I know I already ranted over the idea of ‘dream’ houses, and ‘dream’ kitchens, mostly because the young gals I see on HGTV annoy the heck out of me by expecting to have these things without earning them first. Drives me nuts. But I also wonder if they realize that what constitutes your dream house, or your dream kitchen, won’t be the same your whole life.
Kind of like your dream man. Early on in my first marriage I realized that I wasn’t married to my dream man. No, my kids were little and I decided that it would be fantastic if I was married to a pediatrician. I have an aversion to going to the doctor whenever you are a little bit sick. I have a lot of respect for the body’s ability to fight off germ-y invaders, and a little temperature elevation is just your body doing it’s job. Which is okay when I’m talking about me, but I did feel slightly guilty over making these sorts of choices for my kids. But I did and guess what, they survived. But having a pediatrician in the family would have saved me a lot of angst along the way.
Once I got over my pediatrician phase the man of my dreams became a handy man. A jack of all trades Bob Vila type. I drove two not-particularly-handy husbands nuts by finishing a home improvement project and immediately announcing the next item on my wish list. “You’re never satisfied” was a phrase that I believe both husbands used. I did most of these projects myself, putting up wallpaper, painting, stenciling, taking down wallpaper. But my talents have limits. So when this sort of thing happens I’m up a creek.
Charley wasn’t much of handyman but he would have jumped right on this particular repair and taken care of it. Probably with a lot of cussing, but at least it would be done. Or he would have called someone to do it for him. He wanted this place locked up like Fort Knox at all times, so this would have driven him crazy. I’m contemplating whether I ought to even attempt to change out the door lever or just call someone. As long as the door is locked I’m okay. The other French door is also stuck from humidity and I’m now afraid to yank on that handle for fear that it too will just come off in my hand. I still have access to the back yard through my master bathroom. (It’s a Florida thing I think.) But convincing Ozzie, the uncoordinated mastiff, that he ought to walk across the bathroom floor to go out that door took some doing. Roughly five feet of bathroom tile to traverse and the first time he attempted it his legs went right out from under him. But it leads to the same back yard the dogs always use, or I can let them out the front door also, but as soon as they come back in they stand at this door, ‘their’ door, and wait for me to let them out. Do they even pee out front, or are they determined to wait to use this door to go out and take care of business? Kind of like preferring to go home and use your own bathroom.
Several days of this brought me to the enough is enough stage. I picked up the lever and stuck it back on the remnants of the knob, and it worked! Opened the latch at least. Allowed me let the dogs out ‘their’ door and make them happy. Turn the latch and slam the door hard enough and it will close tightly enough that the lock will engage. Ha! And I thought I couldn’t fix it myself.
I see that the next man of my dreams ought to be a woodworker, that door looks terrible. And the screens on the lanai need to be redone. And if it ever stops raining the sprinklers need work…