cold weather,) but it’s been fun. I’m starting to seriously wonder whose bedroom I should co-opt for nights when the only thing that discharges the tension is pretending I’m on a “magic fingers” bed, delivering 200 nickels-worth of agitation, all at once.

I’m sure it’s a good policy--any time you’re in the midst of a “snow event” such as we’ve been experiencing this week here in the Mid-Atlantic--to postpone any hasty conclusions about your emotional balancing needs until, at the very least, the walking conditions have normalized. In the meantime, exercise indoors as possible, and do not eat too much of that strange orange cake you made yesterday--the one with the surprisingly light crumb, given that the layers are shaped like upside-down frisbees, and the overall morphology of the assembled and frosted confection resembles a squashed hat.

Well, I am afraid of the house, no question, and to a certain extent I always have been. It scared me at the outset when I knew Jeff was biting off more than he could chew--but we could talk about it, he had skills, and I could discharge into his buffering steadiness. It scared me when Jeff’s faltering brain left us with a half-realized work of architecture that I could neither fathom a way to complete, nor to escape from. Encouragement from Jeff’s siblings, and an arranged date with a contractor budged me from that rut, and I’m grateful. More was accomplished when we serendipitously stumbled upon our second team of renovators while walking the dog. Now it’s ok. It's the house I thought I could live in forever, when forever looked different from what it turned out to be. This house is about a partnership that no longer exists, and every detail reminds me. I can picture mustering enough resources to get the house in salable form, when needed...but why I’m so obsessed with getting out--seems like an impractical notion, doesn’t it?

Maintenance. I don’t want it. There’s too much. There’s a yard that needs clearing of overgrown, half-fallen cypresses and a fence in need of repair, and preferably, replacement. There’s a heat-system manifold, of boggling complexity in the basement, and a water heater so intricately linked to it that not just any HVAC man will want to take it on. There’s another HVAC unit in the laundry room--not in use. Never has been. The purpose for it disappeared with Jeff’s brain. As did the means to hang the arts & crafts light fixture which was destined for the family room ceiling, but is still living in about 8 boxes. There are wires sticking out of the wall, which would have operated it. Presently they’re capped with plastic wire nuts--a fetching color accent of orange and yellow against the white wall. The garage is partially framed in 2x4s which are now wobbly for lack of completing members. A bathroom wants tile repair and shelves where a platform of plywood still awaits.* I won’t go on. It’s boring.

Yes, I do get hung up on this stuff, and my imagination blooms with new things which could go wrong. My official stance, of course, (official being what I say to Jeff) is: “Everything’s fine here. There’s not really anything we need to do!” I say it enthusiastically, and I’m a great liar. Especially to a person who can’t read auxiliary facial give-aways. He would just fret, (albeit merely until it occurred to him to try to make coffee,) or state, forthrightly: “I can fix that!”

Then, like a moony teenager, I log onto FranklyMLS.com and ogle condominiums in Annapolis. It concerns me a bit that all the women in my ancestry named Emily ended up hermits in dark apartments. But I don’t mean to be a hermit. Or be in the dark. Or hide in my condo. So, while I hope I’m not destined for the Emily curse, I do think I am suffering a constitutional crisis where house ownership is concerned.

*(none of the remaining work is for my brother-in-law Fred, who has plenty to do at home.)