I can’t blame it all on Mother Nature and the process of aging. After all, I did use my money (sorry, P…our money) to buy the house. It was our choice. We also decided to live in a historic district, a term that implies upscale, antique, and character. Implications and true meaning are two different subjects. The term, historic district, gets its roots from real estate marketing. After all, it would be difficult to sell a home if you described it as “really f*cking old”.
“This home right here is a gem. It’s a really f*cking old house in a really f*cking old neighborhood. The plumbing is really f*cking old as is the electrical wiring. The neighbors are really f*cking old and their really f*cking old dog craps in your yard when he escapes from their really f*cking old fence.”
Tip to college freshmen majoring in marketing: Really f*cking old = bad description.
Never the less, this is my house~! Gooney Goo Goo!
There is, however, one more advantage to owning a really f*cking old house. You get to join the League of Persons with Less than Adequate Superpowers. (grob/ted 2006) My true identity comes to life only in times of professional work, marriage and fatherhood. On the weekends I become (dunt taa-daa-daa) Mr. Semi-Fixit.
I have the ability to fix anything to the point of barely running. I can build anything that stands solidly non-square and cover it with enough trim as to not notice. I can rewire without grounding and have the ability to repair plumbing while leaving only a few minor leaks.
No, I cannot fly, but my Super Tool Belt is a Home Depot of paintable caulking, quarter round and latex paint. I can hammer where I should screw and shim to the point of immobile. Brute force is the underlying might of my super powers.
So think of me, my greater-ability fixit friends, when you are laboring through the details of proper measurements and square corners. I have already finished my project and moved on to the next one in my really f*cking old house.
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