People in the House

Oh, sure, we like people in our house--viz., those people who live here. (Well, let's not be too generous: Sometimes manifestly don't like the people who live in the house with us!) We like people we've invited here--usually. (But we don't do that very often, invite people. I sigh as I think about the work that involves!) What I'm talking about are the people who don't live with us but the people who come here for various reasons--people like, oh, carpenters, plumbers, etc.

Let me hasten (love that word*) to add that I am not saying that I dislike these people as human beings. Quite the contrary. Joyce and I have become fond of some of the men and women who come to work here over the years--and in an old house (like ours) we tend to see such folks more often than we would if we lived in, you know, Trump Tower.

No, what I'm saying is that it gets ... wearisome (?is that a good word?) ... to have workers in the house, day after day after day. We have a couple of dear Facebook friends who are having some major renovation and addition and remodeling going on, and, based on their posts, I would say they are very near madness by this point.

Of course, in one sense it's a bit churlish and insensitive--isn't it?--to complain about workers in the house. Some people can't afford such things; some people have no home at all. Louis C.K. (remember him?) had a funny bit about how we whine on airplanes--on airplanes, machines that take us to the West Coast in five hours. What are we complaining about?

I acknowledge all of this. I am about to whine about something that lots of people would love to have the chance to whine about ...

Okay, now I don't think I will. I'm feeling ... guilty.

So I won't tell you--again--about the jackhammers** in our basement for two solid days. About how my dreams now feature pneumatic sound effects. About how I have nightmares about the whole house caving in because of the noise.

Nor will I confess that I am wimpy about it all. That Joyce is far more assertive and courageous than I am--about virtually everything in our lives. If she were not here, I would never hire anyone. I'd lie in bed while water pipes burst, electrical connections sizzled and sparked, the gas stove blew up, the refrigerator crashed down into the basement.

Eventually, the house would implode, and I would collapse, in bed, into the rubble, where some doughty fireman or policeman would find me, wrapped in a Pendleton blanket, frozen in a final shudder. With an I-told-you-so smile on my face ...

So, as I said, I will not write about any of that today. Too depressing ...


*goes back to the 16th century--from haste (duh)
**jackhammer = seems, basically, to mean a "man" hammer ... not too PC, eh?