My washing machine is sitting with a tub full of cold, grey water. Every time I turn on the outside lights on the front of my house, it pops the fuse for three quarters of my house and the lights go out. What else? Well, the house could use a paint job, especially the south side where the summer sun targets it's strong rays. The yard need a good clean up. I must pick up Sophie's poop in the back yard. Shall I continue?
I sometimes wonder whether this is all worth it. But I love my house. I've lived her almost five years with my daughter, dog and cat and together we have transformed this charming little bungalow into our own little nest. We like to think of our home as our cottage where we can celebrate, commiserate or simply just be. Over the years, we have painted every room, remodeled the kitchen and the two bathrooms. Hung art that comforts and challenges any eye that roams around our rooms. We have made great friends with our neighbors and even created a makeshift family with one set.
I think more than ever, we are settled. We are in a pattern that makes us feel secure and safe, yet able to take a few calculated risk that stretch our life's experience. So, the washing machine repair man just called and he agreed to come out this morning. I'm not that worried about the lights -- that's next. As for the peeling paint, we can survive one more year.