So long old house
The truck is being loaded right now. Goodbye computer. Julia wants me to pack it now. I might not be able to fin
Vacuosity
Sunday, September 29, 2002
Thursday, September 26, 2002
What now?
The past few days, busy ones, have been filled with me trying to meet the demands of the the buyers. Apparently their interpretation of "all mechanicals in good working order" differs from mine, and the one request of the fan became an entire list.
So far I have replaced five electrical sockets, two light switches, a faulty blower moter, a leaky shower diverter valve, fixed two stiff sliding doors, fastened a stair corner edging, recaulked a tub and installed surround sound speaker wire outlets.
Now, I am not obligated to do all these things, believe me, but I have done them for two reasons. First, I don't want anything to jeopardize our deal; I won't let that happen. Second, it's important to me that our buyers be happy with their new house. I want them to feel that they really have something special.
But, alas, there remains a rub: the question of the refridgerator. Our stupid fridge has a habit of wetting itself. On a humid day, or a day when the fridge door had been opened and shut quite a bit, you might find your sock drenched as you go for the milk.
I had this discussion with my agent about whether it need to be fixed:
"Does it get cold?", he asked.
"Yes."
"And the freezer works?"
"Yes."
"Well that's good working order. We never said anything about whether there's a bit of water. Just put a pan underneath it and forget about it."
That seemed reasonable. But when they came for their home inspection, and I had to I clean up the water and dry everything before they came, I started to wonder if that was right. In the past couple of days, it had been pretty bad, and I'm not sure that putting a pan is going to help it. I know that when they move in, it will be a matter of days, at most, before they discover it, and not only will they be upset, and try to contact us, but they'll feel that we intentionally deceived them. While that's not technically or legally true (we're not under any obligation to disclose the house's shortcomings), I would feel cheated if I were on the receiving end of that deal.
So now, the question, what to do? If I can fix it, I will, but if I can't? The moral dilemma continues. Would it mean shelling out for a new fridge? And what if the discussion surfaces the water damage to the floor of the kitchen? There's no provision in the deal for that, but you can be sure that they'll make an issue out of it.
We shall see what the day brings.
The past few days, busy ones, have been filled with me trying to meet the demands of the the buyers. Apparently their interpretation of "all mechanicals in good working order" differs from mine, and the one request of the fan became an entire list.
So far I have replaced five electrical sockets, two light switches, a faulty blower moter, a leaky shower diverter valve, fixed two stiff sliding doors, fastened a stair corner edging, recaulked a tub and installed surround sound speaker wire outlets.
Now, I am not obligated to do all these things, believe me, but I have done them for two reasons. First, I don't want anything to jeopardize our deal; I won't let that happen. Second, it's important to me that our buyers be happy with their new house. I want them to feel that they really have something special.
But, alas, there remains a rub: the question of the refridgerator. Our stupid fridge has a habit of wetting itself. On a humid day, or a day when the fridge door had been opened and shut quite a bit, you might find your sock drenched as you go for the milk.
I had this discussion with my agent about whether it need to be fixed:
"Does it get cold?", he asked.
"Yes."
"And the freezer works?"
"Yes."
"Well that's good working order. We never said anything about whether there's a bit of water. Just put a pan underneath it and forget about it."
That seemed reasonable. But when they came for their home inspection, and I had to I clean up the water and dry everything before they came, I started to wonder if that was right. In the past couple of days, it had been pretty bad, and I'm not sure that putting a pan is going to help it. I know that when they move in, it will be a matter of days, at most, before they discover it, and not only will they be upset, and try to contact us, but they'll feel that we intentionally deceived them. While that's not technically or legally true (we're not under any obligation to disclose the house's shortcomings), I would feel cheated if I were on the receiving end of that deal.
So now, the question, what to do? If I can fix it, I will, but if I can't? The moral dilemma continues. Would it mean shelling out for a new fridge? And what if the discussion surfaces the water damage to the floor of the kitchen? There's no provision in the deal for that, but you can be sure that they'll make an issue out of it.
We shall see what the day brings.
Sunday, September 22, 2002
Peek and poke
Well, our buyers came and went today. It was part of the agreement that they be allowed back in again once to inspect prior to closing. They went through turning every knob, switching every switch, looking and checking. They were more or less satisfied, but wanted to see the bathroom fan fixed. Alright, I'll do that.
We also had a couple of kids from Jordan's old school (T.C.M.P.S.) over for a small goodbye party. Actually, only two responded out of the seven invited. We only gave out the invitations on Monday, though. I heard one kid is in England now. Another may not be attending this year. We never heard from Taeton, though, Jordan's sweet little friend who I though was a shoe in. I hope they weren't offended that we dissed his birthday party. I'm pretty sure that Jordan explained that he wouldn't be coming.
The house is pretty close to being packed now, which is someting of a first for us. Being ahead of the game, that is. Oh yeah, being organized, too. Who knew?
Well, our buyers came and went today. It was part of the agreement that they be allowed back in again once to inspect prior to closing. They went through turning every knob, switching every switch, looking and checking. They were more or less satisfied, but wanted to see the bathroom fan fixed. Alright, I'll do that.
We also had a couple of kids from Jordan's old school (T.C.M.P.S.) over for a small goodbye party. Actually, only two responded out of the seven invited. We only gave out the invitations on Monday, though. I heard one kid is in England now. Another may not be attending this year. We never heard from Taeton, though, Jordan's sweet little friend who I though was a shoe in. I hope they weren't offended that we dissed his birthday party. I'm pretty sure that Jordan explained that he wouldn't be coming.
The house is pretty close to being packed now, which is someting of a first for us. Being ahead of the game, that is. Oh yeah, being organized, too. Who knew?
Saturday, September 21, 2002
Slim fast
In order to make the move to Winnipeg in one shot, we've got to get all our worldly possessions into one tiny 14 foot cube van.
I'm working hard to maximize that space; we're packing as densly as possible, and I'm putting a tier into the upper two feet of the van to house a level of boxes. That buys us an extra 24 Rough Totes. Ths fact remains, though, that a good deal of what we've got can't come.
We've spent the past five days deciding what absolutely has to be on the truck, what we can just throw away, and what we can sell at a garage sale, which I hope to have tomorrow, weather permitting.
It's strange to me to be actively eliminating our things when we have spent the past few years accumulating them. It goes against the nature of our society, I think. It's our nature to acquire. We like to shop, receive gifts, find, win, get. It's an ingrained behaviour to have more. And now we have to fight that tendency to keep. It's not easy. And even still, today I went and bought new clothes for the kids at Old Navy.
In order to make the move to Winnipeg in one shot, we've got to get all our worldly possessions into one tiny 14 foot cube van.
I'm working hard to maximize that space; we're packing as densly as possible, and I'm putting a tier into the upper two feet of the van to house a level of boxes. That buys us an extra 24 Rough Totes. Ths fact remains, though, that a good deal of what we've got can't come.
We've spent the past five days deciding what absolutely has to be on the truck, what we can just throw away, and what we can sell at a garage sale, which I hope to have tomorrow, weather permitting.
It's strange to me to be actively eliminating our things when we have spent the past few years accumulating them. It goes against the nature of our society, I think. It's our nature to acquire. We like to shop, receive gifts, find, win, get. It's an ingrained behaviour to have more. And now we have to fight that tendency to keep. It's not easy. And even still, today I went and bought new clothes for the kids at Old Navy.
Wednesday, September 18, 2002
Short and curlies
It has come to my attention that small black hairs are growing out of the end of my nose. This is not a pleasing turn of events.
I don't even mean the nostrils, either. That's happening too, but that's to be expected. The trip down the road of trimmers I'm prepared to take.
What I'm not prepared for is the growth of hairs where hairs don't belong. What do you do? Should I shave them? Pluck?... Nair?
It has come to my attention that small black hairs are growing out of the end of my nose. This is not a pleasing turn of events.
I don't even mean the nostrils, either. That's happening too, but that's to be expected. The trip down the road of trimmers I'm prepared to take.
What I'm not prepared for is the growth of hairs where hairs don't belong. What do you do? Should I shave them? Pluck?... Nair?
Monday, September 16, 2002
Edit
After re-reading my earlier post about my friend Jose, I realize that I was unclear. When I said that Jose and Diane succeeded in a way I never could, I think it came off sounding like their family succeeded where mine failed. That's not what I meant. I am happy and proud of my family.
I meant that their road to success, family-wise, life-wise, and financially was one that I couldn't have taken. Their path took patience, hard, hard work, and a resilience that seems unachievable. Even now they have a hard schedule to keep: Jose works through the week, and Diane works weekends and nights; 35 hours a weeks broken into three shifts. It's tough. They have done this, or something similar, ever since Gabriel, the eldest, was born.
Besides, Diane keeps an immaculate home, cooks, and cares for her children. Jose, too, has a lot of solo time with the kids. There are no lazy Sunday mornings for him.
That's what I admire: their tenacity, their resolve, their organization, their commitedness to family and goals. People who have it together amaze me.
The other minor detail I left out (guess that career in journalism is out of the question), guess who's doing Macdougall's job now? That's right, and with a staff 2-3 times the size. You go, killer.
After re-reading my earlier post about my friend Jose, I realize that I was unclear. When I said that Jose and Diane succeeded in a way I never could, I think it came off sounding like their family succeeded where mine failed. That's not what I meant. I am happy and proud of my family.
I meant that their road to success, family-wise, life-wise, and financially was one that I couldn't have taken. Their path took patience, hard, hard work, and a resilience that seems unachievable. Even now they have a hard schedule to keep: Jose works through the week, and Diane works weekends and nights; 35 hours a weeks broken into three shifts. It's tough. They have done this, or something similar, ever since Gabriel, the eldest, was born.
Besides, Diane keeps an immaculate home, cooks, and cares for her children. Jose, too, has a lot of solo time with the kids. There are no lazy Sunday mornings for him.
That's what I admire: their tenacity, their resolve, their organization, their commitedness to family and goals. People who have it together amaze me.
The other minor detail I left out (guess that career in journalism is out of the question), guess who's doing Macdougall's job now? That's right, and with a staff 2-3 times the size. You go, killer.
Sunday, September 15, 2002
Freeze frame
Slow motion film exists because reality happens too quickly for us to appreciate its exquisite marvelousness.
Slow motion film exists because reality happens too quickly for us to appreciate its exquisite marvelousness.
Thursday, September 12, 2002
Return visit
I cannot say enough good things about my friend Jose Lima.
I can say: I don't see him enough, I'lll miss him terribly, and that he's like a brother to me. We saw Jose, Diane and their kids tonight for only the second time since Jaimeson was born. And that was more than we'd seen each other in the 3 years prior. But the thing about them is what I think is the determining factor of a true friend: there is no awkwardness. Ever. It's just pure unconditional acceptance as a friend.
Jose and I worked together at Goodman Phillips & Vineberg (now Goodmans) for a number of years. There were some tough times; awful periods, but also joyous ones: their marriage, Jordan's arrival, friends' marriages... but nothing compares to the horror of the Reign of Macdougall.
Sheila Macdougall was the bane of our existence, the banshee of Facilities, the evil that refused to die. She was a spinster who had been to a proper finishing school (way back when they still existed), and managed by the old textbook, the one of fear, belittlement and intimidation. I feel no remorse for calling her the hag that she was: a bitter, lonely old woman who kept the requisite cats and held a sour face of interminable ugliness. I once pulled off the highway just for the sake of urinating in her namesake, Lake Macdougall. One of the finest and satisfying moments of my life was the day (long after Goodmans was history for me) I heard that Macdougall had been fired. Ocassionally, justice is served.
During that time, Jose and I were one of the few stabilizing influences on each other. We were two young guys, both in committed relationships, full of dreams and ambition, courageous, unstoppable. We were dreamers, planning our houses, our cottages, our families. Optimism was the one thing we held on to.
Each and every day during the summers you could find Jose and me outside playing hackey-sack in the Trinity Square courtyard. We lived for our few minutes outside. On the days when Jose and I had to take our lunches separately, you would still find me in the courtyard, notebook in hand, writing about the interesting cast there.
Jose and I were sitting one day after Jordan had come along, discussing children and family life. I was trying to convince him not to have children. Not that I didn't love my son, I did very much; he was almost the only thing that kept me going, but it was that parenthood was impossibly hard, it was finishing an already failing marriage, and the prospect of failing entirely seemed likely. My argument was that no one should ever choose to be a parent. If you want to be a parent for anything but the pure unadulterated desire to raise a healthy, happy person, it's the wrong choice. But anyone who is completely unselfish would realize that they could not do that completely, so in their altruistic wisdom would choose not to be a parent...No, it didn't convince Jose either...he has three kids now.
And they are three beautiful children. He and Diane love them, are proud of them, empower them, and protect them in a way that is sadly too, too rare.
I admire Jose for many things, in much the same way I admire Adam, for succeeding in a way I never could.
I cannot say enough good things about my friend Jose Lima.
I can say: I don't see him enough, I'lll miss him terribly, and that he's like a brother to me. We saw Jose, Diane and their kids tonight for only the second time since Jaimeson was born. And that was more than we'd seen each other in the 3 years prior. But the thing about them is what I think is the determining factor of a true friend: there is no awkwardness. Ever. It's just pure unconditional acceptance as a friend.
Jose and I worked together at Goodman Phillips & Vineberg (now Goodmans) for a number of years. There were some tough times; awful periods, but also joyous ones: their marriage, Jordan's arrival, friends' marriages... but nothing compares to the horror of the Reign of Macdougall.
Sheila Macdougall was the bane of our existence, the banshee of Facilities, the evil that refused to die. She was a spinster who had been to a proper finishing school (way back when they still existed), and managed by the old textbook, the one of fear, belittlement and intimidation. I feel no remorse for calling her the hag that she was: a bitter, lonely old woman who kept the requisite cats and held a sour face of interminable ugliness. I once pulled off the highway just for the sake of urinating in her namesake, Lake Macdougall. One of the finest and satisfying moments of my life was the day (long after Goodmans was history for me) I heard that Macdougall had been fired. Ocassionally, justice is served.
During that time, Jose and I were one of the few stabilizing influences on each other. We were two young guys, both in committed relationships, full of dreams and ambition, courageous, unstoppable. We were dreamers, planning our houses, our cottages, our families. Optimism was the one thing we held on to.
Each and every day during the summers you could find Jose and me outside playing hackey-sack in the Trinity Square courtyard. We lived for our few minutes outside. On the days when Jose and I had to take our lunches separately, you would still find me in the courtyard, notebook in hand, writing about the interesting cast there.
Jose and I were sitting one day after Jordan had come along, discussing children and family life. I was trying to convince him not to have children. Not that I didn't love my son, I did very much; he was almost the only thing that kept me going, but it was that parenthood was impossibly hard, it was finishing an already failing marriage, and the prospect of failing entirely seemed likely. My argument was that no one should ever choose to be a parent. If you want to be a parent for anything but the pure unadulterated desire to raise a healthy, happy person, it's the wrong choice. But anyone who is completely unselfish would realize that they could not do that completely, so in their altruistic wisdom would choose not to be a parent...No, it didn't convince Jose either...he has three kids now.
And they are three beautiful children. He and Diane love them, are proud of them, empower them, and protect them in a way that is sadly too, too rare.
I admire Jose for many things, in much the same way I admire Adam, for succeeding in a way I never could.
Love in boxes
I think the inconsistency of this journal is going to continue. It will just get worse as the month disappears and our time wears thin.
As the days pass, and the time now until we move is just over two weeks, all the things still left to do loom large. One things that still remains is all the people we still have to see and say goodbye to. It's weird. I haven't been in this position before where we need to think of everyone in our life seek them out.
I also keep getting worried that people might buy me, or us, some sort of gift. I don't know why exactly, but I wouldn't want that at all. I was afraid that they might do that at work, and was relieved to see nothing like that there.
Gifts always leave me uncomfortable. On one hand, I'm hard to buy for. I'm too picky, so I'm rarely ecstatic about any gift I get. I hate having to pretend that I like something when I really don't. The other hand has something to do with, I think, not ever getting presents as a child. I feel like I don't deserve it.
But it's kind of the same with the goodbyes. I don't like a whole lot of fuss over us. Despite the fact that I know people like me, I guess I never fully believe that my presence is having a profound effect on their lives, or that deep down, I really, really matter to them. Times when that is unequivicably demonstrated are hard for me to deal with. They leave me weepy and exposed.
There is so much history for us here in Toronto. For me, it's 28 years of it. And while all of it is precious to me, even the worst of it, very little of any of that time is untainted by negative experiences or memories. There's so much baggage. But I'm not leaving it behind. I've just got a nice big basement where it can stay neatly tucked away.
I think the inconsistency of this journal is going to continue. It will just get worse as the month disappears and our time wears thin.
As the days pass, and the time now until we move is just over two weeks, all the things still left to do loom large. One things that still remains is all the people we still have to see and say goodbye to. It's weird. I haven't been in this position before where we need to think of everyone in our life seek them out.
I also keep getting worried that people might buy me, or us, some sort of gift. I don't know why exactly, but I wouldn't want that at all. I was afraid that they might do that at work, and was relieved to see nothing like that there.
Gifts always leave me uncomfortable. On one hand, I'm hard to buy for. I'm too picky, so I'm rarely ecstatic about any gift I get. I hate having to pretend that I like something when I really don't. The other hand has something to do with, I think, not ever getting presents as a child. I feel like I don't deserve it.
But it's kind of the same with the goodbyes. I don't like a whole lot of fuss over us. Despite the fact that I know people like me, I guess I never fully believe that my presence is having a profound effect on their lives, or that deep down, I really, really matter to them. Times when that is unequivicably demonstrated are hard for me to deal with. They leave me weepy and exposed.
There is so much history for us here in Toronto. For me, it's 28 years of it. And while all of it is precious to me, even the worst of it, very little of any of that time is untainted by negative experiences or memories. There's so much baggage. But I'm not leaving it behind. I've just got a nice big basement where it can stay neatly tucked away.
Friday, September 06, 2002
Happy boy
We had a small party for Jordan tonight. There are no birthday parties, Hallowe'en or Christmas for the kid, so we've started a tradition of a pre-school party for him. It's a time to get lots of toys, and a day where he's extra-special.
He got a pretty decent haul including a bunch of new Bionicles, a Hot Wheels starter set, a cool marble hockey game, the latest Harry Potter book, a voucher for a movie of his choice (with Amy) and a trip to Chuckie Cheese's (also with Amy), among other assorted goodies.
It was hilarious watching him tear into the packages, gasping and gleeful with each new discovery. I couldn't think of a better way to spend a few hundred dollars.
We had a small party for Jordan tonight. There are no birthday parties, Hallowe'en or Christmas for the kid, so we've started a tradition of a pre-school party for him. It's a time to get lots of toys, and a day where he's extra-special.
He got a pretty decent haul including a bunch of new Bionicles, a Hot Wheels starter set, a cool marble hockey game, the latest Harry Potter book, a voucher for a movie of his choice (with Amy) and a trip to Chuckie Cheese's (also with Amy), among other assorted goodies.
It was hilarious watching him tear into the packages, gasping and gleeful with each new discovery. I couldn't think of a better way to spend a few hundred dollars.
Wednesday, September 04, 2002
Laterally inclined
I'm a big fan of alternative solutions. The move to Winnipeg is a prime example. Most people wouldn't do it. Another is the truck situation. We could drop 2-3 thousand on movers, or save a few hundred by renting a truck and doing it ourselves. Either way, the thought of dropping a couple Gs just to get us there doesn't sit well with me.
One idea I had was to buy a truck, move us, then sell it there. I figure I would get a good portion of my money back. Or I could just keep the truck. Apparently, I could make a fortune moving people.
My brother Jim and I helped my father install some vinyl siding today. It looks decent, pretty clean. But I'd like something a bit more interesting for our place. I don't know what exactly, but I will try to find something that few people have done, and that looks cool.
As I scoured the web for ideas, I stumbled across this little gem of interior design possibilities: Corian. You'll need a bib.
I'm a big fan of alternative solutions. The move to Winnipeg is a prime example. Most people wouldn't do it. Another is the truck situation. We could drop 2-3 thousand on movers, or save a few hundred by renting a truck and doing it ourselves. Either way, the thought of dropping a couple Gs just to get us there doesn't sit well with me.
One idea I had was to buy a truck, move us, then sell it there. I figure I would get a good portion of my money back. Or I could just keep the truck. Apparently, I could make a fortune moving people.
My brother Jim and I helped my father install some vinyl siding today. It looks decent, pretty clean. But I'd like something a bit more interesting for our place. I don't know what exactly, but I will try to find something that few people have done, and that looks cool.
As I scoured the web for ideas, I stumbled across this little gem of interior design possibilities: Corian. You'll need a bib.
Tuesday, September 03, 2002
Fear monger
Something has been bothering me for some time, and yesterday's entry has brought it naggingly back.
The house I grew up in until I turned twelve, was on a dingy residential street just out of the beaches, on Craven Road. You literary types will know that "craven" means something along the lines of "contemptibly cowardly". I know there's some sort of poetic symetry there, I just can't pinpoint it.
It just seems a strange thing to name your street, even if it was the guy's name (you know, like Wes). Isn't that getting the whole block off to a bad start?
Something has been bothering me for some time, and yesterday's entry has brought it naggingly back.
The house I grew up in until I turned twelve, was on a dingy residential street just out of the beaches, on Craven Road. You literary types will know that "craven" means something along the lines of "contemptibly cowardly". I know there's some sort of poetic symetry there, I just can't pinpoint it.
It just seems a strange thing to name your street, even if it was the guy's name (you know, like Wes). Isn't that getting the whole block off to a bad start?
Monday, September 02, 2002
The way of the father
Sometimes I worry that I'm living my father's life.
He stayed for years in a dead relationship out of responsibility and obligation. He and his family got by, but barely sometimes. We lived in an old house that was constantly undergoing some sort of renovation. My father has a streak of artist in him, though it was never developed and it never matured. Sometimes I see so much of him in myself.
That's not how our life is now. I chose to stay married only after I had fully decided to leave, aware that I could still fulfill my role as father. Overall, we are doing pretty well financially, even though there is the occasional lean week. Jordan and Jaimeson are well-provided for, and want for little. Our new house, though not beautiful yet, has remarkable potential. Still, I wonder whether that potential was there in the old house on Craven Road and I was just too young to see it. I believe that my abilities and a designer and writer have grown to a point where I can be satisfied in the degree of their success. (Not that I can stop working on them, but it's something to be proud of.)
From a purely objective standpoint, I think one would say that our lives are quite different. But when I think about him having a child at almost the exact age I did, his similar struggle for a better life, his relinquishing dreams for responsibility, I wonder if it really is that different from back then. I wonder about where I'll be at his age. Is it an inevitable life course?
Sometimes I worry that I'm living my father's life.
He stayed for years in a dead relationship out of responsibility and obligation. He and his family got by, but barely sometimes. We lived in an old house that was constantly undergoing some sort of renovation. My father has a streak of artist in him, though it was never developed and it never matured. Sometimes I see so much of him in myself.
That's not how our life is now. I chose to stay married only after I had fully decided to leave, aware that I could still fulfill my role as father. Overall, we are doing pretty well financially, even though there is the occasional lean week. Jordan and Jaimeson are well-provided for, and want for little. Our new house, though not beautiful yet, has remarkable potential. Still, I wonder whether that potential was there in the old house on Craven Road and I was just too young to see it. I believe that my abilities and a designer and writer have grown to a point where I can be satisfied in the degree of their success. (Not that I can stop working on them, but it's something to be proud of.)
From a purely objective standpoint, I think one would say that our lives are quite different. But when I think about him having a child at almost the exact age I did, his similar struggle for a better life, his relinquishing dreams for responsibility, I wonder if it really is that different from back then. I wonder about where I'll be at his age. Is it an inevitable life course?
Sunday, September 01, 2002
No regrets
I keep coming across things that I keep thinking, "Won't have to put up with that for long." Things that are little bonuses with having your own house.
Tonight, two surfaced: first, the fire alarm bell. It goes off at least once a month. Good riddance. Second, the freak upstairs. I don't care if you have to wait until everyone in your house is asleep so that you can continue your home improvement project, no one in their right mind begins knocking tile out of their bathroom at 11 PM. What is wrong with this person? I could hear it three floors down, in the basement. Soon the only person in our building working in the middle of the night will be me.
Still, all the nuisances of a house have yet to be discovered. Already on the list are: yard work, snow shovelling, exterior painting... Aye, aye, aye...
I keep coming across things that I keep thinking, "Won't have to put up with that for long." Things that are little bonuses with having your own house.
Tonight, two surfaced: first, the fire alarm bell. It goes off at least once a month. Good riddance. Second, the freak upstairs. I don't care if you have to wait until everyone in your house is asleep so that you can continue your home improvement project, no one in their right mind begins knocking tile out of their bathroom at 11 PM. What is wrong with this person? I could hear it three floors down, in the basement. Soon the only person in our building working in the middle of the night will be me.
Still, all the nuisances of a house have yet to be discovered. Already on the list are: yard work, snow shovelling, exterior painting... Aye, aye, aye...
It's not word, but it's a state of mind.
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